Skip to main content

Full text of "Specimens of English dramatic poets who lived about the time of Shakespeare. With notes. New ed., including the extracts from the Garrick plays"

See other formats 


JBequeatbefc 

to 
TTbe  *Clniv>ersitp  ot  Toronto 


ZTbe  late  flfcaurice  Dutton, 


principal  of  TUnfversftE  College 
1901*1928 


SPECIMENS 


0, 


ENGLISH    DRAMATIC   TOETS 


WHO  LIVED 


ABOUT  THE  TIME  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


BY  CHARLES  LAMB. 


NEW  EDITION, 

INCLUDING 

THE  EXTEACTS  FKOM  THE  GAEKICK  PLAYS 


LONDON: 

HENRY  G.  BOHN,  YORK  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN. 
1854. 


FEINTED  BY  TAYLOR  AND  FRANCIS, 
BED  LION  COTTET,  PLEET  STEEET. 


?R 


/-I)  5 
/S54 


PREFACE. 


MORE  than  a  third  part  of  the  following  specimens  are  from 
plays  which  are  to  be  found  only  in  the  British  Museum  and 
in  some  scarce  private  libraries.  The  rest  are  from  Dodsley's 
and  Hawkins's  collections,  and  the  works  of  Jonson,  Beau 
mont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger. 

I  have  chosen  wherever  I  could  to  give  entire  scenes,  and 
in  some  instances  successive  scenes,  rather  than  to  string 
together  single  passages  and  detached  beauties,  which  I  have 
always  found  wearisome  in  the  reading  in  selections  of  this 
nature. 

To  every  extract  is  prefixed  an  explanatory  head,  sufficient 
to  make  it  intelligible  with  the  help  of  some  trifling  omis 
sions.  "Where  a  line  or  more  was  obscure,  as  having  refer 
ence  to  something  that  had'  gone  before,  which  would  have 
asked  more  time  to  explain  than  its  consequence  in  the  scene 
seemed  to  deserve,  I  have  had  no  hesitation  in  leaving  the 
line  or  passage  out.  Sometimes  where  I  have  met  with  a 
superfluous  character,  which  seemed  to  burthen  without 
throwing  any  light  upon  the  scene,  I  have  ventured  to  dis 
miss  it  altogether.  I  have  expunged,  without  ceremony,  all 
that  which  the  writers  had  better  never  have  written,  that 
forms  the  objection  so  often  repeated  to  the  promiscuous 
reading  of  Fletcher,  Massinger,  and  some  others. 

The  kind  of  extracts  which  I  have  sought  after  have  been, 
not  so  much  passages  of  wit  and  humour,  though  the  old 
plays  are  rich  in  such,  as  scenes  of  passion,  sometimes  of  the 
deepest  quality,  interesting  situations,  serious  descriptions, 
that  which  is  more  nearly  allied  to  poetry  than  to  wit,  and 
to  tragic  rather  than  to  comic  poetry.  The  plays  which  I 
have  made  choice  of  have  been,  with  few  exceptions,  those 
which  treat  of  human  life  and  manners,  rather  than  masques, 
and  Arcadian  pastorals,  with  their  train  of  abstractions,  un- 
impassioned  deities,  passionate  mortals,  Claius,  and  Medorus, 


IV  PREFACE. 

and  Amintas,  and  Amarillis.  My  leading  design  has  been, 
to  illustrate  what  may  be  called  the  moral  sense  of  our  an 
cestors.  To  show  in  what  manner  they  felt,  when  they 
placed  themselves  by  the  power  of  imagination  in  trying 
situations,  in  the  conflicts  of  duty  and  passion,  or  the  strife 
of  contending  duties ;  what  sort  of  loves  and  enmities  theirs 
were ;  how  their  griefs  were  tempered,  and  their  full-swoln 
joys  abated :  how  much  of  Shakspeare  shines  in  the  great 
men  his  contemporaries,  and  how  far  in  his  divine  mind  and 
manners  he  surpassed  them  and  all  mankind. 

Another  object  which  I  had  in  making  these  selections 
was,  to  bring  together  the  most  admired  scenes  in  Fletcher 
and  Massinger,  in  the  estimation  of  the  world  the  only  dra 
matic  poets  of  that  age  who  are  entitled  to  be  considered 
after  Shakspeare,  and  to  exhibit  them  in  the  same  volume 
with  the  more  impressive  scenes  of  old  Marlowe,  Hey  wood, 
Tourneur,  Webster,  Ford,  and  others.  To  show  what  we 
have  slighted,  while  beyond  all  proportion  we  have  cried  up 
one  or  two  favourite  names. 

The  specimens  are  not  accompanied  with  anything  in  the 
shape  of  biographical  notices1.  I  had  nothing  of  consequence 
to  add  to  the  slight  sketches  in  Dodsley  and  the  Biographia 
Dramatica,  and  I  was  unwilling  to  swell  the  volume  with 
mere  transcription.  The  reader  will  not  fail  to  observe,  from 
the  frequent  instances  of  two  or  more  persons  joining  in  the 
•omposition  of  the  same  play  (the  noble  practice  of  those 
times),  that  of  most  of  the  writers  contained  in  these  selec 
tions  it  may  be  strictly  said,  that  they  were  contemporaries. 
The  whole  period,  from  the  middle  of  Elizabeth's  reign  to 
the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I,,  comprises  a  space  of  little 
more  than  half  a  century,  within  which  time  nearly  all  that 
we  have  of  excellence  in  serious  dramatic  composition  was 
produced,  if  we  except  the  Samson  Agonistes  of  Milton. 

CHAELES  LAMB. 
1808. 

1  The  few  notes  which  are  interspersed  will  be  found  to  be  chiefly 
critical. 

The  present  new  edition  contains,  in  addition  to  what  is  indicated  in  the 
above  preface,  CHAELES  LAMB'S  Extracts  from  the  GarricJc  Plays,  first 
published  in  Hone's  Table  Book,  and  now  reprinted  here  by  permission. 

H.  Or.  B. 


TABLE  OF  REFERENCE  TO  THE  EXTRACTS. 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE  AND 
THOMAS  NORTON.      page 


Gorboduc 


THOMAS  KYD. 

Spanish  Tragedy  .... 

GEORGE  PEELE. 

David  and  Bethsabe 


]2 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

Lust's  Dominion      ....  14 

First  part  of  Tamburlaine      .  16 

Edward  II 18 

The  Rich  Jew  of  Malta      .     .  26 

Doctor  Faustus 28 

ROBERT  TAYLOR. 

The  Hog  hath  Lost  his  Pearl  37 

ANTHONY  BREWER. 

Lingua 43 

AUTHORS  UNCERTAIN. 

Nero . 44 

The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton  45 

JOSEPH   COOKE. 

Green's  Tu  Quoque  ....  49 

THOMAS  DECKER. 

Old  Fortunatus 50 

First  part  of  the  Honest  Whore  57 
Second  part  of  the  Honest  Whore  ib . 

Satiromastix 59 

THOMAS  DECKER  AND 
JOHN  WEBSTER. 

Westward  Hoe 63 

JOHN  MARSTON. 

Antonio  and  Mellida     ...  64 

Antonio's  Revenge  ....  66 

The  Malcontent 70 

The  Wonder  of  Women     .     .  71 

The  Insatiate  Countess      .     .  73 

What  You  Will  .                    .  74 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 
Caesar  and  Pompey  .     .     .     , 


Page 

78 
82 
85 


Bussy  d'Ambois  .  . 
Byron's  Conspiracy  . 
Byron's  Tragedy 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

A  Challenge  for  Beauty     .     .     88 

The  Royal  King  and  the  Loyal 
Subject 93 

A  Woman  Kill'd  with  Kind 
ness  ib. 

The  English  TraveUer  .     .     .  100 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD  AND 
RICHARD  BROOME. 

The  Late  Lancashire  Witches    103 

THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND 

WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 
A  Fair  Quarrel 110 

WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

All's  Lost  by  Lust  .  .  .  .122 
A  New  Wonder 127 

THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

Women  Beware  Women  .  .134 
More  Dissemblers  besides 

Women 139 

No  Wit  Help  like  a  Woman's  .  141 
The  Witch 143 

WILLIAM  ROWLEY,  THOMAS 
DECKER,  JOHN  FORD,  ETC. 

The  Witch  of  Edmonton  .     .  153 

CYRIL  TOURNEUR. 

The  Atheist's  Tragedy  .  .  .  156 
The  Revenger's  Tragedy  .  .158 

JOHN  WEBSTER. 

The  Devil's  Law  Case  .  .  .171 
Appius  and  Virginia  .  .  .  174 
Duchess  of  Malty  ....  177 
The  White  Devil  ....  189 

JOHN  FORD. 

The  Lover's  Melancholy  .  .  203 
The  Ladies'  Trial  .  .  .  .205 
Love's  Sacrifice ib. 


VI 


TABLE  OF  BEFEKENCE  TO  THE  EXTBACTS. 


Page 

Perkin  Warbeck 208 

'Tis  Pity  She 's  a  Whore   .     .211 
The  Broken  Heart    ....  218 

SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Hymen's  Triumph   ....  228 

FULKE   GREVILLE. 

\  Alaham 233 

Mustapha 243 

BEN  JONSON. 

*  The  Case  1S  Altered.     .     .     .254 

Poetaster 256 

Sejanus 265 

The  Sad  Shepherd    .     .     .     .266 

Catiline 269 

The  New  Inn 272 

The  Alchemist 277 

Volpone 283 

FRANCIS  BEAUMONT. 

The  Triumph  of  Love  .     .     .292 

FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND 
JOHN  FLETCHER. 

The  Maid's  Tragedy      .     .     .294 
Philaster;    or,   Love  Lies  a- 

Bleeding 301 

Cupid's  Eevenge 310 

JOHN  FLETCHER. 

The  Faithful  Shepherdess  .     .  314 

The  False  One 326 

Love's  Pilgrimage     ....  329 

Bonduca 333 

The  Bloody  Brother;  or,  Kollo  336 


Thierry  and  Theodoret . 
Wit  Without  Money  . 
The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen 


Page 
.  338 
.  344 
.  (34B 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

The  City  Madam      ....  356 
A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts  360 

The  Picture 362 

The  Parliament  of  Love     .     .  365 
AYery  Woman;  or,  The  Prince 

ofTarent 368 

The  Unnatural  Combat      .     .  369 

PHILIP  MASSINGER  AND 
THOMAS  DECKER. 

The  Virgin  Martyr   .     .     .     .372 

PHILIP  MASSINGER  AND 
NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

The  Fatal  Dowry      .     .     .     .373 

PHILIP  MASSINGER,  THOMAS 
MIDDLETON,  AND  WILLIAM 
ROWLEY. 

The  Old  Law 376 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN  AND 
JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Philip    Chabot,     Admiral    of 
France 382 

JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

The  Maid's  Eevenge     .     .     .387 

The  Politician 396 

The  Brothers 399 

The  Lady  of  Pleasure    ...  405 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  GARRICK  PLAYS. 


King  John  and  Matilda.  By 
Robert  Davenport  .  .  .  411 

The  Parliament  of  Bees.  By 
John  Day  ....  414,  459 

The  Rewards  of  Virtue.  By 
John  Fountain  ....  416 

All  Fools.  By  George  Chap 
man  .  .  419 


The  Late  Lancashire  Witches. 

By  Thomas  Heywood  .  .  420 
Wit  in  a  Constable.  By  Henry 

Grlapthorn 421 

Arden  of  Feversham.  Author 

unknown ib. 

The  Chaste  Maid  in  Cheapside. 

By  Thomas  Middleton  .     .  424 


TABLE  OF  REFERENCE  TO  THE  EXTRACTS. 


Vll 


Page 

London  Chanticleers  .  .  .  426 
Fortune  by  Land  and  Sea.  By 

T.  Heywood  and  W.  Eowley  427 
Tancred  and  Gismund  .  .  .431 
The  Two  Angry  Women  of  ^ 

Abingdon.  By  Henry  Porter  432 
The  Virgin  Widow.  By  Francis 

Quarles 435 

TheFairMaidof  the  Exchange. 

By  Thomas  Heywood  .  .  ib. 
Adrasta.  By  John  Jones  .  439 
The  Game  at  Chess.  By 

Thomas  Middleton  .  .  .  ib. 
Jack  Drum's  Entertainment. 

Author  unknown  ;  .  .  .  440 
The  Changes.  By  James  Shirley  441 
The  Guardian.  By  Abraham 

Cowley 442 

The  Brazen  Age.  By  Thomas 

Heywood ib. 

The  Battle  of  Alcazar  .  .  .446 
The  Seven  Champions  of  Chris 
tendom.  By  John  Kirk  .  447 
Two  Tragedies  in  One.  By 

Bobert  Yarrington  ...  448 
The  Arraignment  of  Paris. 

By  G-eorge  Peele  .  .  .  .449 
The  City  Night-cap.  By  Eo- 

bert  Davenport  ....  453 
The  Conspiracy.  By  Henry 

Killigrew 456 

Tottenham  Court.  By  Thomas 

Nabbs ib. 

The  Duchess  of  Suffolk.  By 

T.  Heywood 458 

David  and  Bethsabe.  By 

G-eorge  Peele 461 

Tethys'  Festival.  By  Samuel 

Daniel 464 

A  Looking  Glass  for  England 

and  London.    By  Thomas 

Lodge  and  Robert  Green    .    ib. 


Page 
The  Silver  Age.  By  Thomas 

Heywood 466 

The  Golden  Age.  By  the 

same  Author 468 

Bussy  D'Ambois.  By  George 

Chapman  ....  469,  490 
Satiromastix.  By  Thomas 

Decker 470 

The  Antipodes.  By  Eichard 

Broome  .  .     .     .  471 


The  Asparagus  Garden, 
the  same  Author  . 


474 


Sir  Eichard  Fanshaw's  Trans 
lation  of  "  Querer  por  Solo 
Querer" — "To  Love  for 
Love's  Sake."  By  Mendoza  476 

The  Downfall  of  Eobert,  Earl 
of  Huntingdon.  By  T.  Hey 
wood  484 

Phyllis  of  Scyros.  Author 
unknown 486 

Caesar  and  Pompey.  By  G. 
Chapman 488 

Chabot,  Admiral  of  France. 
By  G.  Chapman  and  J. 
Shirley 492 

Edward  the  Third.  Author 
unknown ib. 

Doctor  Dodypol.  Author  un 
known  496 

The  Gentleman  of  Venice.  By 
James  Shirley 499 

The  Devil's  Law  Case.  By 
John  Webster 501 

The  Bride.  By  Thomas  Nabbs  504 

The  Gentleman  Usher.  By 
G.  Chapman 505 

The  Bastard.  Author  un 
known  506 

Love  Tricks.  By  James  Shir 
ley  507 

A  Woman 's  a  Weathercock. 
By  Nathaniel  Field  .  .  .508 


Vlll 


TABLE  OF  BEFEREKCE  TO  THE  EXTRACTS. 


Page 
The  Triumphant  Widow.  By 

The  Duke  of  Newcastle  .  .  511 
Mamamouchi.  By  Edward 

Ravenscroffc 513 

Love's  Metamorphosis.  By 

John  Lily 514 

Sapho  and  Phao.  By  the  same 

Author 515 

The  True  Trojans.  Author  . 

unknown 517 

The  Twins.  By  W.  Eider  .  519 
Sir  Giles  Goosecap.  Author 

unknown ib. 

The  English  Monsieur.  By 

The  Hon.  James  Howard  .  520 
The  Hectors.  By  Edmund 

Prestwick 522 

Hey  for  Honesty.  By  T. 

Randolph 523 

The  Example.  By  James 

Shirley ib. 

Love's  Dominion.  By  Richard 

Flecknoe  524 

Don  Quixote.  By  Thomas 

D'Urfey 525 

Andronicus.  By  Philonax 

Lovekin 526 

Ram  Alley.  By  Lodowick 

Barry ib. 

The  Royal  King  and  Loyal 

Subject.  By  T.  Heywood  .  527 
A  Challenge  for  Beauty.  By 

T.  Heywood  .  .  .  528,  540 
The  Fawn.  By  John  Marston  528 


Page 

Commendatory  Yerses  before 
Three  Plays  of  Sir  Wm. 
Killigrew.  By  T.  L.  .  .  529 

Commendatory  Verses  before 
the  "Faithful  Shepherdess" 
of  Fletcher 530 

Commendatory  Yerses  before 
the  "  Rebellion."  By  T. 
Rawlins ib. 

The  Ambitious  Statesman.  By 

John  Crowne 531" 

Belphegor.     By  John  Wilson  532 

The  Floating  Island.  By  the 
Rev.  W.  Strode  ....  533 

Fatal  Jealousy.  Author  un 
known  ib. 

The  Traitor.  By  James  Shirley  535 

The  Huntingdon  Divertise- 
ment.  By  W.  M.  .  .  .  536 

The  Married  Beau.  By  John 
Crowne 537 

Dedications  toFletcher's  Faith 
ful  Shepherdess  .  .  .  .  ib. 

The  Wars  of  Cyrus.  Author 

unknown 539  - 

Thyestes.    By  John  Crowne  .  540  . 

Brutus  of  Alba.  By  Nahum 
Tate 546 

The  Fatal  Union.  Author 
unknown 549 

Blurt,  Master  Constable.  By 
T.  Middleton ib. 

Hoffman's  Tragedy;  or,  Re 
venge  for  a  Father.  Au 
thor  unknown  /C/vt^tvo  .  551 


SPECIMENS 

OP 

ENGLISH    DRAMATIC    POETS. 


GOEBODUC,  A  TRAGEDY:  BY  THOMAS  SACKVILLE, 
LORD  BUCKHURST,  AFTERWARDS  EARL  OF  DORSET ; 
AND  THOMAS  NORTON. 

Whilst  Icing  Gorboduc  in  the  presence  of  his  councillors  laments  the 
death  of  his  eldest  son,  Ferrex,  whom  Porrex,  the  younger  son,  has 
slain;  Marcella,  a  court  lady,  enters  and  relates  the  miserable  end 
of  PorreX)  stabbed  by  his  mother  in  his  bed. 

GOEBODUC,  ABOSTUS,  EUBTJLTJS,  and  others. 

Gorb.  "What  cruel  destiny 

"What  froward  fate  hath,  sorted  us  this  chance  ? 
That  ev'n  in  those  where  we  should  comfort  find, 
"Where  our  delight  now  in  our  aged  days 
Should  rest  and  be,  even  there  our  only  grief 
And  deepest  sorrows  to  abridge  our  life, 
Most  pining  cares  and  deadly  thoughts  do  grave. 

Arost.  Your  grace  should  now,  in  these  grave  years  of  yours, 
Have  found  ere  this  the  price  of  mortal  joys, 
How  full  of  change,  how  brittle  our  estate, 
How  short  they  be,  how  fading  here  in  earth, 
Of  nothing  sure,  save  only  of  the  death, 
To  whom  both  man  and  all  the  world  doth  owe 
Their  end  at  last ;  neither  should  nature's  power 
In  other  sort  against  your  heart  prevail, 
Than  as  the  naked  hand  whose  stroke  assays 
The  armed  breast  where  force  doth  light  in  vain. 

Gorb.  Many  can  yield  right  grave  and  sage  advice 
Of  patient  sprite  to  others  wrapt  in  woe, 
And  can  in  speech  both  rule  and  conquer  kind1, 

1  Nature;  natural  affection. 

B 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE  AND  THOMAS  NORTON. 

Who,  if  by  proof  they  might  feel  nature's  force, 
Would  show  themselves  men  as  they  are  indeed, 
Which  now  will  needs  be  gods  :  but  what  doth  mean 
The  sorry  cheer  of  her  that  here  doth  come  ? 

MAECELLA  enters. 

Marc.  Oh  where  is  ruth  ?  or  where  is  pity  now  ? 
Whither  is  gentle  heart  and  mercy  fled  ? 
Are  they  exiled  out  of  our  stony  breasts, 
Never  to  make  return  ?  is  all  the  world 
Drowned  in  blood,  and  sunk  in  cruelty  ? 
If  not  in  women  mercy  may  be  found, 
If  not,  alas !  within  the  mother's  breast 
To'  her  own  child,  to  her  own  flesh  and  bl»od  ; 
If  ruth  be  banish' d  thence,  if  pity  there 
May  have  no  place,  if  there  no  gentle  heart 
Do  live  and  dwell,  where  should  we  seek  it  then  ? 

G-orb.  Madam,  alas !  what  means  your  woful  tale  ? 

Marc.  O  silly  woman  I,  why  to  this  hour 

Have  kind  and  fortune  thus  deferr'd  my  breath, 
That  I  should  live  to  see  this  doleful  day  ? 
Will  ever  wight  believe  that  such  hard  heart 
Could  rest  within  the  cruel  mother's  breast, 
With  her  own  hand  to  slay  her  only  son  ? 
But  out,  alas !  these  eyes  beheld  the  same, 
They  saw  the  dreary  sight,  and  are  become 
Most  ruthful  records  of  the  bloody  fact. 
Porrex,  alas  !  is  by  his  mother  slain, 
And  with  her  hand,  a  woful  thing  to  tell, 
While  slumbering  on  his  careful  bed  he  rests, 
His  heart  stabb'd  in  with  knife  is  reft  of  life. 

Oorl.  O  Eubulus,  0  draw  this  sword  of  ours, 

And  pierce  this  heart  with  speed.     0  hateful  light, 
O  loathsome  life,  0  sweet  and  welcome  death. 
Dear  Eubulus,  work  this  we  thee  beseech. 

Eiib.  Patient,  your  grace,  perhaps  he  liveth  yet, 
With  wound  received  but  not  of  certain  death. 

Gorb.  O  let  us  then  repair  unto  the  place, 

And  see  if  Porrex  live,  or  thus  be  slain.  [Exit, 

Marc.  Alas !  he  liveth  not,  it  is  too  true, 

That  with  these  eyes,  of  him  a  peerless  pnnce, 


GOBBODTTC.  8 

Son  to  a  king,  and  in  the  flower  of  youth, 
Even  with  a  twink1  a  senseless  stock  I  saw. 

Arost,  O  damned  deed ! 

Marc.  But  hear  his  ruthful  end. 

The  noble  prince,  pierced  with  the  sudden  wounds, 
Out  of  his  wretched  slumber  hastily  start2, 
Whose  strength  now  failing,  straight  he  overthrew, 
When  in  the  fall  his  eyes  ev'n  now  unclosed, 
Beheld  the  queen,  and  cried  to  her  for  help ; 
"We  then,  alas !  the  ladies  which  that  time 
Did  there  attend,  seeing  that  heinous  deed, 
And  hearing  him  oft  call  the  wretched  name 
Of  mother,  and  to  cry  to  her  for  aid, 
"Whose  direful  hand  gave  him  the  mortal  wound, 
Pitying,  alas !  (for  nought  else  could  we  do) 
His  rueful  end,  ran  to  the  woful  bed, 
Despoiled  straight  his  breast,  and  all  we  might 
Wiped  in  vain  with  napkins  next  at  hand 
The  sudden  streams  of  blood,  that  flushed  fast 
Out  of  the  gaping  wound :  O  what  a  look, 
O  what  a  ruthful  stedfast  eye  methought 
He  fix'd  upon  my  face,  which  to  my  death 
Will  never  part  from  me, — wherewith  abraid3 
A  deep-fetch' d  sigh  he  gave,  and  therewithal 
Clasping  his  hands,  to  heaven  he  cast  his  sight ; 
And  straight,  pale  death  pressing  within  his  face, 
The  flying  ghost  his  mortal  corpse  forsook. 

Arost.  Never  did  age  bring  forth  so  vile  a  fact. 

Marc.  0  hard  and  cruel  hap  that  thus  assign' d 
Unto  so  worthy  wight  so  wretched  end : 
But  most  hard  cruel  heart  that  could  consent, 
To  lend  the  hateful  destinies  that  hand, 
By  which,  alas  !  so  heinous  crime  was  wrought ; — 
0  queen  of  adamant,  0  marble  breast, 
If  not  the  favour  of  his  comely  face, 
If  not  his  princely  cheer  and  countenance, 
His  valiant  active  arms,  his  manly  breast, 
If  not  his  fair  and  seemly  personage  ; 
His  noble  limbs,  in  such  proportion  cast. 

1  Twinkling  of  the  eye.  »  Started.  8  Awaked ;  raised  up. 

B2 


4        THOMAS  SACKYILLE  AND  THOMAS  NOBTON. 

As  would  have  rapt  a  silly  woman's  thought ; 

If  this  might  not  have  moved  the  bloody  heart, 

And  that  most  cruel  hand  the  wretched  weapon 

Ev'n  to  let  fall,  and  kiss'd  him  in  the  face, 

With  tears,  for  ruth  to  reave  such  one  by  death ; 

Should  nature  yet  consent  to  slay  her  son  ? 

0  mother,  thou  to  murder  thus  thy  child ! 

Ev'n  Jove  with  justice  must  with  lightning  flames 

Prom  heaven  send  down  some  strange  revenge  on  thee. 

Ah  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I  beheld 

Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  steed, 

Shining  in  armour  bright  before  the  tilt, 

And  with  thy  mistress'  sleeve  tied  on  thy  helm, 

There  charge  thy  staff,  to  please  thy  lady's  eye, 

That  bow'd  the  head-piece  of  thy  friendly  foe  ! 

How  oft  in  arms  on  horse  to  bend  the  mace, 

How  oft  in  arms  on  foot  to  break  the  sword, 

"Which  never  now  these  eyes  may  see  again  ! 

Arost.  Madam,  alas  !  in  vain  these  plaints  are  shed. 
Rather  with  me  depart,  and  help  to  assuage 
The  thoughtful  griefs,  that  in  the  aged  king 
Must  needs  by  nature  grow,  by  death  of  this 
His  only  son,  whom  he  did  hold  so  dear. 

Marc.  What  wight  is  that  which  saw  that  I  did  see, 
And  could  refrain  to  wail  with  plaint  and  tears  ? 
Not  I,  alas  !  that  heart  is  not  in  me ; 
But  let  us  go,  for  I  am  grieved  anew, 
To  call  to  mind  the  wretched  father's  woe.        [Exeunt. 

Chorus  of  aged  men.  When  greedy  lust  in  royal  seat  to  reign 
Hath  reft  all  care  of  gods  and  eke  of  men ; 
And  cruel  heart,  wrath,  treason,  and  disdain, 
Within  the  ambitious  breast  are  lodged,  then 
Behold  how  mischief  wide  herself  displays, 
And  with  the  brother's  hand  the  brother  slays. 

When  blood  thus  shed  doth  stain  this  heaven's  face, 
Crying  to  Jove  for  vengeance  of  the  deed, 
The  mighty  God  ev'n  moveth  from  his  place 
With  wrath  to  wreak  ;  then  sends  he  forth  with  speed 
The  dreadful  Furies,  daughters  of  the  night, 
With  serpents  girt,  carrying  the  whip  of  ire, 
With  hair  of  stinging  snakes,  and  shining  bright 


THE  SPANISH  TBAGEDY.  5 

With  flames  and  blood,  and  with  a  brand  of  fire : 
These,  for  revenge  of  wretched  murder  done, 
Doth  cause  the  mother  kill  her  only  son. 

Blood  asketh  blood,  and  death  must  death  requite  •. 
Jove  by  his  just  and  everlasting  doom 
Justly  hath  ever  so  requited  it. 
This  times  before  record  and  times  to  come 
Shall  find  it  true,  and  so  doth  present  proof 
Present  before  our  eyes  for  our  behoof. 

O  happy  wight  that  suffers  not  the  snare 
Of  murderous  mind  to  tangle  him  in  blood : 
And  happy  he  that  can  in  time  beware 
By  others'  harms,  and  turn  it  to  his  good : 
But  woe  to  him  that  fearing  not  to  offend, 
Doth  serve  his  lust,  and  will  not  see  the  end. 

[The  style  of  this  old  play  is  stiff  and  cumbersome,  like  the  dresses  of 
its  times.  There  may  be  flesh  and  blood  underneath,  but  we  cannot  get 
at  it.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  praised  it  for  its  morality.  One  of  its 
authors  might  easily  furnish  that.  Norton  was  an  associate  to  Hopkins, 
Sternhold,  and  Eobert  Wisdom,  in  the  Singing  Psalms.  I  am  willing 
to  believe  that  Lord  Buckhurst  supplied  the  more  vital  parts.  The  chief 
beauty  in  the  extract  is  of  a  secret  nature.  Marcella  obscurely  intimates 
that  the  murdered  prince  Porrex  and  she  had  been  lovers.] 


THE  SPANISH  TKAGEDY :  OE  HIEEONIMO  IS  MAD  AGAIN. 
A  TEAGEDY  BY  THOMAS  KYD. 

Horatio  the  son  of  Hieronimo  is  murdered  while  Jie  is  sitting  with  his 
mistress  Belimperia  by  night  in  an  arbour  in  his  father's  garden.  Tlte 
murderers  (Balthazar  his  rival,  and  Lorenzo  the  brother  of  Belim 
peria)  hang  his  body  on  a  tree.  Hieronimo  is  awakened  by  the  cries 
of  Belimperia,  and  coming  out  into  his  garden,  discovers  by  the  light 
of  a  torch  that  the  murdered  man  is  his  son.  Upon  this  he  goes 
distracted. 

HIEROKIMO  mad. 

Hier.  My  son !  and  what 's  a  son  ? 

A  thing  begot  within  a  pair  of  minutes,  there  about : 
A  lump  bred  up  in  darkness,  and  doth  serve 
To  balance  those  light  creatures  we  call  women ; 
And  at  the  nine  months'  end  creeps  forth  to  light. 


THOMAS  KTD. 

What  is  there  yet  in  a  son, 
To  make  a  father  dote,  rave  or  run  mad  ? 
Being  born,  it  pouts,  cries,  and  breeds  teeth. 
What  is  there  yet  in  a  son  ? 
He  must  be  fed,  be  taught  to  go,  and  speak. 
Ay,  or  yet  ?  why  might  not  a  man  love  a  calf  as  well  ? 
Or  melt  in  passion  o'er  a  frisking  kid,  as  for  a  son  ? 
Methinks  a  young  bacon, 
Or  a  fine  little  smooth  horse  colt, 
Should  move  a  man  as  much  as  doth  a  son ; 
For  one  of  these,  in  very  little  time, 
Will  grow  to  some  good  use  ;  whereas  a  son, 
The  more  he  grows  in  stature  and  in  years, 
The  more  unsquared,  unlevell'd  he  appears  ; 
Reckons  his  parents  among  the  rank  of  fools, 
Strikes  cares  upon  their  heads  with  his  mad  riots, 
Makes  them  look  old  before  they  meet  with  age : 
This  is  a  son ;  and  what  a  loss  is  this,  considered  truly! 
O,  but  my  Horatio  grew  out  of  reach  of  those 
Insatiate  humours  :  he  loved  his  loving  parents : 
He  was  my  comfort,  and  his  mother's  joy, 
The  very  arm  that  did  hold  up  our  house — 
Our  hopes  were  stored  up  in  him — 
None  but  a  damned  murderer  could  hate  him. 
He  had  not  seen  the  back  of  nineteen  years, 
When  his  strong  arm  unhorsed  the  proud  prince  Bal 
thazar  ; 

And  his  great  mind,  too  full  of  honour,  took 
To  mercy  that  valiant  but  ignoble  Portuguese. 
Well,  heaven  is  heaven  still ! 
And  there  is  Nemesis,  and  furies, 
And  things  call'd  whips, 
And  they  sometimes  do  meet  with  murderers  : 
They  do  not  always  'scape,  that 's  some  comfort. 
Ay,  ay,  ay,  and  then  time  steals  on,  and  steals,  and 

steals, 

Till  violence  leaps  forth,  like  thunder 
Wrapp'd  in  a  ball  of  fire, 
And  so  doth  bring  confusion  to  them  all. 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

JAQTTES  and  PEDRO,  servants. 

Jay.  I  wonder,  Pedro,  why  our  master  thus 

At  midnight  sends  us  with  our  torches  light, 
When  man  and  bird  and  beast  are  all  at  rest, 
Save  those  that  watch  for  rape  and  bloody  murder. 

Fed.  O  Jaques,  know  thou  that  our  master's  mind 
Is  much  distract  since  his  Horatio  died  : 
And,  now  his  aged  years  should  sleep  in  rest, 
His  heart  in  quiet,  like  a  desperate  man 
Grows  lunatic  and  childish  for  his  son  : 
Sometimes  as  he  doth  at  his  table  sit, 
He  speaks  as  if  Horatio  stood  by  him. 
Then  starting  in  a  rage,  falls  on  the  earth, 
Cries  out  Horatio,  where  is  my  Horatio  ? 
So  that  with  extreme  grief,  and  cutting  sorrow, 
There  is  not  left  in  him  one  inch  of  man : 
See  here  he  comes. 

HIERONIMO  enters. 

Hier.  I  pry  through  every  crevice  of  each  wall, 

Look  at  each  tree,  and  search  through  every  brake, 
Beat  on  the  bushes,  stamp  our  grandam  earth, 
Dive  in  the  water,  and  stare  up  to  heaven : 
Yet  cannot  I  behold  my  son  Horatio. 
How  now,  who  's  there,  sprites,  sprites  ? 

Ped.  "We  are  your  servants  that  attenid  you,  sir. 

Hier.  What  make  you  with  your  torches  in  the  dark  ? 

Ped.  You  bid  us  light  them,  and  attend  you  here. 

Hier.  No,  no,  you  are  deceived,  not  I,  you  are  deceived ; 
Was  I  so  mad  to  bid  you  light  your  torches  now  ? 
Light  me  your  torches  at  the  mid  of  noon, 
When  as  the  sun-god  rides  in  all  his  glory  ; 
Light  me  your  torches  then.      , 

Ped.  Then  we  burn  daylight. 

Hier.  Let  it  be  burnt ;  night  is  a  murderous  slut, 
That  would  not  have  her  treasons  to  be  seen : 
And  yonder  pale-faced  Hecate  there,  the  moon, 
Doth  give  consent  to  that  is  done  in  darkness. 
And  all  those  stars  that  gaze  upon  her  face, 
Are  aglets1  on  her  sleeve,  pins  on  her  train : 
1  Tags  of  points. 


THOMAS  KYD. 

And  those  that  should  be  powerful  and  divine, 
Do  sleep  in  darkness  when  they  most  should  shine. 

Ped.  Provoke  them  not,  fair  sir,  with  tempting  words ; 
The  heavens  are  gracious ;  and  your  miseries 
And  sorrow  make  you  speak  you  know  not  what. 

Hier.  Villain,  thou  liest,  and  thou  doest  naught ' 

But  tell  me  I  am  mad  :  thou  liest,  I  am  not  mad : 
I  know  thee  to  be  Pedro  and  he  Jaques. 
I  '11  prove  it  to  thee ;  and  were  I  mad,  how  could  I  ? 
Where  was  she  the  same  night,  when  my  Horatio  was 

murder' d  ? 

She  should  have  shone  :  search  thou  the  book : 
Had  the  moon  shone  in  my  boy's  face,  there  was  a  kind 

of  grace, 

That  I  know,  nay  I  do  know  had  the  murderer  seen  him, 
His  weapon  would  have  fallen,  and  cut  the  earth, 
Had  he  been  framed  of  naught  but  blood  and  death ; 
Alack,  when  mischief  doth  it  knows  not  what, 
What  shall  we  say  to  mischief  ? 

ISABELLA  his  wife  enters. 

Isa.  Dear  Hieronimo,  come  in  a-doors ; 

0  seek  not  means  to  increase  thy  sorrow. 
Hier.  Indeed,  Isabella,  we  do  nothing  here  ; 

1  do  not  cry — ask  Pedro  and  Jaques : 

Not  I  indeed  ;  we  are  very  merry,  very  merry. 

Isa-.  How  ?  be  merry  here,  be  merry  here  ? 

Is  not  this  the  place,  and  this  the  very  tree, 
Where  my  Horatio  died,  where  he  was  murder 'd  ? 

Hier.  Was,  do  not  say  what :  let  her  weep  it  out. 
This  was  the  tree,  I  set  it  of  a  kernel ; 
And  when  our  hot  Spain  could  not  let  it  grow, 
But  that  the  infant  and  the  human  sap 
Began  to  wither,  duly  twice  a  morning 
Would  I  be  sprinkling  it  with  fountain  water : 
At  last  it  grew  and  grew,  and  bore  and  bore : 
Till  at  length  it  grew  a  gallows,  and  did  bear  our  son. 
It  bore  thy  fruit  and  mine.     O  wicked,  wicked  plant ! 
See  who  knocks  there.     (One  knocks  within  at  the  door.) 

Ped.  It  is  a  painter,  sir. 

Hier.  Bid  him  come  in,  and  paint  some  comfort, 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  9 

For  surely  there  's  none  lives  but  painted  comfort. 
Let  him  come  in,  one  knows  not  what  may  chance. 
G-od's  will  that  I  should  set  this  tree !  but  even  so 
Masters  ungrateful  servants  rear  from  naught, 
And  then  they  hate  them  that  did  bring  them  up, 

The  Painter  enters. 

Pain.  Grod  bless  you,  sir. 

Hier.  Wherefore*?  why,  thou  scornful  villain  ? 

How,  where,  or  by  what  means  should  I  be  blest  ? 
Isa.  What  wouldst  thou  have,  good  fellow  ? 
Pain.  Justice,  madam. 
Hier.  O  ambitious  beggar,  wouldst  thou  have  that 

That  lives  not  in  the  world  ? 

Why,  all  the  undelved  mines  cannot  buy 

An  ounce  of  justice,  'tis  a  jewel  so  inestimable. 

I  tell  thee,  God  hath  engross' d  all  justice  in  his  hands, 

And  there  is  none  but  what  comes  from  him. 
Pain.  0  then  I  see  that  God  must  right  me  for  my  mur 
der' d  son. 

Hier.  How,  was  thy  son  murder 'd  ? 
Pain.  Ay,  sir,  no  man  did  hold  a  son  so  dear. 
Hier.  What,  not  as  thine  ?  that 's  a  lie, 

As  massy  as  the  earth :  I  had  a  son, 

Whose  least  unvalued  hair  did  weigh 

A  thousand  of  thy  sons,  and  he  was  murder' d. 
Pain.  Alas,  sir,  I  had  no  more  but  he. 
Hier.  Nor  I,  nor  I ;  but  this  same  one  of  mine 

Was  worth  a  legion.     But  all  is  one. 

Pedro,  Jaques,  go  in  a-doors ;  Isabella,  go, 

And  this  good  fellow  here,  and  I, 

Will  range  this  hideous  orchard  up  and  down, 

Like  two  she-lions  reaved  of  their  young. 

Go  in  a-doors,  I  say.  [Exeu/nt. 

(The  Painter  and  he  sit  down.) 

Come  let 's  talk  wisely  now. 

Was  thy  son  murder 'd  ? 
Pain.  Ay,  sir. 
Hier.  So  was  mine. 

How  dost  thou  take  it  ?  art  thou  not  sometime  mad  ? 

Is  there  no  tricks  that  come  before  thine  eyes  ? 


10  THOMAS  KID. 

Pain.  0  lord,  yes,  sir. 

Hier.  Art  a  painter  ?  canst  paint  me  a  tear,  a  wound  ? 

A  groan  or  a  sigh  ?  canst  paint  me  such  a  tree  as  this  ? 
Pain.  Sir,  I  am  sure  you  have  heard  of  my  painting  : 

My  name 's  Bazardo. 

Hier.  Bazardo  !  'fore  God  an  excellent  fellow.  Look  you,  sir. 
Do  you  see  ?  I  'd  have  you  paint  me  in  my  gallery,  in 
your  oil  colours  matted,  and  draw  me  five  years  younger 
than  I  am :  do  you  see,  sir  ?  let  five  years  go,  let  them 
go, — my  wife  Isabella  standing  by  me,  with  a  speaking 
look  to  my  son  Horatio,  which  should  intend  to  this,  or 
some  such  like  purpose  ;  God  Mess  thee,  my  sweet  son ; 
and  my  hand  leaning  upon  his  head  thus,  sir,  do  you 
see  ?  may  it  be  done  ? 
Pain.  Very  well,  sir. 
Hier.  Nay,  I  pray  mark  me,  sir : 

Then,  sir,  would  I  have  you  paint  me  this  tree,  this  very 

tree: 

Canst  paint  a  doleful  cry  ? 
Pain.  Seemingly,  sir. 
Hier.  Nay,  it  should  cry ;  but  all  is  one. 

Well,  sir,  paint  me  a  youth  run  through  and  through 

with  villains'  swords  hanging  upon  this  tree. 
Canst  thou  draw  a  murderer  ? 
Pain.  I  '11  warrant  you,  sir  ;  I  have  the  pattern  of  the  most 

notorious  villains  that  ever  lived  in  all  Spain. 
Hier.  O,  let  them  be  worse,  worse :  stretch  thine  art, 
And  let  their  beards  be  of  Judas' s  own  colour, 
And  let  their  eyebrows  jut  over :  in  any  case  observe 

that ; 

Then,  sir,  after  some  violent  noise, 
Bring  me  forth  in  my  shirt  and  my  gown  under  my  arm, 
with  my  torch  in  my  hand,  and  my  sword  rear'd 
up  thus, — 
And  with  these  words ;  What  noise  is  this  ?  who  calls 

Hieronimo  ? 
May  it  be  done  ? 
Pain.  Tea,  sir. 

Hier.  Well,  sir,  then  bring  me  forth,  bring  me  through  alley 
and  alley,  still  with  a  distracted  countenance  going 
along,  and  let  my  hair  heave  up  my  night-cap.  Let  the 


THE  SPANISH  TBAGEDY.  11 

clouds  scowl,  make  the  moon  dark,  the  stars  extinct,  the 
winds  blowing,  the  bells  tolling,  the  owls  shrieking,  the 
toads  croaking,  the  minutes  jarring,  and  the  clock  stri 
king  twelve.  And  then  at  last,  sir,  starting,  behold  a 
man  hanging,  and  tottering,  and  tottering,  as  you  know 
the  wind  will  wave  a  man,  and  I  with  a  trice  to  cut  him 
down.  And  looking  upon  him  by  the  advantage  of  my 
torch,  find  it  to  be  my  son  Horatio.  There  you  may 
show  a  passion,  there  you  may  show  a  passion.  Draw 
me  like  old  Priam  of  Troy,  crying,  The  house  is  a-fire, 
the  house  is  a-fire  ;  and  the  torch  over  my  head ;  make 
me  curse,  make  me  rave,  make  me  cry,  make  me  mad, 
make  me  well  again,  make  me  curse  hell,  invocate,  and 
in  the  end  leave  me  in  a  trance,  and  so  forth. 

Pain.  And  is  this  the  end  ? 

Hier.  0  no,  there  is  no  end :  the  end  is  death  and  madness  ; 
And  I  am  never  better  than  when  I  am  mad ; 
Then  methinks  I  am  a  brave  fellow ; 
Then  I  do  wonders  ;  but  reason  abuseth  me ; 
And  there  's  the  torment,  there  's  the  hell. 
At  last,  sir,  bring  me  to  one  of  the  murderers  ; 
Were  he  as  strong  as  Hector, 
Thus  would  I  tear  and  drag  him  up  and  down. 

(He  teats  the  Painter  in.) 

[These  scenes,  which  are  the  very  salt  of  the  old  play  (which  without 
them  is  but  a  caput  mortuum,  such  another  piece  of  flatness  as  Locrine), 
Hawkins,  in  his  republication  of  this  tragedy,  has  thrust  out  of  the  text 
into  the  notes  ;  as  omitted  in  the  Second  Edition,  "  printed  for  Ed.  Allde, 
amended  of  such  gross  blunders  as  passed  in  the  first :"  and  thinks  them 
to  have  been  foisted  in  ly  the  players. — A  late  discovery  at  Dulwich 
College  has  ascertained  that  two  sundry  payments  were  made  to  Ben 
Jonson  by  the  Theatre  for  furnishing  additions  to  Hieronimo.  See  last 
edition  of  Shakspeare  by  E-eed.  There  is  nothing  in  the  undoubted 
plays  of  Jonson  which  would  authorize  us  to  suppose  that  he  could 
have  supplied  the  scenes  in  question.  I  should  suspect  the  agency  of 
some  "  more  potent  spirit."  Webster  might  have  furnished  them.  They 
are  full  of  that  wild  solemn  preternatural  cast  of  grief  which  bewilders  us 
in  the  Duchess  of  Malfy.] 


12  GEOBGE  PEELB. 


THE  LOYE  OF  KINO  DAVID  AND  FAIR  BETHSABE,  WITH 
THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ABSALOM :  BY  GEORGE  PEELE. 

Bethsabe,  with  her  maid,  lathing.    She  sings :  and  David  sits  above, 
viewing  her. 

The  song. 

Hot  sun,  cool  fire,  temper' d  with  sweet  air, 
Black  shade,  fair  nurse,  shadow  my  white  hair : 
Shine  sun,  burn  fire,  breathe  air  and  ease  me ; 
Black  shade,  fair  nurse,  shroud  me  and  please  me  ; 
Shadow,  my  sweet  nurse,  keep  me  from  burning, 
Make  not  my  glad  cause,  cause  of  mourning. 
Let  not  my  beauty's  fire 
Inflame  unstaid  desire, 
JN"or  pierce  any  bright  eye 
That  wandereth  lightly. 

Bethsabe.  Come,  gentle  Zephyr,  trick' d  with  those  perfumes 
That  erst  in  Eden  sweeten' d  Adam's  love, 
And  stroke  my  bosom  with  the  silken  fan : 
This  shade  (sun-proof)  is  yet  no  proof  for  thee, 
Thy  body  smoother  than  this  waveless  spring, 
And  purer  than  the  substance  of  the  same, 
Can  creep  through  that  his  lances1  cannot  pierce. 
Thou  and  thy  sister  soft  and  sacred  Air, 
Groddess  of  life,  and  governess  of  health, 
Keep  every  fountain  fresh  and  arbour  sweet ; 
No  brazen  gate  her  passage  can  repulse, 
Nor  bushy  thicket  bar  thy  subtle  breath. 
Then  deck  thee  with  thy  loose  delightsome  robes, 
And  on  l^iy  wings  bring  delicate  perfumes, 
To  play  the  wantons  with  us  through  the  leaves. 

David.  "What  tunes,  what  words,  what  looks,  what  wonders 

pierce 

My  soul,  incensed  with  a  sudden  fire ! 
"Wnat  tree,  what  shade,  what  spring,  what  paradise, 
Enjoys  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  dame ! 
Pair  Eva,  placed  in  perfect  happiness, 
Lending  her  praise-notes  to  the  liberal  heavens, 
Struck  with  the  accents  of  Archangels'  tunes, 
1  The  sun's  rays. 


KING  DAVID  AND  FAIB,  BETHSABE.  13 

Wrought  not  more  pleasure  to  her  husband's  thoughts, 

Than  this  fair  woman's  words  and  notes  to  mine. 

May  that  sweet  plain  that  bears  her  pleasant  weight, 

Be  still  enamel' d  with  discolour 'd  flowers ; 

That  precious  fount  bear  sand  of  purest  gold ; 

And  for  the  pebble,  let  the  silver  streams 

That  pierce  earth's  bowels  to  maintain  the  source, 

Play  upon  rubies,  sapphires,  chrysolites  ; 

The  brim  let  be  embraced  with  golden  curls 

Of  moss  that  sleeps  with  sound  the  waters  make 

For  joy  to  feed  the  fount  with  their  recourse  ; 

Let  all  the  grass  that  beautifies  her  bower 

Bear  manna  every  morn  instead  of  dew ; 

Or  let  the  dew  be  sweeter  far  than  that 

That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill, 

Or  balm  which  trickled  from  old  Aaron's  beard. 

Enter  CUSAT. 

See,  Cusay,  see  the  flower  of  Israel, 
The  fairest  daughter  that  obeys  the  king 
In  all  the  land  the  Lord  subdued  to  me. 
Fairer  than  Isaac's  lover  at  the  well, 
Brighter  than  inside  bark  of  new-hewn  cedar, 
Sweeter  than  flames  of  fine  perfumed  myrrh  ; 
And  comelier  than  the  silver  clouds  that  dance 
On  Zephyr's  wings  before  the  King  of  Heaven. 

Cusay.  Is  it  not  Bethsabe  the'Hethite's  wife 
Urias,  now  at  Eabath  siege  with  Joab  ? 

David.  Go  now  and  bring  her  quickly  to  the  King ; 
Tell  her,  her  graces  have  found  grace  with  him. 

Cusay.  I  will,  my  Lord.  \JExit. 

David.  Bright  Bethsabe  shall  wash  in  David's  bower 
In  water  mix'd  with  purest  almond  flower, 
And  bathe  her  beauty  in  the  milk  of  kids ; 
Bright  Bethsabe  gives  earth  to  my  desires, 
Verdure  to  earth,  and  to  that  verdure  flowers, 
To  flowers  sweet  odours,  and  to  odours  wings, 
That  carries  pleasures  to  the  hearts  of  kings. 

###### 
Now  comes  my  lover  tripping  like  the  roe, 
And  brings  my  longings  tangled  in  her  hair. 


14  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

To  'joy  her  love  I  '11  build  a  kingly  bower, 
Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams, 
That,  for  their  homage  to  her  sovereign  joys, 
Shall,  as  the  serpents  fold  into  their  nests, 
In  oblique  turnings  wind  the  nimble  waves 
About  the  circles  of  her  curious  walks, 
And  with  their  murmur  summon  easeful  sleep 
To  lay  his  golden  sceptre  on  her  brows. 

[There  is  more  of  the  same  stuff,  but  I  suppose  the  reader  has  a  sur 
feit ;  especially  as  this  Canticle  of  David  has  never  been  suspected  to 
contain  any  pious  sense  couched  underneath  it,  whatever  his  son's  may. 
— The  kingly  bower,  "  seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams,"  is  the 
best  of  it]. 


LUST'S  DOMINION,  OR  THE  LASCIVIOUS  QUEEN: 
A  TRAGEDY,  BY  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

The  Queen  Mother  of  Spain  loves  an  insolent  Moor1. 
QUEEN. — ELEAZAR,  the  Moor. 

Queen.  Chime  out  your  softest  strains  of  harmony, 
And  on  delicious  Music's  silken  wings 
Send  ravishing  delight  to  my  love's  ears ; 
That  he  may  be  enamour' d  of  your  tunes. 

~Eleaz.  Away,  away. 

Queen.  No,  no,  says  ay ;  and 'twice  away,  says  stay. 
Come,  come,  I  '11  have  a  kiss ;  but  if  you  '11  strive, 
For  one  denial  you  shall  forfeit  five. 

Eleaz.  Be  gone,  be  gone. 

Queen.  "What  means  my  love  ? 

Burst  all  those  wires  ;  burn  all  those  instruments ; 
For  they  displease  my  Moor.     Art  thou  now  pleased  ? 
Or  wert  thou  now  disturb' d  ?     I  '11  wage  all  Spain 
To  one  sweet  kiss,  this  is  some  new  device 
To  make  me  fond  and  long.     0,  you  men 
Have  tricks  to  make  poor  women  die  for  you. 

Eleaz.  What,  die  for  me  ?     away. 

Queen.  Away,  what  way  ?  I  prithee,  speak  more  kindly. 
"Why  dost  thou  frown  ?     at  whom  ? 

1  Such  another  as  Aaron  in  Titus  Andronicus. 


LTJST'S  DOMINION.  l£ 

Eleaz.  At  thee. 
Queen.  At  me  ? 

O,  why  at  me  ?    for  each  contracted  frown, 

A  crooked  wrinkle  interlines  my  brow : 

Spend  but  one  hour  in  frowns,  and  I  shall  look 

Like  to  a  beldam  of  one  hundred  years. 

I  prithee,  speak  to  me,  and  chide  me  not. 

I  prithee,  chide,  if  I  have  done  amiss ; 

But  let  my  punishment  be  this,  and  this. 

I  prithee,  smile  on  me,  if  but  a  while ; 

Then  frown  on  me,  I  '11  die :  I  prithee,  smile. 

Smile  on  me ;  and  these  two  wanton  boys, 

These  pretty  lads  that  do  attend  on  me, 

Shall  call  thee  Jove,  shall  wait  upon  thy  cup 

And  fill  thee  nectar :  their  enticing  eyes 

Shall  serve  as  crystal,  wherein  thou  mayst  see 

To  dress  thyself ;  if  thou  wilt  smile  on  me. 

Smile  on  me  ;  and  with  coronets  of  pearl 

And  bells  of  gold,  circling  their  pretty  arms, 

In  a  round  ivory  fount  these  two  shall  swim, 

And  dive  to  make  thee  sport : 

Bestow  one  smile,  one  little  little  smile, 

And  in  a  net  of  twisted  silk  and  gold 

In  my  all-naked  arms  thyself  shalt  lie. 

[Kit  Marlowe,  as  old  Isaac  Walton  assures  us,  made  that  smooth 
song  which  begins  "  Come  lire  with  me  and  be  my  lore."  The  same 
romantic  invitations  "  in  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten,"  are  given  by  the 
queen  in  the  play,  and  the  lover  in  the  ditty.  He  talks  of  "  beds  of 
roses,  buckles  of  gold  :" 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat, 

As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 

Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 

Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  lines  in  the  extract  have  a  luscious  smoothness  in  them,  and  they 
were  the  most  temperate  which  I  could  pick  out  of  this  Play.  The  rest 
is  in  King  Cambyses'  vein ;  rape,  and  murder,  and  superlatives ;  "  huffing 
braggart  puft"  lines*  such  as  the  play-  writers  anterior  to  Shakspeare  are 
fuH  of,  and  Pistol  "  but  coldly  imitates." — Blood  is  made  as  hght  of  in 
some  of  these  old  dramas  as  money  in  a  modern  sentimental  comedy ; 

*  Take  a  specimen  from  a  speech  of  the  Moor's  : — 
Now  Tragedy,  thou  minion  of  the  night, 
Bhamnusia's  pue-fellow,  to  thee  I  '11  sing 


16  CHBISTOPHER  MAKLOWE. 

and  as  this  is  given  away  till  it  reminds  us  that  it  is  nothing  but  counters, 
so  that  is  spilt  till  it  affects  us  no  more  than  its  representative,  the  paint 
of  the  property-man  in  the  theatre. 

Upon  a  harp  made  of  dead  Spanish  bones, 
The  proudest  instrument  the  world  affords  ; 
When  thou  in  crimson  jollity  shalt  bathe 
Thy  limbs,  as  black  as  mine,  in  springs  of  blood 
Still  gushing  from  the  conduit  head  of  Spain. 
To  thee  that  never  blushest,  though  thy  cheeks 
Are  full  of  blood,  O  Saint  Revenge,  to  thee 
I  consecrate  my  murders,  all  my  stabs, 
My  bloody  labours,  tortures,  stratagems, 
The  volume  of  all  wounds  that  wound  from  me ; 
Mine  is  the  Stage,  thine  is  the  Tragedy. 


TAMBURLAINE  THE  GREAT;  OR  THE  SCYTHIAN  SHEP 
HERD.  IN  TWO  PARTS.  BY  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 
PART  THE  FIRST. 

Tambwrlaine *s  person  described. 
Of  stature  tall,  and  straightly  fashioned ; 
Like  his  desire,  lift1  upwards,  and  divine. 
So  large  of  limbs,  his  joints  so  strongly  knit, 
Such  breadth  of  shoulders,  as  might  mainly  bear 
Old  Atlas'  burthen.     Twixt  his  manly  pitch 
A  pearl  more  worth  than  all  the  world  is  placed : 
"Wherein,  by  curious  soverainty  of  art, 
Are  fix'd  his  piercing  instruments  of  sight ; 
Whose  fiery  circles  bear  encompassed 
A  heaven  of  heavenly  bodies  in  their  spheres : 
That  guides  his  steps  and  actions  to  the  throne 
Where  Honour  sits  invested  royally. 
Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion 
Thirsting  with  soverainty  and  love  of  arms. 
His  lofty  brows  in  folds  do  figure  death ; 
And  in  their  smoothness  amity  and  life. 
About  them  hangs  a  knot  of  amber  hair, 
Wrapped  in  curls,  as  fierce  Achilles'  was ; 
On  which  the  breath  of  heaven  delights  to  piay, 

i  Lifted. 


TAMBUELAINE  THE  GBEAT.  17 

Making  it  dance  with  wanton  majesty. 
His  armes  long,  his  fingers  snowy-white, 
Betokening  valour  and  excess  of  strength ; 
In  every  part  proportion' d  like  the  man 
Should  make  the  world  subdue  to  Tamburlaine. 

Sis  custom  in  war. 

The  first  day  when  he  pitcheth  down  his  tents, 
"White  is  their  hue ;  and  on  his  silver  crest 
A  snowy  feather  spangled  white  he  bears ; 
To  signify  the  mildness  of  his  mind, 
That,  satiate  with  spoil,  refuseth  blood : 
But  when  Aurora  mounts  the  second  time, 
As  red  as  scarlet  is  his  furniture ; 
Then  must  his  kindled  wrath  be  quench'd  with  blood, 
Not  sparing  any  that  can  manage  arms : 
But  if  these  threats  move  not  submission, 
Black  are  his  colours,  black  pavilion, 
His  spear,  his  shield,  his  horse,  his  armour,  plumes, 
And  jetty  feathers,  menace  death  and  hell ; 
"Without  respect  of  sex,  degree  ,or  age, 
He  raseth  all  his  foes  with  fire  and  sword. 

[I  had  the  same  difficulty  (or  rather  much,  more)  in  culling  a  few  sane 
lines  from  this  as  from  the  preceding  Play.  The  lunes  of  Tamburlaine 
are  perfect  "  midsummer  madness."  Nebuchadnezzar's  are  mere  modest 
pretensions  compared  with  the  thundering  vaunts  of  this  Scythian  Shep 
herd.  He  comes  in  (in  the  second  part)  drawn  by  conquered  kings,  and 
reproaches  these  pamper' d  Jades  of  Asia  that  they  can  draw  but  twenty 
miles  a  day.  Till  I  saw  .this  passage  with  my  own  eyes,  I  never  believed 
that  it  was  anything  more  than  a  pleasant  burlesque  of  Mine  Ancient's. 
But  I  assure  my  readers  that  it  is  soberly  set  down  in  a  Play  which  their 
ancestors  took  to  be  serious.  I  have  subjoined  the  genuine  speech  for 
their  amusement.  Enter  Tamburlaine,  drawn  in  his  chariot  by  Trebizon 
and  Soria,  with  bits  in  their  mouths,  reins  in  his  left  hand,  in  his  right 
hand  a  whip,  with  which  he  scourgeth  them. 

Tomb.  Holla  ye  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia : 

What  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a  day, 
And  have  so  proud  a  chariot  at  your  heels, 
And  stich  a  coachman  as  great  Tamburlaine  ? 
But  from  Asphaltis,  where  I  conquer' d  you, 
To  Byron  here,  where  thus  I  honour  you  ? 
The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven. 
And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils, 
Making  their  fiery  gate  above  the  clouds, 

0 


18  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

i  • 

Are  not  so  honour' d  in  their  governor 

As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine. 

The  headstrong  jades  of  Thrace  Alcides  tamed, 

That  King  Egeus  fed  with  human  flesh, 

And  made  so  wanton  that  they  knew  their  strengths, 

Were  not  subdued  with  valour  more  divine, 

Than  you  by  this  unconquer'd  arm  of  mine. 

To  make  you  fierce  and  fit  my  appetite, 

You  shall  be  fed  with  flesh  as  raw  as  blood, 

And  drink  in  pails  the  strongest  muscadel : 

If  you  can  live  with  it,  then  live  and  draw 

My  chariot  swifter  than  the  racking  clouds  : 

If  not,  then  die  like  beasts,  and  fit  for  naught 

But  perches  for  the  black  and  fatal  ravens. 

Thus  am  I  right  the  scourge  of  highest  Jove.     &c.] 


EDWAED  THE  SECOND :  A  TEAGEDY,  BY  CHEISTOPHEE 
MAELOWE. 

Gaveston  shows  ivhat  pleasures  those  are  which  the  king  chieflty  delights  in. 

Gav.  I  must  have  wanton  poets,  pleasant  wits, 
Musicians,  that  with  touching  of  a  string 
May  draw  the  pliant  king  which  way  I  please. 
Music  and  poetry  are  his  delight ; 
Therefore  I  '11  have  Italian  masks  by  night, 
Sweet  speeches,  comedies,  and  pleasing  shows ; 
And  in  the  day,  when  he  shall  walk  abroad, 
Like  sylvan  nymphs  my  pages  shall  be  clad ; 
My  men,  like  satyrs  grazing  on  the  lawns, 
Shall  with  their  goat-feet  dance  the  antic  hay. 
Sometimes  a  lovely  boy  in  Dian's  shape, 
With  hair  that  gilds  the  water  as  it  glides, 
Crownets  of  pearl  about  his  naked  arms, 
And  in  his  sportful  hands  an  olive  tree 
To  hide  those  parts  which  men  delight  to  see, 
Shall  bathe  him  in  a  spring,  and  there  hard  by, 
One  like  Acteon,  peeping  through  the  grove, 
Shall  by  the  angry  goddess  be  transform' d, 
And  running  in  the  likeness  of  a  hart, 
By  yelping  hounds  pull'd  down,  shall  seem  to  die ; 
Such  things  as  these  best  please  his  majesty. 


EDWAED  THE  SECOND.  19 

The  younger  Mortimer  repines  at  the  insolence  of  Gaveston. 
Mort.  sen.  Nephew,  I  must  to  Scotland,  thou  stay'st  here. 

Leave  now  to  oppose  thyself  against  the  king 

Thou  seest  by  nature  he  is  mild  and  calm, 

And  seeing  his  mind  so  doats  on  Gaveston, 

Let  him  without  controlment  have  his  will. 

The  mightiest  kings  have  had  their  minions : 

Great  Alexander  loved  Hephestion ; 

The  conquering  Hercules  for  his  Hylas  wept, 

And  for  Patroclus  stern  Achilles  droop'd. 

And  not  kings  only,  but  the  wisest  men ; 

The  Roman  Tully  loved  Octavius ; 

Grave  Socrates  wild  Alcibiades. 

Then  let  his  grace,  whose  youth  is  flexible, 

And  promiseth  as  much  as  we  can  wish, 

Freely  enjoy  that  vain  light-headed  earl, 

For  riper  years  will  wean  him  from  such  toys. 
Mort.  jim.  Uncle,  his  wanton  humour  grieves  not  me ; 
But  this  I  scorn,  that  one  so  basely  born, 

Should  by  his  sovereign's  favour  grow  so  pert, 
And  riot  with  the  treasure  of  the  realm. 
"While  soldiers  mutiny  for  want  of  pay, 
He  wears  a  lord's  revenue  on  his  back, 
And  Midas-like,  he  jets  it  in  the  court, 
With  base  outlandish  cullions  at  his  heels, 
Whose  proud  fantastic  liveries  make  such  show, 
As  if  that  Proteus,  god  of  shapes,  appear' d. 
I  have  not  seen  a  dapper  jack  so  brisk"; 
He  wears  a  short  Italian  hooded  cloak, 
Larded  with  pearl,  and  in  his  Tuscan  cap 
A  jewel  of  more  value  than  the  crown. 
Wnile  others  walk  below,  the  king  and  he, 
Prom  out  of  window,  laugh  at  such  as  we, 
And  flout  our  train,  and  jest  at  our  attire. 
Uncle,  'tis  this  that  makes  me  impatient. 

The  barons  reproach  the  king  with  the  calamities  which  the  realm  endures 
from  the  ascendency  of  his  wicked  favourite,  Gaveston. 

KING  EDWAED,  LANCASTEE,  WAEWICK,  the  MOBTIMEBS, 

and  other  Lords. 

.  jun.  Nay,  stay,  my  lord,  I  come  to  bring  you  news. 
Mine  uncle  is  taken  prisoner  by  the  Scots. 

o2 


20  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


Then  ransom  him. 
Lan.  'Twas  in  your  wars  ;  you  should  ransom  him. 
Mort.  jun.  And  you  shall  ransom  him,  or  else  — 
Kent.  What,  Mortimer,  you  will  not  threaten  him  ? 
Edw.  Quiet  yourself',  you  shall  have  the  broad  seal, 

To  gather  for  him  throughout  the  realm. 
Lan.  Your  minion  Graveston  hath  taught  you  this. 
Mort.  jun.  My  lord,  the  family  of  the  Mortimers 

Are  not  so  poor,  but  would  they  sell  their  land, 

Could  levy  men  enough  to  anger  you. 

We  never  beg,  but  use  such  prayers  as  these. 
Edw.  Shall  I  still  be  haunted  thus  ? 

Mort.  jun.  Nay,  now  you  are  here  alone,  I  '11  speak  my  mind. 
Lan.  And  so  will  I,  and  then,  my  lord,  farewell. 
Mort.  The  idle  triumphs,  masks,  lascivious  shows, 

And  prodigal  gifts  bestow'  d  on  Graveston, 

Have  drawn  thy  treasure  dry,  and  made  thee  weak  ; 

The  murmuring  commons,  overstretched,  break. 
Lan.  Look  for  rebellion,  look  to  be  deposed  ;        . 

Thy  garrisons  are  beaten  out  of  Trance, 

And  lame  and  poor  lie  groaning  at  the  gates. 

The  wild  Oneyle,  with  swarms  of  Irish  kerns, 

Live  uncontrol'd  within  the  English  pale. 

Unto  the  walls  of  York  the  Scots  make  road, 

And  unresisted  draw  away  rich  spoils. 
Mort.  jun.  The  haughty  Dane  commands  the  narrow  seas, 

"While  in  the  harbour  ride  thy  ships  unrigg'd. 
Lan.  What  foreign  prince  sends  thee  ambassadors  ? 
Mort.  Who  loves  thee  but  a  sort  of  flatterers  ? 
Lan.  Thy  gentle  queen,  sole  sister  to  Valois, 

Complains,  that  thou  hast  left  her  all  forlorn. 
Mort   Thy  court  is  naked,  being  bereft  of  those 

That  make  a  king  seem  glorious  to  the  world  : 

I  mean  the  peers,  whom  thou  shouldst  dearly  love. 

Libels  are  cast  against  thee  in  the  street  : 

Ballads  and  rhymes  made  of  thy  overthrow. 
Lan.  The  Northern  brothers,  seeing  their  houses  burnt, 

Their  wives  and  children  slain,  run  up  and  down 

Cursing  the  name  of  thee  and  Gaveston. 
Mort.  When  wert  thou  in  the  field  with  banner  spread  ? 

But  once  :  and  then  thy  soldiers  march'  d  like  players, 

With  garish  robes,  not  armovr  •  **»«?  thvself 


EDWARD  THE  SECOND.  '  21 

Bedaub 'd  with  gold,  rode  laughing  at  the  rest, 

Nodding  and  shaking  of  thy  spangled  crest, 

Where  women's  favours  hung  like  labels  down. 
Lan.  And  thereof  came  it,  that  the  fleering  Scots, 

To  England's  high  disgrace,  have  made  this  jig : — 

Maids  of  England,  sore  may  you  moorn, 

For  your  lemmons  you  have  lost  at  Bennoctfs  lorn, 

With  a  heave  and  a  ho. 

What  weened  the  king  of  England, 

So  soon  to  have  woon  Scotland, 

With  a  rombelow  ? 
Mort.  Wigmore1  shall  fly  to  set  my  uncle  free. 
Lan.  And  when  'tis  gone,  our  swords  shall  purchase  more. 

If  ye  be  moved,  revenge  it  as  you  can ; 

Look  next  to  see  us  with  our  ensigns  spread. 

[Exeunt  nobles. 

The  Tdng  "being  deposed,  surrenders  his  crown  into  the  hands  of  the  bishop 
of  Winchester  and  the  earl  of  Leicester  at  Killing-worth  Castle. 

Leic.  Be  patient,  good  my  lord,  cease  to  lament, 
Imagine  Kiltingworth  castle  were  your  court, 
And  that  you  lay  for  pleasure  here  a  space, 
Not  of  compulsion  or  necessity. 

Edw.  Leicesster,  if  gentle  words  might  comfort  me, 
Thy  speeches  long  ago  had  eased  my  sorrows  ; 
For  kind  and  loving  hast  thou  always  been. 
The  griefs  of  private  men  are  soon  allay 'd, 
But  not  of  kings.     The  forest  deer  being  struck, 
Runs  to  a  herb  that  closeth  up  the  wounds ; 
But  when  the  imperial  lion's  flesh  is  gored, 
He  rends  and  tears  it  with  his  wrathful  paw, 
And  highly  scorning  that  the  lowly  earth 
Should  drink  his  blood,  mounts  up  to  the  air. 
And  so  it  fares  with  me,  whose  dauntless  mind 
The  ambitious  Mortimer  would  seek  to  curb, 
And  that  unnatural  queen,  false  Isabel, 
That  thus  hath  pent  and  mew'd  me  in  a  prison : 
For  such  outrageous  passions  claw  my  soul, 
As  with  the  wings  of  rancour  and  disdain 
Full  oft  am  I  soaring  up  to  high  heaven, 

1  A  principal  manor  belonging  to  the  Mortimers. 


22  CHEISTOPHEK  MAELOWE. 

To  'plain  me  to  the  gods  against  them  both. 
But  when  1  call  to  mind  I  am  a  king, 
Methinks  I  should  revenge  me  of  the  wrongs, 
That  Mortimer  and  Isabel  have  done. 
But  what  are  kings,  when  regiment  is  gone, 
But  perfect  shadows  in  a  sunshine  day  ? 
My  nobles  rule,  I  bear  the  name  of  king ; 
I  wear  the  crown,  but  am  control' d  by  them, 
By  Mortimer,  and  my  unconstant  queen, 
"Who  spots  my  nuptial  bed  with  infamy ; 
Whilst  I  am  lodged  within  this  cave  of  care, 
Where  sorrow  at  my  elbow  still  attends, 
To  company  my  heart  with  sad  laments, 
That  bleeds  within  me  for  this  strange  exchange. 
But  tell  me,  must  I  now  resign  my  crown, 
To  make  usurping  Mortimer  a  king  ? 

Bish.  Tour  grace  mistakes  ;  it  is  for  England's  good, 
And  princely  Edward's  right,  we  crave  the  crown. 

Edw.  No,  'tis  for  Mortimer,  not  Edward's  head; 
For  he 's  a  lamb,  encompassed  by  wrolves, 
Which  in  a  moment  will  abridge  his  life. 
But  if  proud  Mortimer  do  wear  this  crown, 
Heavens  turn  it  to  a  blaze  of  quenchless  fire, 
Or  like  the  snaky  wreath  of  Tisiphon, 
Engirt  the  temples  of  his  hateful  head ; 
So  shall  not  England's  vines  be  perished, 
But  Edward's  name  survive,  though  Edward  dies. 

Leic.  My  lord,  why  waste  you  thus  the  time  away  ? 

They  stay  your  answer :  will  you  yield  your  crown  ? 

Edw.  Ah,  Leicester,  weigh  how  hardly  I  can  brook 
To  lose  my  crown  and  kingdom  without  cause ; 
To  give  ambitious  Mortimer  my  right, 
That  like  a  mountain  overwhelms  my  bliss, 
In  which  extreme  my  mind  here  murder' d  is. 
But  what  the  Heavens  appoint,  I  must  obey. 
Here,  take  my  crown ;  the  life  of  Edward  too ; 
Two  kings  in  England  cannot  reign  at  once — 
But  stay  awhile,  let  me  be  king  till  night, 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  this  glittering  crown ; 
So  shall  my  eyes  receive  their  last  content, 
My  head  the  latest  honour  due  to  it, 


THE  SECOND.  23 

And  jointly  both  yield  up  their  wished  right. 

Continue  ever,  thou  celestial  sun  ; 

Let  never  silent  night  possess  this  clime  j 

Stand  still,  you  watches  of  the  element ; 

All  times  and  seasons,  rest  you  at  a  stay, 

That  Edward  may  be  still  fair  England's  king. 

But  day's  bright  beam  doth  vanish  fast  away, 

And  needs  I  must  resign  my  wished  crown. 

Inhuman  creatures  !  nursed  with  tigers'  milk ! 

"Why  gape  you  for  your  sovereign's  overthrow  ? 

My  diadem  I  mean,  and  guiltless  life. 

See,  monsters,  see,  I  '11  wear  my  crown  again. 

"What,  fear  you  not  the  fury  of  your  king  ? 

But,  hapless  Edward,  thou  art  fondly  led ; 

They  pass  not  for  thy  frowns  as  late  they  did, 

But  seek  to  make  a  new-elected  king ; 

"Which  fills  my  mind  with  strange  despairing  thoughts, 

"Which  thoughts  are  martyred  with  endless  torments, 

And  in  this  torment  comfort  find  I  none, 

But  that  I  feel  the  crown  upon  my  head ; 

And  therefore  let  me  wear  it  yet  awhile. 
Mess.  My  lord,  the  parliament  must  have  present  news, 

And  therefore  say,  will  you  resign  or  no  ?    • 
Edw.  I  '11  not  resign !  but  whilst  I  live,  be  king. 

Traitors  be  gone,  and  join  with  Mortimer. 

Elect,  conspire,  install,  do  what  you  will ; 

Their  blood  and  yours  shall  seal  these  treacheries ! 
Bisli.  This  answer  we  '11  return,  and  so  farewell. 
Leic.  Call  them  again,  my  lord,  and  speak  them  fair ; 

Por  if  they  go,  the  prince  shall  lose  his  right. 
~Edw.  Call  thou  them  back ;  I  have  no  power  to  speak. 
%eic.  My  lord,  the  king  is  willing  to  resign. 
Bish.  If  he  be  not,  let  him  choose. 
JEdw.  0,  would  I  might !  but  heaven  and  earth  conspire 

To  make  me  miserable !  here,  receive  my  crown ; 

Receive  it  ?  no,  these  innocent  hands  of  mine 

Shall  not  be  guilty  of  so  foul  a  crime. 

He  of  you  all  that  most  desires  my  blood, 

And  will  be  call'd  the  murderer  of  a  king, 

Take  it.     What,  are  you  moved  ?  pity  you  me  ? 

Then  send  for  unrelenting  Mortimer, 


24  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

And  Isabel,  whose  eyes,  being  turn'd  to  steel, 
Will  sooner  sparkle  fire  than  shed  a  tear. 
Yet  stay,  for  rather  than  I  will  look  on  them, 
Here,  here :  now  sweet  God  of  heaven, 
Make  me  despise  this  transitory  pomp, 
And  sit  for  ever  enthronized  in  heaven ! 
Come  death,  and  with  thy  fingers  close  my  eyes, 
Or  if  I  live,  let  me  forget  myself. 

Berkley  Castle.     The  Icing  is  left  alone  with  Lightborn,  a  murderer. 

Edw.  "Who  's  there  ?  what  light  is  that  ?  wherefore  comest 
thou? 

Light.  To  comfort  you,  and  bring  you  joyful  news. 

~Edw.  Small  comfort  finds  poor  Edward  in  thy  looks. 
Villain,  I  know  thou  comest  to  murder  me. 

Light.  To  murder  you,  my  most  gracious  lord  ? 
Par  is  it  from  my  heart  to  do  you  harm. 
The  queen  sent  me  to  see  how  you  were  used, 
For  she  relents  at  this  your  misery : 
And  what  eyes  can  refrain  from  shedding  tears, 
To  see  a  king  in  this  most  piteous  state  ? 

jEtfttf.  Weep'st  thou  already  ?  list  awhile  to  me, 
And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Grurney's1  is, 
Or  as  Matrevis '  \  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 
Yet  will  it  melt,  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 
This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me  is  a  sink 
Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 

Jjight.  O  villains ! 

Edw.  And  there,  in  mire  and  puddle  have  I  stood 

This  ten  days'  space ;  and  lest  that  I  should  sleep, 
One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum. 
They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king ; 
So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 
My  mind 's  distemper' d,  and  my  body  's  numb'd, 
And  whether  I  have  limbs  or  no,  I  know  not. 
O,  would  my  blood  drop  out  from  every  vein, 
As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter' d  robes ! 
Tell  Isabel  the  queen,  I  look'd  not  thus, 
When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 
And  there  unhorsed  the  duke  of  Cleremont. 
1  His  keepers. 


EDWARD  THE  SECOND.  25 

Light.  0,  speak  no  more,  my  lord !  this  breaks  my  heart. 

Lie  on  this  bed,  and  rest  yourself  awhile. 
Edw.  These  looks  of  thine  can  harbour  naught  but  death : 

I  see  my  tragedy  written  in  thy  brows. 

Yet  stay  awhile,  forbear  thy  bloody  hand, 

And  let  me  see  the  stroke  before  it  comes, 

That  even  then  when  I  shall  lose  my  life, 

My  mind  may  be  more  steadfast  on  my  God. 
Light.  What  means  your  highness  to  mistrust  me  thus  ? 
Edw.  What  mean'st  thou  to  dissemble  with  me  thus  ? 
Light.  These  hands  were  never  stain' d  with  innocent  blood, 

Nor  shall  they  now  be  tainted  with  a  king's. 
Edw.  Forgive  my  thought,  for  having  such  a  thought. 

One  jewel  have  I  left,  receive  thou  this. 

Still  fear  I,  and  I  know  not  what 's  the  cause, 

But  every  joint  shakes  as  I  give  it  thee. 

O,  if  thou  harbour' st  murder  in  thy  heart, 

Let  this  gift  change  thy  mind,  and  save  thy  soul. 

Know  that  I  am  a  king :  O,  at  that  name 

I  feel  a  hell  of  grief.     Where  is  my  crown  ? 

Grone,  gone,  and  do  I  still  remain  alive  ? 
Light.  Ton  're  overwatch'd,  my  lord ;  lie  down  and  rest. 
Hdw.  But  that  grief  keeps  me  waking,  I  should  sleep ; 

For  not  these  ten  days  have  these  eyelids  closed. 

Now  as  I  speak  they  fall,  and  yet  with  fear 

Open  again.     O,  wherefore  sitt'st  thou  here  ? 
Light.  If  you  mistrust  me,  I  '11  be  gone,  my  lord. 
JEdw.  No,  no,  for  if  thou  mean'st  to  murder  me, 

Thou  wilt  return  again ;  and  therefore  stay. 
Light.  He  sleeps. 

JSdw.  0,  let  me  not  die ;  yet  stay,  0,  stay  awhile. 
Light.  How  now,  my  lord  ? 
Edw.  Something  still  buzzeth  in  mine  ears, 

And  tells  me  if  I  sleep  I  never  wake ; 

This  fear  is  that  which  makes  me  tremble  thus. 

And  therefore  tell  me,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ? 
Light.  To  rid  thee  of  thy  life ;  Matrevis,  come. 
JEdw.  I  am  too  weak  and  feeble  to  resist : 

Assist  me,  sweet  G-od,  and  receive  my  soul. 

[This  tragedy  is  in  a  very  different  style  from  "mighty  Tamburlaine.1' 
The  reluctant  pangs  of  abdicating  royalty  in  Edward  furnished  hints 


26  CHEISTOPHEE  MABLOWE. 

which  Shakspeare  scarce  improved  in  his  Richard  the  Second ;  and  the 
death-scene  of  Marlowe's  king  moves  pity  and  terror  beyond  any  scene 
ancient  or  modern  with  which  I  am  acquainted.] 


THE  EICH  JEW  OF  MALTA,  A  TRAGEDY: 
BY  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

Barabas  the  rich  Jew  in  his  counting-house,  with  heaps  of  gold  before 
him;  in  contemplation  of  his  wealth. 

Bar.  So  that  of  thus  much  that  return  was  made  ; 
And  of  the  third  part  of  the  Persian  ships 
There  was  a- venture  summ'd  and  satisfied. 
As  for  those  Samnites,  and  the  men  of  Uzz, 
That  bought  my  Spanish  oils  and  wines  of  Greece, 
Here  have  I  purst  their  paltry  sil  verb  ings. 
Pie,  what  a  trouble  'tis  to  count  this  trash ! 
Well  fare  the  Arabians,  who  so  richly  pay 
The  things  they  traffic  for  with  wedge  of  gold, 
Whereof  a  man  may  easily  in  a  day 
Tell  that,  which  may  maintain  him  all  his  life. 
The  needy  groom,  that  never  finger' d  groat, 
Would  make  a  miracle  of  thus  much  coin : 
But  he  whose  steel-barr'd  coffers  are  cramm'd  full, 
And  all  his  life-time  hath  been  tired, 
Wearying  his  fingers'  ends  with  telling  it, 
Woul'd  in  his  age  be  loth  to  labour  so, 
And  for  a  pound  to  sweat  himself  to  death. 
Give  me  the  merchants  of  the  Indian  mines, 
Thatftrade  in  metal  of  the  purest  mould ; 
The  wealthy  Moor,  that  in  the  eastern  rocks 
Without  control  can  pick  his  riches  up, 
And  in  his  house  heap  pearl  like  pebble-stones ; 
Eeceive  them  free  and  sell  them  by  the  weight, 
Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 
Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds, 
Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds, 
And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price, 
As  one  of  them,  indifferently  rated, 
And  of  a  caract  of  this  quality, 


THE  RICH  JEW  OE  MALTA.  27 

May  serve  in  peril  of  calamity 

To  ransom  great  kings  from  captivity. 

This  is  the  ware  wherein  consists  my  wealth : 

And  thus  methinks  should  men  of  judgment  frame 

Their  means  of  traffic  from  the  vulgar  trade, 

And,  as  their  wealth  increaseth,  so  enclose 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 

But  now  how  stands  the  wind  ? 

Into  what  corner  peers  my  Halcyon's  bill  ? 

Ha !  to  the  east  ?  yes :  see,  how  stand  the  vanes  ? 

East  and  by  south :  why  then,  I  hope  my  ships, 

I  sent  for  Egypt  and  the  bordering  isles, 

Are  gotten  up  by  JSTilus'  winding  banks. 

Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria, 

Laden  with  spice  and  silks,  now  under  sail, 

Are  smoothly  gliding  down  by  Candy  shore 

To  Malta,  through  our  Mediterranean  sea. 

Certain  merchants  enter  and  inform  JSarabas,  that  Ms  ships  from,  various 
ports  are  safe  arrived,  and  riding  in  Malta  roads.  He  descants  on 
the  temporal  condition  of  the  Jews,  how  they  thrive  and  attain  to  great 

*  worldly  prosperity,  in  spite  of  the  curse  denounced  against  them. 

Thus  trolls  our  fortune  in  by  land  and  sea, 
And  thus  are  we  on  every  side  enrich' d. 
These  are  the  blessings  promised  to  the  Jews,. 
And  herein  was  old  Abram's  happiness. 
What  more  may  Heaven  do  for  earthly  man, 
Than  thus  to  pour  out  plenty  in  their  laps, 
Ripping  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  them, 
Making  the  sea  their  servants,  and  the  winds 
To  drive  their  substance  with  successful  blasts  ? 
Who  hateth  me  but  for  my  happiness  ? 
Or  who  is  honour 'd  now  but  for  his  wealth  ? 
Rather  had  I,  a  Jew,  be  hated  thus, 
Than  pitied  in  a  Christian  poverty : 
Eor  I  can  see  no  fruits  in  all  their  faith, 
But  malice,  falsehood,  and  excessive  pride, 
Which  methinks  fits  not  their  profession. 
Haply  some  hapless  man  hath  conscience, 
And  for  his  conscience  lives  in  beggary. 
They  say  we  are  a  scatter 'd  nation : 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  we  have  scambled  up 


28  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

More  wealth  by  far  than  those  that  brag  of  faith. 

There  's  Kirriah  Jairim,  the  great  Jew  of  Greece, 

Obed  in  Bairseth,  Nones  in  Portugal, 

Myself  in  Malta,  some  in  Italy, 

Many  in  France,  and  wealthy  every  one : 

Ay,  wealthier  far  than  any  Christian. 

I  must  confess,  we  come  not  to  be  kings ; 

That 's  not  our  fault ;  alas,  our  number  's  few ; 

And  crowns  come  either  by  succession, 

Or  urged  by  force ;  and  nothing  violent, 

Oft  have  I  heard  tell,  can  be  permanent. 

Give  us  a  peaceful  rule ;  make  Christians  kings, 

That  thirst  so  much  for  principality. 

[Marlowe's  Jew  does  not  approach  so  near  to  Shakspeare's,  as  his 
Edward  II.  does  to  Richard  II.  Shylock  in  the  midst  of  his  savage 
purpose  is  a  man.  His  motives,  feelings,  resentments,  have  something 
human  in  them.  "  If  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?"  Barabas 
is  a  mere  monster  brought  in  with  a  large  painted  nose  to  please  the 
rabble.  He  kills  in  sport,  poisons  whole  nunneries,  invents  infernal  ma 
chines.  He  is  just  such  an  exhibition  as  a  century  or  two  earlier  might 
have  been  played  before  the  Londoners,  by  the  Royal  Command,  when  a 
general  pillage  and  massacre  of  the  Hebrews  had  been  previously  resolved 
on  in  the  cabinet.  It  is  curious  to  see  a  superstition  wearing  out.  The 
idea  of  a  Jew  (which  our  pious  ancestors  contemplated  with  such  horror) 
has  nothing  in  it  now  revolting.  We  have  tamed  the  claws  of  the  beast, 
and  pared  its  nails,  and  now  we  take  it  to  our  arms,  fondle  it,  write  plays 
to  flatter  it :  it  is  visited  by  princes,  affects  a  taste,  patronizes  the  arts, 
and  is  the  only  liberal  and  gentlemanlike  thing  in  Christendom.] 


THE  TEAGICAL  HISTOEY  OP  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 

DOCTOE  FAUSTUS :  BY  CHEISTOPHEE  MAELOWE. 

How  Faitstusfell  to  the  study  of  magic. 


born  of  parents  base  of  stock 

,     •i.'U'         „    J-~_  ^,«11',]    ~DT 3 


In  Germany,  within  a  town  call'd  Rhodes : 

At  riper  years  to  Wirtemberg  he  went, 

"Whereas  his  kinsmen  chiefly  brought  him  up. 

So  much  he  profits  in  divinity, 

That  shortly  he  was  graced  with  Doctor's  name, 

Excelling  all,  and  sweetly  can  dispute 

In  the  heavenly  matters  of  theology : 


DOCTOB  FAUSTUS.  29 

Till  swoln  with  cunning  and  a  self-conceit, 
His  waxen  wings  did  mount  above  his  reach, 
And  melting,  heavens  conspired  his  overthrow : 
For  falling  to  a  devilish  exercise, 
And  glutted  now  with  Learning's  goldea.  gifts, 
He  surfeits  on  the  cursed  necromancy. 
Nothing  so  sweet  as  magic  is  to  him, 
"Which  he  prefers  before  his  chiefest  bliss. 

Faustus  in  Ms  study  runs  through  the  circle  of  the  sciences ;  and  'being 
satisfied  with  none  of  them,  determines  to  addict  himself  to  magic. 

Faust.  Settle  thy  studies,  Faustus,  and  begin 

To  sound  the  depth  of  that  thou  wilt  profess ; 

Having  commenced,  be  a  divine  in  show, 

Tet  level  at  the  end  of  every  art, 

And  live  and  die  in  Aristotle's  works. 

Sweet  Analytics,  'tis  thou  hast  ravish' d  me. 

Bene  disserere  est  finis  Logices. 

Is,  to  dispute  well,  Logic's  chiefest  end  ? 

Affords  this  art  no  greater  miracle  ? 

Then  read  no  more ;  thou  hast  attain' d  that  end. 

A  greater  subject  fitteth  Faustus'  wit. 

Bid  (Economy  farewell :  and  Galen  come. 

Be  a  physician,  Eaustus,  heap  up  gold, 

And  be  eternized  for  some  wondrous  cure. 

Summum  bonum  medicince  sanitas : 

The  end  of  physic  is  our  bodies'  health. 

Why,  Eaustus ;  hast  thou  not  attain' d  that  end  ? 

Are  not  thy  bills  hung  up  as  monuments, 

Whereby  whole  cities  have  escaped  the  plague, 

And  divers  desperate  maladies  been  cured  ? 

Tet  art  thou  still  but  Eaustus,  and  a  man. 

Couldst  thou  make  men  but  live  eternally, 

Or  being  dead  raise  men  to  life  again, 

Then  this  profession  were  to  be  esteem'd. 

Physic  farewell.     Where  is  Justinian  ? 

Si  una  eademque  res  legatur  duobus, 

Alter  rem,  alter  valorem  rei,  fyc. 

A  petty  case  of  paltry  legacies. 

ExhereditariJUium  non  potest  pater,  nisi,  SfC. 

Such  is  the  subject  of  the  Institute, 


30  CHEISTOPHEE  MAELOWE. 

And  universal  body  of  the  Law. 

This  study  fits  a  mercenary  drudge, 

"Who  aims  at  nothing  but  external  trash, 

Too  servile  and  illiberal  for  me. 

"When  all  is  done,  Divinity  is  best. 

Jerome's  bible,  Eaustus :  view  it  well. 

Stipendium  peccati  mors  est :  ha !  Stipendium,  fyc. 

The  reward  of  sin  is  death :  that 's  hard. 

Sipeccasse  negamus,fallimur,  et  nulla  est  in  nobis  veritas. 

If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves,  and 

there  is  no  truth  in  us. 

"Why  then  belike  we  must  sin,  and  so  consequently  die. 
Ay,  we  must  die  an  everlasting  death. 
What  doctrine  call  you  this  ?     Che,  sera,  sera : 
"What  will  be  shall  be.     Divinity  adieu. 
These  Metaphysics  of  Magicians, 
And  necromantic  books,  are  heavenly. 
Lines,  Circles.  Letters,  Characters : 
Ay,  these  are  those  that  Eaustus  most  desires. 

0  what  a  world  of  profit  and  delight, 
Of  power,  of  honour,  and  omnipotence, 
Is  promised  to  the  studious  artisan ! 

All  things  that  move  between  the  quiet  poles 
Shall  be  at  my  command.     Emperors  and  kings 
Are  but  obeyed  in  their  several  provinces ; 
But  his  dominion  that  exceeds  in  this, 
Stretcheth  as  far  as  doth  the  mind  of  man : 
A  sound  Magician  is  a  Demigod. 
Here  tire  my  brains  to  gain  a  deity. 
****** 
How  am  I  glutted  with  conceit  of  this ! 
Shall  I  make  Spirits  fetch  me  what  I  please  ? 
Resolve  me  of  all  ambiguities  ? 
Perform  what  desperate  enterprises  I  will  ? 

1  '11  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold, 
Bansack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl, 

And  search  all  corners  of  the  new-found  world 
For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates. 
I  '11  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy ; 
And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings : 
I  '11  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass, 


DOCTOB  rATJSTTJS.  31 

And  with  swift  Bhine  circle  all  Wirtemberg : 
I  '11  have  them  fill  the  public  schools  with  skill, 
"Wherewith  the  students  shall  be  bravely  clad : 
I  '11  levy  soldiers  with  the  coin  they  bring, 
And  chase  the  Prince  of  Parina  from  our  land ; 
And  reign  sole  king  of  all  the  provinces : 
Tea,  stranger  engines  for  the  brunt  of  war, 
Than  was  the  fiery  keel  at  Antwerp  bridge, 
I  '11  make  my  servile  Spirits  to  invent. 
Come,  German  Yaldes,  and  Cornelius, 
And  make  me  wise  with  your  sage  conference. 

Enter  YALDES  and  COBKELITJS. 

Faust.  Yaldes,  sweet  Yaldes,  and  Cornelius, 

Know  that  your  words  nave  won  me  at  the  last 
To  practise  Magic  and  concealed  Arts. 
Philosophy  is  odious  and  obscure : 
Both  Law  and  Physic  are  for  petty  wits : 
'Tis  Magic,  Magic,  that  hath  ravish' d  me. 
Then,  gentle  friends,  aid  me  in  this  attempt ; 
And  I,  that  have  with  subtile  syllogisms 
Gravel!' d  the  pastors  of  the  German  church, 
And  made  the  flowering  pride  of  Wirtemberg 
Swarm  to  my  problems,  as  the  infernal  Spirits 
On  sweet  Musaeus  when  he  came  to  hell, 
Will  be  as  cunning  as  Agrippa  was, 
Whose  shadow  made  all  Europe  honour  him. 

Void.  Faustus,  these  books,  thy  wit,  and  our  experience, 
Shall  make  all  nations  canonize  us. 
As  Indian  Moors  obey  their  Spanish  lords, 
So  shall  the  Spirits  of  every  element 
Be  always  serviceable  to  us  three : 
Like  Lions  shall  they  guard  us  when  we  please ; 
Like  Almain  Butters  with  their  horsemen's  staves, 
Or  Lapland  giants  trotting  by  our  sides : 
Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids, 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  of  Love. 

Corn.  The  miracles  that  magic  will  perform, 
Will  make  thee  vow  to  study  nothing  else. 
He  that  is  grounded  in  astrology, 


o2  CHBISTOPHEB  MABLOWE. 

Enrich' d  with  tongues,  well  seen  in  minerals, 
Hath  all  the  principles  magic  doth  require. 

Faust.  Come  show  me  some  demonstrations  magical, 
That  I  may  conjure  in  some  bushy  grove, 
And  have  these  joys  in  full  possession. 

Void.  Then  haste  thee  to  some  solitary  grove, 
And  bear  wise  Bacon's  and  Albanus'  works, 
The  Hebrew  Psalter,  and  New  Testament ; 
And  whatsoever  else  is  requisite 
We  will  inform  thee,  ere  our  conference  cease. 

Faustus  "being  instructed,  in  the  elements  of  magic  ly  his  friends  Valdes 
and  Cornelius,  sells  his  soul  to  the  devil,  to  have  an  Evil  Spirit  at  his 
command  for  twenty-four  years. — When  the  years  are  expired,  the 
devils  claim  his  soul. 

FATJSTTJS,  the  night  of  his  death.     WAGNEK,  his  servant. 

Faust.  Say,  Wagner,  thou  hast  perused  my  will, 

How  dost  thou  like  it  ? 
Wag.  Sir,  so  wondrous  well, 

As  in  all  humble  duty  I  do  yield 

My  life  and  lasting  service  for  your  love.  [Exit. 

Three  Scholars  enter. 

Faust.  Grramercy,  Wagner. 

Welcome,  gentlemen 
First  Sch.  Now,  worthy  Faustus,  methinks  your  looks  are 

changed. 

Faust.  0,  gentlemen. 
Sec.  Sch.  What  ails  Faustus  ? 
Faust.  Ah,  my  sweet  chamber-fellow,  had  I  lived  with  thee, 

then  had  I  lived  still,  but  now  must  die  eternally.   Look, 

sirs,  comes  he  not  ?  comes  he  not  ? 
First  Sch.  O  my  dear  Faustus,  what  imports  this  fear  ? 
Sec.  Sch.  Is  all  our  pleasure  turn'd  to  melancholy  ? 
Third  Sch.  He  is  not  well  with  being  over-solitary. 
Sec.  Sch.  If  it  be  so,  we  will  have  physicians,  and  .Faustus 

shall  be  cured. 

Third  Sch.  'Tis  but  a  surfeit,  sir ;  fear  nothing. 
Faust.  A  surfeit  of  a  deadly  sin  that  hath  damn'd  both  body 

and  soul. 


DOCTOR  FATJSTTJS.  33 

Sec.  Sch.  Yet,  Eaustus,  look  up  to  heaven,  and  remember, 
mercy  is  infinite. 

Faust.  But  Eaustus'  offence,  can  ne'er  be  pardoned.  The 
serpent  that  tempted  Eve  may  be  saved,  but  not  Eaustus. 
0,  gentlemen,  hear  me  with  patience,  and  tremble  not 
at  my  speeches ;  though  my  heart  pant  and  quiver  to 
remember  that  I  have  been  a  student  here  these  thirty 
years.  0  would  I  had  ne'er  seen  Wirtemberg,  never 
read  book !  and  what  wonders  I  have  done,  all  Germany 
can  witness,  yea  all  the  world :  for  which,  Eaustus  hath 
lost  both  Germany  and  the  world,  yea  heaven  itself, 
heaven  the  seat  of  God,  the  throne  of  the  blessed,  the 
kingdom  of  joy,  and  must  remain  in  hell  for  ever.  Hell, 
0  hell,  for  ever.  Sweet  friends,  what  shall  become  of 
Eaustus  being  in  hell  for  ever  ? 

Sec.  Sch.  Yet,  Eaustus,  call  on  God. 

Faust.  On  God  whom  Eaustus  hath  abjured  ?  on  God  whom 
Eaustus  hath  blasphemed  ?  0  my  God,  I  would  weep, 
but  the  devil  draws  in  my  tears.  Gush  forth  blood  instead 
of  tears,  yea  life  and  soul.  O,  he  stays  my  tongue :  I 
would  lift  up  my  hands,  but  see,  they  hold  'em,  they 
hold  'em. 

Scholars.  Who,  Eaustus  ? 

Faust.  Why,  Lucifer  and  Mephostophilis.  O,  gentlemen,  I 
gave  them  my  soul  for  my  cunning. 

Scholars.  O  God  forbid. 

Faust.  God  forbid  it  indeed,  but  Eaustus  hath  done  it:  for 
the  vain  pleasure  of  four  and  twenty  years  hath  Eaustus 
lost  eternal  joy  and  felicity.  I  writ  them  a  bill  with 
mine  own  blood,  the  date  is  expired :  this  is  the  time, 
and  he  will  fetch  me. 

First  Sch.  Why  did  not  Eaustus  tell  us  of  this  before,  that 
divines  might  have  prayed  for  thee  ? 

Faust.  Oft  have  I  thought  to  have  done  so ;  but  the  devil 
threatened  to  tear  me  in  pieces  if  I  named  God ;  to  fetch 
me  body  and  soul  if  I  once  gave  ear  to  divinity :  and  now 
it  is  too  late.  Gentlemen,  away,  lest  you  perish  with 
me. 

Sec.  Sch.  O  what  may  we  do  to  save  Eaustus  ? 

Faust.  Talk  not  of  me,  but  save  yourselves  and  depart. 

Third  Sch.  God  will  strengthen  me ;  1  will  stay  with  Eaustus. 


54  CHE1STOPHEE  MARLOWE. 

First  Scli.  Tempt  not  God,  sweet  friend,  but  let  us  into  the 

next  room  and  pray  for  him. 
Faust.  Ay,  pray  for  me,  pray  for  me ;  and  what  noise  soever 

you  hear,  come  not  unto  me,  for  nothing  can  rescue  me. 
Sec.  Sch.  Pray  thou,  and  we  will  pray,  that  God  may  have 

mercy  upon  thee. 
Faust.  Gentlemen,  farewell ;  if  I  live  till  morning,  I  '11  visit 

you ;  if  not,  Faustus  is  gone  to  hell. 
Scholars.  Faustus,  farewell. 

FAUSTUS  alone.     The  clock  strikes  eleven. 

Faust.  0  Faustus, 

Now  hast  thou  hut  one  hare  hour  to  live, 

And  then  thou  must  he  damn'd  perpetually. 

Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 

That  time  may  cease  and  midnight  never  come. 

Pair  nature's  Eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 

Perpetual  day :  or  let  this  hour  he  hut 

A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 

That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 

O  lente  lente  currite  noctis  equi. 

The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 

The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  he  damn'd. 

O,  I  will  leap  to  heaven :  who  pulls  me  down  ? 

See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament : 

One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me :  O,  my  Christ, 

Bend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ. 

Yet  will  I  call  on  him :  0  spare  me,  Lucifer. 

"Where  is  it  now  ?  'tis  gone ; 

And  see,  a  threatening  arm,  and  angry  brow. 

Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me, 

And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven. 

No  ?  then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth : 

Gape  earth.     0  no,  it  will  not  harbour  me. 

You  stars  that  reign' d  at  my  nativity, 

Whose  influence  have  allotted  death  and  hell, 

Now  draw  up  Faustus  like  a  foggy  mist 

Into  the  entrails  of  yon  labouring  cloud ; 

That  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air, 

My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths, 

But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven. 


DOCTOE  FAUSTUS.  35 

The  watch  strikes. 

O  half  the  hour  is  past :  'twill  all  be  past  anon. 

O  if  my  soul  must  suffer  for  my  sin, 

Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain. 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 

A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  the  last  be  saved : 

No  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls. 

Whywert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul  ? 

Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast  ? 

O  Pythagoras'  Metempsychosis !  were  that  true, 

This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  changed 

Into  some  brutish  beast. 

AH  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die, 

Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  elements : 

But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 

Curst  be  the  parents  that  engender' d  me : 

No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer, 

That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

The  clock  strikes  twelve. 

It  strikes,  it  strikes ;  now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifei*  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 
O  soul,  be  changed  into  small  water  drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean ;  ne'er  be  found. 

Thunder,  and  enter  the  devils. 

0  mercy,  Heaven !  look  not  so  fierce  on  me. 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile : 
Ugly  hell  gape  not ;  come  not,  Lucifer : 

1  '11  burn  my  books :  0,  Mephostophilis ! 
******* 

Enter  Scholars. 

First  Sch.  Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  go  visit  Faustus, 
For  such  a  dreadful  night  was  never  seen 
Since  first  the  world's  creation  did  begin! 
Such  fearful  shrieks  and  cries  were  never  heard. 
Pray  heaven  the  Doctor  have  escaped  the  danger ! 

Sec.  Sch.  0  help  us  heavens,  see  here  are  Faustus'  limbs 
All  torn  asunder  by  the  hand  of  death. 

D2 


36  CHEISTOPHEfc  MABLOWE. 

Third  Sch.  The  devil  whom  Faustus  served  hath  torn  him 

thus: 

For  twixt  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one,  methought, 
I  heard  him  shriek  and  call  aloud  for  help  ; 
At  which  same  time  the  house  seem'd  all  on  fire 
With  dreadful  horror  of  these  damned  fiends. 

Sec.  Sck.  Well,  gentlemen,  though  Faustus'  end  be  such 
As  every  Christian  heart  laments  to  think  on  j 
Yet,  for  he  was  a  scholar  once  admired 
For  wondrous  knowledge  in  our  G-erman  schools, 
We  '11  give  his  mangled  limbs  due  burial ; 
And  all  the  scholars,  clothed  in  mourning  black, 
Shall  wait  upon  his  heavy  funeral. 

Oliorus.  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man : 
Faustus  is  gone.     Regard  his  hellish  fall, 
Whose  fiendful  fortune  may  exhort  the  wise 
Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things : 
Whose  deepness  doth  entice  such  forward  wits 
To  practise  more  than  heavenly  power  permits. 

[Tlie  growing  horrors  of  Faustus  are  awfully  marked  by  the  hours  and 
half-hours  as  they  expire  and  bring  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  exact- 
ment  of  his  dire  compact.  It  is  indeed  an  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 

Marlowe  is  said  to  hare  been  tainted  with  atheistical  positions,  to  have 
denied  God  and  the  Trinity.  To  such  a  genius  the  History  of  Faustus 
must  have  been  delectable  food :  to  wander  in  fields  where  curiosity  is 
forbidden  to  go,  to  approach  the  dark  gulf  near  enough  to  look  in,  to  be 
busied  in  speculations  which  are  the  rottenest  part  of  the  core  of  the  fruit 
that  fell  from  the  Tree  of  Knowledge.  Barabas  the  Jew,  and  Faustus 
the  Conjurer,  are  offsprings  of  a  mind  which  at  least  delighted  to  dally 
with  interdicted  subjects.  They  both  talk  a  language  which  a  believer 
would  have  been  tender  of  putting  into  the  mouth  of  a  character  though 
but  in  fiction.  But  the  holiest  minds  have  sometimes  not  thought  it 
blameable  to  counterfeit  impiety  in  the  person  of  another,  to  bring  Vice 
in  upon  the  stage  speaking  her  own  dialect,  and,  themselves  being  armed 
with  an  unction  of  self-confident  impunity,  have  not  scrupled  to  handle 
and  touch  that  familiarly,  which  would  be  death  to  others.  Milton  in 
the  person  of  Satan  has  started  speculations  hardier  than  any  which  the 
feeble  armoury  of  the  atheist  ever  furnished ;  and  the  precise  strait-laced 
Richardson  has  strengthened  Yice,  from  the  mouth  of  Lovelace,  with  en 
tangling  sophistries  and  abstruse  pleas  against  her  adversary  Virtue,  which 
Sedley,  Villiers,  and  Rochester,  wanted  depth  of  libertinism  sufficient  to 
have  invented.} 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEABL.  37 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEAEL  5  A  COMEDY,  BY 
EOBEET  TAILOE. 

Carracus  appoints  his  friend  Albert  to  meet  Mm  before  the  "break  of  day 
at  the  house  of  the  old  Lord  Wealthy,  whose  daughter  Maria  has  con- 
sented  to  a  stolen  match  with  Carracus.  Albert,  arriving  before  his 
friend,  is  mistaken  by  Maria  for  Carracus,  and  takes  advantage  of  the 
night  to  wrong  his  friend. 

Enter  ALBEBT,  solus. 

Alb.  This  is  the  green,  and  this  the  chamber- window ; 
And  see,  the  appointed  light  stands  in  the  casement, 
The  ladder  of  ropes  set  orderly, 
Yet  he  that  should  ascend,  slow  in  his  haste, 
Is  not  as  yet  come  hither. 
Were  it  any  friend  that  lives  but  Carracus, 
I  'd  try  the  bliss  which  this  fine  time  presents. 
Appoint  to  carry  hence  so  rare  an  heir, 
And  be  so  slack !  'sfoot,  it  doth  move  my  patience. 
Would  any  man  that  is  not  void  of  sense 
Not  have  watch' d  night  by  night  for  such  a  prize  ? 
Her  beauty 's  so  attractive,  that  by  Heaven 
My  heart  half  grants  to  do  my  friend  a  wrong. 
Forego  these  thoughts,  Albert,  be  not  a  slave 
To  thy  affection ;  do  not  falsify 
Thy  faith  to  him  whose  only  friendship  's  worth 
A  world  of  women.     He  is  such  a  one, 
Thou  canst  not  live  without  his  good, 
He  is  and  was  ever  as  thine  own  heart's  blood. 

[Maria  leckons  him  from  the  window. 
'Sfoot,  see,  she  beckons  me  for  Carracus. 
Shall  my  base  purity  cause  me  neglect 
This  present  happiness  ?   I  will  obtain  it, 
Spite  of  my  timorous  conscience.     I  am  in  person, 
Habit  and  all,  so  like  to  Carracus, 
It  may  be  acted  and  ne'er  call'd  in  question. 

Mar.  (calls)  Hist !  Carracus,  ascend : 

All  is  as  clear  as  in  our  hearts  we  wish'd. 

[Albert  ascends,  and  being  on  'the  top  of  the  ladder,  puts  out  the  candle. 
Mar.  0  love,  why  do  you  so  ? 


38  EGBERT  TAILOR. 

Alb.  I  heard  the  steps  of  some  coming  this  way. 
Did  you  not  hear  Albert  pass  by  as  yet  ? 

Mar.  Not  any  creature  pass  this  way  this  hour. 

Alb.  Then  he  intends  just  at  the  break  of  day 
To  lend  his  trusty  help  to  our  departure. 

Mar.  Come  then,  dear  Carracus,  thou  now  shalt  rest 
Upon  that  bed  where  fancy  oft  hath  thought  thee ; 
"Which  kindness  until  now  I  ne'er  did  grant  thee, 
Nor  would  I  now  but  that  thy  loyal  faith 
I  have  so  often  tried ;  even  now, 
Seeing  thee  come  to  that  most  honour' d  end, 
Through  all  the  dangers  which  black  night  presents 
For  to  convey  me  hence  and  marry  me.        {They  go  in. 

Enter  CARRACTJS,  to  Ms  appointment. 

Car.  How  pleasing  are  the  steps  we  lovers  make, 
When  in  the  paths  of  our  content  we  pace, 
To  meet  our  longings !  what  happiness  it  is 
For  man  to  love  !  but,  O,  what  greater  bliss 
To  love  and  be  beloved !    O  what  one  virtue 
E'er  reign'd  in  me,  that  I  should  be  enrich'd 
"With  all  earth's  good  at  once  ?   I  have  a  friend, 
Selected  by  the  heavens  as  a  gift 
To  make  me  happy  whilst  I  live  on  earth ; 
A  man  so  rare  of  goodness,  firm  of  faith, 
That  earth's  content  must  vanish  in  his  death. 
Then  for  my  love  and  mistress  of  my  soul, 
A  maid  of  rich  endowments,  beautified 
"With  all  the  virtues  nature  could  bestow 
Upon  mortality,  who  this  happy  night 
"Will  make  me  gainer  of  her  heavenly  self. 
And  see,  how  suddenly  I  have  attain' d 
To  the  abode  of  my  desired  wishes ! 
This  is  the  green ;  how  dark  the  night  appears ! 
I  cannot  hear  the  tread  of  my  true  friend. 
Albert !  hist,  Albert ! — he  's  not  come  as  yet, 
Nor  is  the  appointed  light  set  in  the  window. 
"What  if  I  call  Maria  ?  it  may  be 
She  fear'd  to  set  a  light,  and  only  hearkeneth 
To  hear  my  steps ;  and  yet  I  dare  not  call, 
Lest  I  betray  myself,  and  that  my  voice, 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEAKL.  39 

Thinking  to  enter  in  the  ears  of  her, 

Be  of  some  other  heard :  no,  I  will  stay 

Until  the  coming  of  my  dear  friend  Albert. 

But  now  think,  Carracus,  what  the  end  will  be 

Of  this  thou  dost  determine :  thou  art  come 

Hither  to  rob  a  father  of  that  wealth 

That  solely  lengthens  his  now  drooping  years, 

His  virtuous  daughter,  and  all  (of  that  sex)  left 

To  make  him  happy  in  his  aged  days. 

The  loss  of  her  may  cause  him  to  despair, 

Transport  his  near-decaying  sense  to  frenzy, 

Or  to  some  such  abhorred  inconveniency 

"Whereto  frail  age  is  subject.     I  do  too  ill  in  this, 

And  must  not  think  but  that  a  father's  plaint 

Will  move  the  heavens  to  pour  forth  misery 

Upon  the  head  of  disobediency. 

Yet  reason  tells  us,  parents  are  o'erseen, 

"When  with  too  strict  a  rein  they  do  hold  in 

Their  child's  affections,  and  control  that  love 

"Which  the  high  powers  divine  inspire  them  with ; 

"When  in  their  shallowest  judgments  they  may  know, 

Affection  cross' d  brings  misery  and  woe. 

But  whilst  I  run  contemplating  on  this, 

I  softly  pace  to  my  desired  bliss. 

I  '11  go  into  the  next  field,  where  my  friend 

Told  me  the  horses  were  in  readiness.  \\Exit. 

ALBEET  descending  from  MAEIA. 

Mar.  But  do  not  stay.     What  if  you  find  not  Albert  ? 
Alb.  I  '11  then  return  alone  to  fetch  you  hence. 
Mar.  If  you  should  now  deceive  me,  having  gam'd 

What  you  men  seek  for — 
Alb.  Sooner  I  '11  deceive 

My  soul — and  so  I  fear  I  have.  [aside. 

Mar.  At  your  first  call  I  will  descend. 
Alb.  Till  when,  this  touch  of  lips  be  the  true  pledge 

Of  Carracus'  constant  true  devoted  love. 
Mar.  Be  sure  you  stay  not  long ;  farewell. 

I  cannot  lend  an  ear  to  hear  you  part.     [Maria  goes  in. 
Alb.  But  you  did  lend  a  hand  unto  my  entrance. 

[He  descends. 


40  EOBEET  TAILOB. 

Alb.  (solus)   How  have  I  wrong'd  my  friend,  my  faithful 

friend ! 

Robb'd  him  of  what 's  more  precious  than  his  blood, 
His  earthly  heaven,  the  unspotted  honour 
Of  his  soul-joying  mistress !  the  fruition  of  whose  bed 
I  yet  am  warm  of;  whilst  dear  Carracus 
"Wanders  this  cold  night  through  the  unsheltering  field 
Seeking  me  treacherous  man,  yet  no  man  neither, 
Though  in  an  outward  show  o*f  such  appearance, 
But  am  a  devil  indeed,  for  so  this  deed 
Of  wronged  love  and  friendship  rightly  makes  me. 
I  may  compare  my  friend  to  one  that 's  sick, 
Who,  lying  on  his  death-bed,  calls  to  him 
His  dearest-thought  friend,  and  bids  him  go 
To  some  rare-gifted  man  that  can  restore 
His  former  health  ;  this  his  friend  sadly  hears, 
And  vows  with  protestations  to  fulfil 
His  wish'd  desires  with  his  best  performance ; 
But  then  no  sooner  seeing  that  the  death 
Of  his  sick  friend  would  add  to  him  some  gain, 
Goes  not  to  seek  a  remedy  to  save, 
But  like  a  wretch  hides  him  to  dig  his  grave ; 
As  I  have  done  for  virtuous  Carracus. 
Yet,  Albert,  be  not  reasonless  to  endanger 
"What  thou  mayst  yet  secure.     "Who  can  detect 
The  crime  of  thy  licentious  appetite  ? 
I  hear  one's  pace ;  'tis  surely  Carracus. 

Enter  CARRACUS. 

Oar.  Not  find  my  friend !  sure  some  malignant  planet 
Rules  o'er  this  night,  and  envying  the  content 
"Which  I  in  thought  possess,  debars  me  thus 
From  what  is  more  than  happy,  the  loved  presence 
Of  a  dear  friend  and  love. 

Alb.  'Tis  wronged  Carracus  by  Albert's  baseness : 
I  have  no  power  now  to  reveal  myself. 

Car.  The  horses  stand  at  the  appointed  place, 

And  night's  dark  coverture  makes  firm  our  safety. 
My  friend  is  surely  fallen  into  a  slumber 
On  some  bank  hereabouts ;  I  will  call  him. 
Friend,  Albert,  Albert. 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEARL.  41 

Alb.  Whate'er  you  are  that  call,  you  know  my  name. 

Car.  Ay,  and  thy  heart,  dear  friend.    [Maria  appears  above. 

Mar.  My  Carracus,  are  you  so  soon  return'd  ? 
I  see,  you  '11  keep  your  promise. 

Car.  Who  would  not  do  so,  having  pass'd  it  thee, 
Cannot  be  framed  of  aught  but  treachery. 
Fairest,  descend,  that  by  our  hence  departing 
"We  may  make  firm  the  bliss  of  our  content. 

Mar.  Is  your  friend  Albert  with  you  ? 

Alb.  Yes,  and  your  servant,  honour  'd  lady. 

Mar.  Hold  me  from  falling,  Carracus.  [She  descends. 

Car.  Come,  fair  Maria,  the  troubles  of  this  night 
Are  as  fore-runners  to  ensuing  pleasures. 
And,  noble  friend,  although  now  Carracus 
Seems,  in  the  gaining  of  this  beauteous  prize, 
To  keep  from  you  so  much  of  his  loved  treasure, 
Which  ought  not  to  be  mixed  ;  yet  his  heart 
Shall  so  far  strive  in  your  wish'd  happiness, 
That  if  the  loss  and  ruin  of  itself 
Can  but  avail  your  good  — 

Alb.  0  friend,  no  more  ;  come,  you  are  slow  in  haste. 
Friendship  ought  never  be  discuss'  d  in  words, 
Till  all  her  deeds  be  finish'  d.     Who,  looking  in  a  book, 
And  reads  but  some  part  of  it  only,  cannot  judge 
What  praise  the  whole  deserves,  because  his  knowledge 
Is  grounded  but  on  part  —  as  thine,  friend,  is, 
Ignorant  of  that  black  mischief  I  have  done  thee.  [aside. 

[_Exeunt. 


^  after  the  marriage  of  Carracus,  struck  with  remorse  for  the  in 
jury  he  has  done  to  his  friend,  knocks  at  Carracus'  s  door,  but  cannot 
summon  resolution  to  see  him,  or  to  do  more  than  inquire  after  his 
ivelfare. 

Alb.  Conscience,  thou  horror  unto  wicked  men, 
When  wilt  thou  cease  thy  all-afflicting  wrath, 
And  set  my  soul  free  from  the  labyrinth 
Of  thy  tormenting  terror  ?    0,  but  it  fits  not  ! 
Should  I  desire  redress,  or  wish  for  comfort, 
That  have  committed  an  act  so  inhuman, 
Able  to  fill  Shame's  spacious  chronicle  ? 
Who  but  a  damn'd  one  could  have  done  like  me  ? 


42  EOBEET  TA1LOB. 

Robb'd  my  dear  friend  in  a  short  moment's  time 

Of  his  love's  high-prized  gem  of  chastity  ; 

That  which  so  many  years  himself  hath  staid  for. 

How  often  hath  he,  as  he  lay  in  bed, 

Sweetly  discoursed  to  me  of  his  Maria ! 

And  with  what  pleasing  passions  did  he  suffer 

Love's  gentle  war-siege  !  then  he  would  relate 

How  he  first  came  unto  her  fair  eyes'  view ; 

How  long  it  was  ere  she  could  brook  affection ; 

And  then  how  constant  she  did  still  abide. 

I  then  at  this  would  joy,  as  if  my  breast 

Had  sympathized  in  equal  happiness 

With  my  true  friend.     But  now,  when  joy  should  be, 

Who  but  a  damn'd  one  would  have  done  like  me  ? 

He  hath  been  married  now  at  least  a  month ; 

In  all  which  time  I  have  not  once  beheld  him. 

This  is  his  house. 

I  '11  call  to  know  his  health,  but  will  not  see  him ; 

My  looks  would  then  betray  me,  for,  should  he  ask 

My  cause  of  seeming  sadness  or  the  like, 

I  could  not  but  reveal,  and  so  pour  on 

Worse  unto  ill,  which  breeds  confusion.      \He  knocks. 

A  Servant  opens. 

Alb.  Is  the  master  of  the  house  within  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  marry,  is  he,  sir :  would  you  speak  with  him  ? 

Alb.  My  business  is  not  so  troublesome  : 

Is  he  in  health  with  his  late  espoused  wife  ? 

Serv.  Both  are  exceeding  well,  sir. 

Alb.  I  am  truly  glad  on  't :  farewell,  good  friend. 

Serv.  I  pray  you,  let 's  crave  your  name,  sir ;  I  may  else  have 
anger. 

Alb.  You  may  say,  one  Albert,  riding  by  this  way,  only  in 
quired  their  health. 

Serv.  I  will  acquaint  so  much.  [Exit  serv. 

Alb.  How  like  a  poisonous  doctor  have  I  come 
To  inquire  their  welfare,  knowing  that  myself 
Have  given  the  potion  of  their  ne'er-recovery ; 
For  which  I  will  afflict  myself  with  torture  ever. 
And  since  the  earth  yields  not  a  remedy 
Able  to  salve  the  sores  my  lust  hath  made, 


LINGUA. 

I  '11  now  take  farewell  of  society, 

And  the  abode  of  men,  to  entertain  a  life 

Pitting  my  fellowship  in  desert  woods, 

Where  beasts  like  me  consort ;  there  may  I  live, 

Par  off  from  wronging  virtuous  Carracus. 

There  's  no  Maria,  that  shall  satisfy 

My  hateful  lust :  the  trees  shall  shelter 

This  wretched  trunk  of  mine,  upon  whose  barks 

I  will  engrave  the  story  of  my  sin. 

And  there  this  short  breath  of  mortality 

I  '11  finish  up  in  that  repentant  state, 

Where  not  the  allurements  of  earth's  vanities 

Can  e'er  o'ertake  me :  there 's  no  baits  for  lust, 

No  friend  to  ruin ;  I  shall  then  be  free 

From  practising  the  art  of  treachery. 

Thither  then,  steps,  where  such  content  abides, 

Where  penitency  not  disturb 'd  may  grieve, 

Where  on  each  tree  and  springing  plant  I  '11  carve 

This  heavy  motto  of  my  misery, 

Who  but  a  damrid  one  could  have  done  like  me  ? 


LINGUA;  A  COMEDY,  BY  ANTHONY  BEEWEE. 
Languages. 

The  ancient  Hebrew,  clad  with  mysteries ; 

The  learned  Greek,  rich  in  fit  epithets, 

Blest  in  the  lovely  marriage  of  pure  words  ; 

The  Chaldee  wise,  the  Arabian  physical, 

The  Roman  eloquent,  and  Tuscan  grave, 

The  braving  Spanish,  and  the  smooth-tongued  French — 

Tragedy  and  Comedy. 

—  fellows  both,  both  twins,  but  so  unlike 

As  birth  to  death,  wedding  to  funeral : 

For  this  that  rears  himself  in  buskins  quaint, 

Is  pleasant  at  the  first,  proud  in  the  midst, 

Stately  in  all,  and  bitter  death  at  end. 

That  in  the  pumps  doth  frown  at  first  acquaintance, 


44  ATJTHOB  UNCERTAIN. 

Trouble  tlie  midst,  but  in  the  end  concludes 
Closing  up  all  with  a  sweet  catastrophe. 
This  grave  and  sad,  distain'd  with  brinish  tears ; 
That  light  and  quick,  with  wrinkled  laughter  painted : 
This  deals  with  nobles,  kings,  and  emperors, 
Full  of  great  fears,  great  hopes,  great  enterprises ; 
This  other  trades  with  men  of  mean  condition, 
His  projects  small,  small  hopes,  and  dangers  little : 
This  gorgeous,  broider'd  with  rich  sentences ; 
That  fair,  and  purfled  round  with  merriments. 
Both  vice  detect,  and  virtue  beautify, 
By  being  death's  mirror,  and  life's  looking-glass. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  NERO.    AUTHOR  UNCERTAIN. 
Scenical  Personation. 

'Tis  better  in  a  play 
Be  Agamemnon,  than  himself  indeed. 
How  oft,  with  danger  of  the  field  beset, 
Or  with  home-mutinies,  would  he  un-be 
Himself;  or,  over  cruel  altars  weeping, 
"Wish,  that  with  putting  off  a  vizard  he 
Might  his  true  inward  sorrow  lay  aside ! 
The  shows  of  things  are  better  than  themselves. 
How  doth  it  stir  this  airy  part  of  us 
To  hear  our  poets  tell  imagined  fights 
And  the  strange  blows  that  feigned  courage  gives ! 
"When  I  Achilles  hear  upon  the  stage 
Speak  honour  and  the  greatness  of  his  soul, 
Methinks  I  too  could  on  a  Phrygian  spear 
Bun  boldly,  and  make  tales  for  after  times : 
But  when  we  come  to  act  it  in  the  deed, 
Death  mars  this  bravery,  and  the  ugly  fears 
Of  the  other  world  sit  on  the  proudest  brow ; 
And  boasting  valour  loseth  his  red  cheek. 


THE  MEEET  DEYIL  OF  EDMONTON.  45 


THE  MEEEY  DEVIL  OF  EDMONTON. 
AUTHOE  UNCEETAIN1. 

Millisent  the  fair  daughter  of  Clare  was  betrothed,  with  the  consent  of 
her  parents,  to  Raymond,  son  of  Mounchensey ;  but  the  elder  Moun- 
chensey  being  since  fallen  in  his  fortunes,  Clare  revokes  his  consent, 
and  plots  a  marriage  for  his  daughter  with  the  rich  heir  of  Jerningham. 
Peter  Fabel,  a  good  magician,  who  had  been  tutor  to  young  Raymond 
Mounchensey  at  college,  determines  by  the  aid  of  his  art  to  assist  his 
pupil  in  obtaining  fair  Millisent. 

PETEE  FABEL,  solus. 

Fab.  G-ood  old  Mounchensey,  is  thy  hap  so  ill, 
That  for  thy  bounty,  and  thy  royal  parts, 
Thy  kind  alliance  should  be  held  in  scorn ; 
And  after  all  these  promises  by  Clare, 
Refuse  to  give  his  daughter  to  thy  son, 
Only  because  thy  revenues  cannot  reach 
To  make  her  dowage  of  so  rich  a  jointure, 
As  can  the  heir  of  wealthy  Jerningham  ? 
And  therefore.is  the  false  fox  now  in  hand 
To  strike  a  match  betwixt  her  and  the  other, 
And  the  old  grey-beards  now  are  close  together, 
Plotting  in  the  garden.     Is  it  even  so  ? 
Eaymond  Mounchensey,  boy,  have  thou  and  I 
Thus  long  at  Cambridge  read  the  liberal  arts, 
The  metaphysics,  magic,  and  those  parts 
Of  the  most  secret  deep  philosophy  ? 
Have  I  so  many  melancholy  nights 
Watch' d  on  the  top  of  Peter  House  highest  tower  ? 
And  come  we  back  unto  our  native  home, 
For  want  of  skill  to  lose  the  wench  thou  lovest  ? 
We  '11  first  hang  Envil2  in  such  rings  of  mist, 
As  never  rose  from  any  dampish  fen ; 
I  '11  make  the  brinish  sea  to  rise  at  Ware, 
And  drown  the  marshes  unto  Stratford  bridge ; 
I  '11  drive  the  deer  from  Waltham  in  their  walks 
And  scatter  them  like  sheep  in  every  field : 
We  may  perhaps  be  cross' d ;  but  if  we  be, 

1  It  has  been  ascribed  without  much  proof  to  Shakspeare,  and  to 
Michael  Drayton.  2  Enfield. 


46  AUTHOB,  TTtfCEBTAIff. 

He  shall  cross  the  devil  that  but  crosses  me. 
But  here  comes  Raymond  disconsolate  and  sad ; 
And  here  comes  the  gallant  must  have  his  wench. 

Enter  RAYMOND  MOUNCHENSEY,  young  JEBNLNGHAM,  and 
young  CLARE. 

Jern.  I  prithee,  Raymond,  leave  these  solemn  dumps ; 

Revive  thy  spirits ;  thou  that  before  hast  been 

More  watchful  than  the  day-proclaiming  cock, 

As  sportive  as  a  kid,  as  frank  and  merry 

As  mirth  herself. — 

If  aught  in  me  may  thy  content  procure, 

It  is  thy  own,  thou  mayst  thyself  assure. 
Ha !  Jerningham,  if  any  but  thyself 

Had  spoke  that  word,  it  would  have  come  as  cold 

As  the  bleak  northern  winds  upon  the  face  of  winter. 

.From  thee,  they  have  some  power  on  my  blood ; 

Yet  being  from  thee,  had  but  that  hollow  sound 

Come  from  the  lips  of  any  living  man, 

It  might  have  won  the  credit  of  mine  ear : 

Erom  thee  it  cannot. 
Jern,  If  I  understand  thee,  I  am  a  villain : 

What !  dost  thou  speak  in  parables  to  thy  friend  ? 
Fab.  (to  Jern.)  You  are  the  man,  sir,  must  have  Milliaent. 

The  match  is  making  in  the  garden  now ; 

Her  jointure  is  agreed  on,  and  the  old  men 

Your  fathers  mean  to  launch  their  pursy  bags. 

But  in  mean  time  to  thrust  Mounchensey  off, 

Por  colour  of  this  new  intended  match, 

Pair  Millisent  to  Cheston1  must  be  sent, 

To  take  the  approbation  of  a  nun. 

Ne'er  look  upon  me,  lad ;  the  match  is  done. 
Jern.  Raymond  Mounchensey,  now  I  touch  thy  grief 

"With  the  true  feeling  of  a  zealous  friend. 
.     And  as  for  thy  fair  beauteous  Millisent, 

With  my  vain  breath  I  will  not  seek  to  slubber 

Her  angel-like  perfections.     But  thou  know'st 

That  Essex  hath  the  saint  that  I  adore. 

Where'er  didst  meet  me,  that  we  two  were  jovial, 

But  like  a  wag  thou  hast  not  laugh' d  at  me, 
1  Cheshunt. 


THE  MEEEY  DEVIL  OF  EDMONTON".  47 

And  with  regardless  jesting  mock'd  my  love  ? 
How  many  a  sad  and  weary  summer's  night 
My  sighs  have  drunk  the  dew  from  off  the  earth, 
And  I  have  taught  the  nightingale  to  wake, 
And  from  the  meadows  sprung  the  early  lark 
An  hour  before  she  should  have  list  to  sing ! 
I  have  loaded  the  poor  minutes  with  my  moans, 
That  I  have  made  the  heavy  slow-paced  hours 
To  hang  like  heavy  clogs  upon  the  day. 
But,  dear  Mounchensey,  had  not  my  affection 
Seized  on  the  beauty  of  another  dame, 
Before  I  'd  wrong  the  chase,  and  leave  the  love 
Of  one  so  worthy,  and  so  true  a  friend, 
I  will  abjure  both  beauty  and  her  sight, 
And  will  in  love  become  a  counterfeit. 

Raym.  Dear  Jerningham,  thou  hast  begot  my  life, 
And  from  the  mouth  of  hell,  where  now  I  sat, 
I  feel  my  spirit  rebound  against  the  stars  ; 
Thou  hast  conquer 'd  me,  dear  friend,  and  my  free  soul 
Nor  time  nor  death  can  by  their  power  control. 

Fab.  Prank  Jerningham,  thou  art  a  gallant  boy ; 
And  were  he  not  my  pupil,  I  would  say, 
He  were  as  fine  a  metal' d  gentleman, 
Of  as  free  a  spirit,  and  as  fine  a  temper, 
As  any  in  England ;  and  he  is  a  man, 
That  very  richly  may  deserve  thy  love. 
But,  noble  Clare,  this  while  of  our  discourse, 
What  may  Mounchensey 's  honour  to  thyself 
Exact  upon  the  measure  of  thy  grace  ? 

Ola.  Eaymond  Mounchensey,  I  would  have  thee  know, 
He  does  not  breathe  this  air, 
"Whose  love  I  cherish,  and  whose  soul  I  love, 
More  than  Mounchensey 's : 
Nor  ever  in  my  life  did  see  the  man, 
Whom  for  his  wit,  and  many  virtuous  parts, 
I  think  more  worthy  of  my  sister's  love. 
But  since  the  matter  grows  into  this  pass, 
I  must  not  seem  to  cross  my  father's  will ; 
But  when  thou  list  to  visit  her  by  night, 
My  horse  is  saddled,  and  the  stable  door 
Stands  ready  for  thee ;  use  them  at  thy  pleasure. 


48  ATJTHOE  UKCEETAIN. 

In  honest  marriage  wed  her  frankly,  boy, 

And  if  thou  get'st  her,  lad,  G-od  give  thee  joy.     , 

Raym.  Then  care  away !  let  fate  my  fall  pretend, 
Back'd  with  the  favours  of  so  true  a  friend. 

Fab.  Let  us  alone  to  bustle  for  the  set ; 

For  age  and  craft  with  wit  and  art  hath  met. 
I  '11  make  my  Spirits  dance  such  nightly  jigs 
Along  the  way  'twixt  this  and  Totnam  Cross, 
The  carriers'  jades  shall  cast  their  heavy  packs, 
And  the  strong  hedges  scarce  shall  keep  them  in. 
The  milk-maids'  cuts  shall  turn  the  wenches  off, 
And  lay  their  dossers  tumbling  in  the  dust : 
The  frank  and  merry  London  prentices, 
That  come  for  cream  and  lusty  country  cheer, 
Shall  lose  their  way,  and  scrambling  in  the  ditches 
All  night,  shall  whoop  and  hollow,  cry,  and  call, 
And  none  to  other  find  the  way  at  all. 

Raym.  Pursue  the  project,  scholar ;  what  we  can  do 
To  help  endeavour,  join  our  lives  thereto1. 

The  Prioress  of  Cheston's  charge  to  fair  Millisent. 

Jesus'  daughter,  Mary's  child, 
Holy  matron,  woman  mild, 
For  thee  a  mass  shall  still  be  said, 
Every  sister  drop  a  bead ; 
And  those  again,  succeeding  them, 
For  you  shall  sing  a  requiem. 
To  Tier  Father.  May  your  soul  be  blithe, 
That  so  truly  pay  your  tithe  ; 

1  This  scene  has  much  of  Shakspeare's  manner  In  the  sweetness  and 
goodnaturedness  of  it.  It  seems  written  to  make  the  reader  happy.  Few 
of  our  dramatists  or  novelists  have  attended  enough  to  this.  They  torture 
and  wound  us  abundantly.  They  are  economists  only  in  delight.  Nothing 
can  be  finer,  more  gentlemanlike,  and  noble,  than  the  conversation  and 
compliments  of  these  young  men.  How  delicious  is  Eaymond  Moun- 
chensey's  forgetting,  in  his  fears,  that  Jerningham  has  a  "  saint  hi  Essex ;" 
and  how  sweetly  his  friend  reminds  him  !  — I  wish  it  could  be  ascertained 
that  Michael  Drayton  was  the  author  of  this  piece :  it  would  add  a  worthy 
appendage  to  the  renown  of  that  Panegyrist  of  my  native  Earth ;  who 
has  gone  over  her  soil  (in  his  Polyolbion)  with  the  fidelity  of  a  herald, 
and  the  painful  love  of  a  son ;  who  has  not  left  a  rivulet  (so  narrow  that 
it  may  be  stept  over)  without  honourable  mention ;  and  has  animated  hills 
aud  streams  with  life  and  passion  above  the  dreams  of  old  mythology. 


GBEEN'S  TU  QUOQTJE  :  OB,  THE  CITY  GALLANT.        49 

He,  that  many  children  gave, 
'Tis  fit  that  he  one  child  should  have. 
To  Millisent.  Then,  fair  virgin,  hear  my  spell, 
For  I  must  your  duty  tell. 
First  a-mornings  take  your  book, 
The  glass  wherein  yourself  must  look ; 
Tour  young  thoughts  so  proud  and  jolly 
Must  be  turn'd  to  motions  holy ; 
For  your  busk,  attires,  and  toys, 
Have  your  thoughts  on  heavenly  joys : 
And  for  all  your  follies  past, 
You  must  do  penance,  pray,  and  fast. 
You  shall  ring  the  sacring  bell, 
Keep  your  hours,  and  tell  your  knell, 
Bise  at  midnight  to  your  matins, 
Read  your  psalter,  sing  your  Latins ; 
And  when  your  blood  shall  kindle  pleasure, 
Scourge  yourself  in  plenteous  measure. 
You  must  read  the  morning  mass, 
You  must  creep  unto  the  cross, 
Put  cold  ashes  on  your  head, 
Have  a  hair  cloth  for  your  bed, 
Bind  your  beads,  and  tell  your  needs, 
Your  holy  Aves  and  your  Creeds ; 
Holy  maid,  this  must  be  done, 
If  you  mean  to  live  a  Nun. 


GEEEN'S  TU  QUOQUE :  OE,  THE  CITY  GALLANT. 
A  COMEDY,  BY  JOSEPH  COOKE. 

Men  more  niggardly  of  their  love  than  women. 

Thrice  happy  days  they  were,  and  too  soon  gone, 
"When  as  the  heart  was  coupled  with  the  tongue  ; 
And  no  deceitful  flattery,  or  guile, 
Hung  on  the  lover's  tear-commixed  smile. 
Could  women  learn  but  that  imperiousness, 
By  which  men  use  to  stint  our  happiness 
(When  they  have  purchased  us  for  to  be  theirs 

E 


«50  THOMAS  DECREE. 

By  customary  sighs  and  forced  tears), 
Tb  give  as  bits  of  kindness,  lest  we  faint, 
But  .no  abundance ;  that  we  ever  want, 
And  still  are  begging :  which  too  well  they  know 
Endears  affection,  and  doth  make  it  grow. 
Had  we  those  sleights,  how  happy  were  we  then 
That  we  might  glory  over  love-sick  men ! 
But  arts  we  know  not,  nor  have  any  skill 
•  To  feign  a  sour  look  to  a  pleasing  will ; 
Nor  couch  a  secret  love  in  show  of  hate : 
But,  if  we  like,  must  be  compassionate1. 

Adversity, 

How  ruthless  men  are  to  adversity ! 
My  acquaintance  scarce  will  know  me ;  when  we  meet 
They  cannot  stay  to  talk,  they  must  be  gone ; 
And  shake  me  by  the  hand  as  if  I  burnt  them. 
Prodigality. 

That  which  gilded  over  his  imperfections, 
Is  wasted  and  consumed,  even  like  ice, 
Which  by  the  vehemence  of  heat  dissolves, 
And  glides  to  many  rivers ;  so  his  wealth, 
That  felt  a  prodigal  hand,  hot  in  expense, 
Melted  within  his  gripe,  and  from  his  coffers 
Ban  like  a  violent  stream  to  other  men's. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  OLD  FOKTUNATUS. 
BY  THOMAS  DECKER. 

The  Goddess  Fortune  appears  to  Fortunatus,  and  offers  Mm  the  choice  of 
six  things.     He  chooses  Riches. 

EOETUNE.      FOETTJNATUS. 

Fortime.  Before  thy  soul  at  this  deep  lottery 
Draw  forth  her  prize,  ordain' d  by  destiny, 
Know  that  here 's  no  recanting  a  first  choice. 

1  This  is  so  like  Shakspeare,  that  one  seems  almost  to  remember  it  as 
a  speech  of  Desdemona's  upon  perceiving  an  alteration  in  the  behaviour 
of  the  Moor. 


OLD  FOBTTTNATTJS.  51 

Choose  then  discreetly :  for  the  laws  of  fate, 
Being  graven  in  steel,  must  stand  inviolate. 

Fortunat.  Daughters  of  Jove  and  the  unblemish'd  Night, 
Most  righteous  Parcae,  guide  my  genius  right : 
"Wisdom,  Strength,  Health,  Beauty,  Long  Life,  andBiches. 

Fortime.  Stay,  Fortunatus-;  once  more  hear  me  speak. 
If  thou  kiss  Wisdom's  cheek  and  make  her  thine, 
She  '11  breathe  into  thy  lips  divinity, 
And  thou  (like  Phoebus)  shalt  speak  oracle ; 
Thy  heaven-inspired  soul  on  Wisdom's  wings 
Shall  fly  up  to  the  Parliament  of  Jove, 
And  read  the  Statutes  of  Eternity, 
And  see  what 's  past  and  learn  what  is  to  come. 
If  thou  lay  claim  to  Strength,  armies  shall  quake 
To  see  thee  frown :  as  kings  at  mine  do  lie, 
So  shall  thy  feet  trample  on  empery. 
Make  Health  thine  object,  thou  shalt  be  strong  proof 
'Gainst  the  deep  searching  darts  of  surfeiting, 
Be  ever  merry,  ever  revelling. 
Wish  but  for  Beauty,  and  within  thine  eyes 
Two  naked  Cupids  amorously  shall  swim, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  I  '11  mix  such  white  and  red, 
That  Jove  shall  turn  away  young  Ganymede, 
And  with  immortal  arms  shall  circle  thee. 
Are  thy  desires  Long  Life  ?  thy  vital  thread 
Shall  be  stretch' d  out ;  thou  shalt  behold  the  change 
Of  monarchies,  and  see  those  children  die 
Whose  great  great  grandsires  now  in  cradles  lie. 
If  through  Gold's  sacred  hunger  thou  dost  pine ; 
Those  gilded  wantons  which  in  swarms  do  run 
To  warm  their  slender  bodies  in  the  sun, 
Shall  stand  for  number  of  those  golden  piles 
Which  in  rich  pride  shall  swell  before  thy  feet ; 
As  those  are,  so  shall  these  be  infinite. 

Fortwiat.  O,  whither,  am  I  rapt  beyond  myself? 
More  violent  conflicts  fight  in  every  thought 
Than  his  whose  fatal  choice  Troy's  downfall  wrought. 
Shall  I  contract  myself  to  Wisdom's  love  ? 
Then  I  lose  Eiches ;  and  a  wise  man  poor 
Is  like  a  sacred  book  that 's  never  read ; 
To  himself  he  lives  and  to  all  else  seems  dead, 

E2 


•52  THOMAS  DECKER. 

This  age  thinks  better  of  a  gilded  fool, 

Than  of  a  bhreadbare  saint  in  Wisdom's  school. 

I  will  be  Strong :  then  I  refuse  Long  Life ; 

And  though  mine  arm  should  conquer  twenty  worlds, 

There  's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors : 

The  greatest  strength  expires  with  loss  of  breath, 

The  mightiest  in  one  minute  stoop  to  death. 

Then  take  Long  Life,  or  Health ;  should  I  do  so, 

I  might  grow  ugly,  and  that  tedious  scroll 

Of  months  and  years  much  misery  may  enroll : 

Therefore  I  '11  beg  for  Beauty ;  yet  I  will  not : 

The  fairest  cheek  hath  oftentimes  a  soul 

Leprous  as  sin  itself,  than  hell  more  foul. 

The  "Wisdom  of  this  world  is  idiotism ; 

Strength  a  weak  reed  ;  Health  Sickness'  enemy, 

And  it  at  length  will  have  the  victory. 

Beauty  is  but  a  painting ;  and  Long  Life 

Is  a  long  journey  in  December  gone, 

Tedious  and  full  of  tribulation. 

Therefore,  dread  sacred  empress,  make  me  rich  : 

My  choice  is  Store  of  Gold ;  the  rich  are  wise : 

He  that  upon  his  back  rich  garments  wears 

Is  wise,  though  on  his  head  grow  Midas'  ears. 

Gold  is  the  strength,  the  sinews  of  the  world, 

The  health,  the  soul,  the  beauty  most  divine ; 

A  mask  of  gold  hides  all  deformities  ; 

Gold  is  heaven's  physic,  life's  restorative  ; 

O,  therefore  make  me  rich ! 

Fortune  gives  to  Fortunatus  a  purse  that  is  inexhaustible.  With  this  he 
puts  on  costly  attire,  and  visits  all  the  Asian  Courts,  where  he  is  caressed 
and  made  much  of  for  his  infinite  wealth.  At  Babylon  he  is  shown  by 
the  Soldan  a  wondrous  hat,  which  in  a  wish  transports  the  wearer 
whithersoever  he  pleases,  overland  and  sea.  Fortunatus  puts  it  on, 
wishes  himself  at  home  in  Cyprus  ;  tvhere  he  arrives  in  a  minute,  as  his 
sons  Ampedo  and  Andelocia  are  talking  of  him  ;  and  tells  his  travels. 

EOBTUNATTTS.      AMPEDO.      ANDELOCIA. 

Fort.  Touch  me  not,  boys,  I  am  nothing  'but  air ;  let  none 
speak  to  me  till  you  have  marked  me  well. — Am  I  as 
you  are,  or  am  I  transformed  ? 

And*  Methinks,  father,  you  look  as  you  did,  only  your  face 
is  more  withered. 


OLD  FOUTTJNATTTS.  53 

Fort.  Boys,  *be  proud ;  your  father  hath  the  whole  world  m 
this  compass.  I  am  all  felicity,  up  to  the  brims.  In  a 
minute  am  I  come  from  Babylon ;  I  have  been  this  half 
hour  in  Famagosta. 

And.  How !  in  a  minute,  father  ?   I  see  travellers  must  lie. 

Fort.  I  have  cut  through  the  air  like  a  falcon.  I  would  have 
it  seem  strange  to  you.  But  'tis  true.  I  would  not 
have  you  believe  it  neither.  But  'tis  miraculous  and 
true.  Desire  to  see  you  brought  me  to  Cyprus.  I  '11 
leave  you  more  gold,  and  go  to  visit  more  countries. 

Amp.  The  frosty  hand  of  age  now  nips  your  blood, 
And  strews  her  snowy  flowers  upon  your  head, 
And  gives  you  warning  that  within  few  years 
Death  needs  must  marry  you :  those  short  lines,  minutes, 
That  dribble  out  your  life,  must  needs  be  spent 
In  peace,  not  travel ;  rest  in  Cyprus  then. 
Could  you  survey  ten  worlds,  yet  you  must  die ; 
And  bitter  is  the  sweet  that 's  reap'd  thereby. 

And.  Faith,  father,  what  pleasure  have  you  met  by  walking 
your  stations  ? 

Fort.  "What  pleasure,  boy?  I  have  revelled  with  kings,  danced 
with  queens,  dallied  with  ladies  ;  worn  strange  attires  ; 
seen  fantasticoes ;  conversed  with  humourists ;  been 
ravished  with  divine  raptures  of  Doric,  Lydian  and  Phry 
gian  harmonies ;  I  have  spent  the  day  in  triumphs  and 
the  night  in  banqueting. 

And.  0,  rare !  this  was  heavenly. — He  that  would  not  be  an 
Arabian  phoenix  to  burn  in  these  sweet  fires,  let  him  live 
like  an  owl  for  the  world  to  wonder  at. 

Amp.  Why,  brother,  are  not  all  these  vanities  ? 

Fort.  Vanities !  Ampedo,  thy  soul  is  made  of  lead,  too  dull, 
too  ponderous,  to  mount  up  to  the  incomprehensible 
glory  that  Travel  lifts  men  to. 

And.  Sweeten  mine  ears,  good  father,  with  some  more. 

Fort.  When  in  the  warmth  of  mine  own  country's  arms 
We  yawn'd  like  sluggards,  when  this  small  horizon 
Imprison' d  up  my  body,  then  mine  eyes 
Worship' d  these  clouds  as  brightest :  but,  my  boys, 
The  glistering  beams  which  do  abroad  appear 
In  other  heavens,  fire  is  not  half  so  clear. 
For  still  in  all  the  regions  I  have  seen, 


54  THOMAS  DECKER. 

I  scorn' d  to  crowd  among  the  muddy  throng 
Of  the  rank  multitude,  whose  thicken' d  breath 
(Like  to  condensed  fogs)  do  choke  that  beauty, 

"Which  else  would  dwell  in  every  kingdom's  cheek. 

No  ;  I  still  boldly  stepp'd  into  their  courts : 

For  there  to  live  'tis  rare,  0,  'tis  divine, 

There  shall  you  see  faces  angelical ; 

There  shall  you  see  troops  of  chaste  goddesses, 

"Whose  star-like  eyes  have  power  (might  they  still  shine) 

To  make  night  day,  -and  day  more  crystalline. 

Near  these  you  shall  behold  great  heroes, 

"White-headed  counsellors,  and  jovial  spirits, 

Standing  like  fiery  cherubins  to  guard 

The  monarch,  who  in  godlike  glory  sits 

In  midst  of  these,  as  if  this  deity 

Had  with  a  look  created  a  new  world, 

The  standers  by  being  the  fair  workmanship. 
And.  0,  how  my  soul  is  rapt  to  a  third  heaven ! 

I  '11  travel  sure,  and  live  with  none  but  kings. 
Amp.  But  tell  me,  father,  have  you  in  all  courts 

Beheld  such  glory,  so  majestical, 

In  all  perfection,  no  way  blemished  ? 
Fort.  In  some  courts  shall  you  see  Ambition 

Sit,  piecing  Dedalus'  old  waxen  wings ; 

But  being  clapt  on,  and  they  about  to  fly, 

Ev'ii  when  their  hopes  are  busied  in  the  clouds, 

They  melt  against  the  sun  of  majesty, 

And  down  they  tumble  to  destruction. 

By  travel,  boys,  I  have  seen  all  these  things. 

Fantastic  Compliment  stalks  up  and  down, 

Trick' d  in  outlandish  feathers  ;  all  his  words, 

His  looks,  his  oaths,  are  all  ridiculous, 

All  apish,  childish,  and  Italianate.     *     *     * 

Orleans  to  his  friend  Galloway  defends  the  passion  with  which  (being  a 
prisoner  in  the  English  King's  Court]  he  is  enamoured  to  frenzy  of 
the  King's  daughter  A.gripyna. 

ORLEANS.     GALLOWAY. 

Orl.  This  music  makes  me  but  more  out.  of  tune. 
O  Agripyna ! 


OLD  FORTUNATTJS.  55 

Gall.  Gentle  friend,  no  more. 

Thou  sayst  Love  is  a  madness :  hate  it  then, 
Ev'n  for  the  name's  sake. 

Orl.  O,  I  love  that  madness, 
Ev'n  for  the  name's  sake. 

Gall.  Let  me  tame  this  frenzy, 

By  telling  thee  thou  art  a  prisoner  here, 
By  telling  thee  she 's  daughter  to  a  king, 
By  telling  thee  the  king  of  Cyprus'  son 
Shines  like  a  sun  between  her  looks  and  thine, 
"Whilst  thou  seem'st  but  a  star  to  Agripyne. 
He  loves  her. 

Orl.  If  he  do,  why  so  do  I. 

Gall,  Love  is  ambitious  and  loves  majesty. 

Orl.  Dear  friend,  thou  art  deceived :  Love's  voice  doth  sing 
As  sweetly  in  a  beggar  as  a  king. 

Gall.  Dear  friend,  thou  art  deceived :  0  bid  thy  soul 
Lift  up  her  intellectual  eyes  to  heaven, 
And  in  this  ample  book  of  wonders  read, 
Of  what  celestial  mould,  what  sacred  essence, 
Her  self  is  form'd :  the  search  whereof  will  drive 
Sounds  musical  ameng  the  jarring  spirits, 
And  in  sweet  tune  set  that  which  none  inherits. 

Orl.  I  '11  gaze  on  heaven  if  Agripyne  be  there. 
If  not :  fa,  la,  la,  sol,  la,  &c. 

Gall.  O  call  this  mauness  in :  see,  from  the  windows 
Of  every  eye  Derision  thrusts  out  cheeks 
"Wrinkled  with  idiot  laughter ;  every  finger 
Is  like  a  dart  shot  from  the  hand  of  Scorn, 
By  which  thy  name  is  hurt,  thy  honour  torn. 

Orl.  Laugh  they  at  me,  sweet  Galloway  ? 

Gall.  Even  at  thee< 

Orl.  Ha,  ha,  I  laugh  at  them :  are  they  not  mad, 
That  let  my  true  true  sorrow  make  them  glad  r* 
I  dance  and  sing  only  to  anger  Grief, 
That  in  his  anger  he  might  smite  life  down 
With  his  iron  fist :  good  heart !  it  seemeth  then, 
They  laugh  to  see  grief  kill  me :  O  fond  men, 
You  laugh  at  others'  tears ;  when  others  smile, 
You  tear  yourselves  in  pieces ;  vile,  vile,  vile. 
Ha,  ha,  when  I  behold  a  swarm  of  fools 


5G  THOMAS  DECKEB. 

Crowding  together  to  be  counted  wise, 

I  laugh  because  sweet  Agripyne  's  not  there. 

But  weep  because  she  is  not  anywhere ; 

And  weep  because  (whether  she  be  or  not) 

My  love  was  ever  and  is  still  forgot :  forgot,  forgot,  forgot. 

Gall.  Draw  back  this   stream :    why  should  my   Orleans 
mourn? 

Orl.  Look  yonder,  Galloway,  dost  thou  see  that  sun  ? 
Nay,  good  friend,  stare  upon  it,  mark  it  well : 
Ere  he  be  two  hours  elder,  all  that  glory 
Is  banish' d  heaven,  and  then,  for  grief,  this  sky 
(That 's  now  so  jocund)  will  mourn  all  in  black. 
And  shall  not  Orleans  mourn  ?  alack,  alack ! 
O  what  a  savage  tyranny  it  were 
To  enforce  Care  laugh,  and  Woe  not  shed  a  tear ! 
Dead  is  my  Love ;  I  am  buried  in  her  scorn : 
That  is  my  sunset ;  and  shall  I  not  mourn  ? 
Yes,  by  my  troth  I  will. 

Gall.  Dear  Mend,  forbear ; 

Beauty  (like  sorrow)  dwelleth  everywhere. 
!Rase  out  this  strong  idea  of  her  face : 
As  fair  as  her's  shineth  in  any  place. 

Orl.  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  that  white  and  red, 

Which  sitting  on  her  cheeks  (being  Cupid's  throne) 

Is  my  heart's  soveraine :  0,  when  she  is  dead, 

This  wonder  (beauty)  shall  be  found  in  none. 

Now  Agripyne 's  not  mine,  I  vow  to  be 

In  love  with  nothing  but  deformity. 

O  fair  Deformity,  I  muse  all  eyes 

Are  not  enamour' d  of  thee :  thou  didst  never 

Murder  men's  hearts,  or  let  them  pine  like  wax 

Melting  against  the  sun  of  thy  destiny ; 

Thou  art  a  faithful  nurse  to  chastity ; 

Thy  beauty  is  not  like  to  Agripyne' s, 

Eor  cares,  and  age,  and  sickness  her's  deface, 

But  thine 's  eternal :  O  Deformity, 

Thy  fairness  is  not  like  to  Agripyne's, 

For  (dead)  her  beauty  will  no  beauty  have, 

But  thy  face  looks  most  lovely  in  the  grave. 

[The  humour  of  a  frantic  lover  is  here  done  to  the  life.     Orleans  is 
as  passionate  an  Inamorato  as  any  which  Shakspeare  ever  drew.    He  is 


THE  HONEST  WHOBE.  t>7 

just  such  another  adept  in  Love's  reasons.     The  sober  people  of  the 
world  are  with  him 

a  swarm  of  fools 
Crowding  together  to  be  counted  wise. 

He  talks  "  pure  Biron  and  Borneo,"  he  is  almost  as  poetical  as  they, 
quite  as  philosophical,  only  a  little  madder.  After  all,  Lore's  sectaries 
are  a  "  reason  unto  themselves."  We  have  gone  retrograde  hi  the  noble 
heresy  since  the  days  when  Sidney  proselyted  our  nation  to  this  mixed 
health  and  disease ;  the  kindliest  symptom  yet  the  most  alarming  crisis 
in  the  ticklish  state  of  youth ;  the  nourisher  and  the  destroyer  of  hope 
ful  wits ;  the  mother  of  twin-births,  wisdom  and  folly,  valour  and  weak 
ness  ;  the  servitude  above  freedom ;  the  gentle  mind's  religion ;  the  liberal 
superstition.] 


THE  HONEST  WHOEE  :  A  COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  DECKER. 

Hospital  for  Lunatics. 

There  are  of  mad  men,  as  there  are  of  tame, 
All  humour' d  not  alike.     "We  have  here  some 
So  apish  and  fantastick,  play  with  a  feather ; 
And,  though  'twould  grieve  a  soul  to  see  God's  image 
So  blemish' d  and  defaced,  yet  do  they  act 
Such  antick  and  such  pretty  lunacies, 
That,  spite  of  sorrow,  they  will  make  you  smile. 
Others  again  we  have,  like  hungry  lions, 
Pierce  as  wild  bulls,  untameable  as  flies. — 

Patience. 

Patience !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace : 
Of  all  the  virtues,  'tis  nearest  kin  to  heaven ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods. — The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  Sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed. 


THE  SECOND  PAET  OF  THE  HONEST  WHOEE. 
BY  THOMAS  DECKEE. 

Sellafront,  a  reclaimed  harlot,  recounts  some  of  the  miseries  of  her 


Like  an  ill  husband,  though  I  knew  the  same 
To  be  my  undoing,  follow' d  I  that  game. 


58  THOMAS  DECKEE. 

0,  when  the  work  of  lust  had  earn'd  my  bread, 

To  taste  it  how  I  trembled,  lest  each  bit 

Ere  it  went  down  should  choke  me  chewing  it. 

My  bed  seem'd  like  a  cabin  hung  in  hell, 

The  bawd  hell's  porter,  and  the  lickerish  wine 

The  pander  fetch' d  was  like  an  easy  fine 

For  which  methought  I  leased  away  my  soul ; 

And  often  times  even  in  my  quaffing-bowl 

Thus  said  I  to  myself:  I  am  a  whore, 

And  have  drunk  down  thus  much  confusion  more. 

—  when  in  the  street 
A  fair  young  modest  damsel1 1  did  meet, 
She  seem'd  to  all  a  dove,  when  I  pass'd  by, 
And  I  to  all  a  raven :  every  eye 
That  follow' d  her,  went  with  a  bashful  glance  ; 
At  me  each  bold  and  jeering  countenance 
Darted  forth  scorn :  to  her  as  if  she  had  been 
Some  tower  unvanquished  would  they  vail ; 
'Gainst  me  swoln  rumour  hoisted  every  sail : 
She  crown' d  with  reverend  praises  pass'd  by  them, 
I  though  with  face  mask'd  could  not  scape  the  hem ; 
For,  as  if  Heaven  had  set  strange  marks  on  whores, 
Because  they  should  be  pointing  stocks  to  man, 

1  This  simple  picture  of  honour  and  shame,  contrasted  without  vio 
lence,  and  expressed  without  immodesty,  is  worth  all  the  strong  lines 
against  the  harlot's  profession,  with  which  both  Parts  of  this  play  are 
offensively  crowded.  A  satirist  is  always  to  be  suspected,  who,  to  make 
vice  odious,  dwells  upon  all  its  acts  and  minutest  circumstances  with  a 
sort  of  relish  and  retrospective  gust.  But  so  near  are  the  boundaries  of 
panegyric  and  invective,  that  a  worn-out  sinner  is  sometimes  found  to 
make  the  best  declaimer  against  sin.  The  same  high-seasoned  descrip 
tions  which  in  his  unregenerate  state  served  to  inflame  his  appetites,  in 
his  new  province  of  a  moralist  will  serve  him  (a  little  turned)  to  expose 
the  enormity  of  those  appetites  in  other  men.  No  one  will  doubt,  who 
reads  Marston's  Satires,  that  the  author  in  some  part  of  his  life  must  have 
been  something  more  than  a  theorist  in  vice.  Have  we  never  heard  an 
old  preacher  in  the  pulpit  display  such  an  insight  into  the  mystery  of 
ungodliness,  as  made  us  wonder  with  reason  how  a  good  man  came  by 
it  ?  When  Cervantes  with  such  proficiency  of  fondness1  dwells  upon  the 
Don's  library,  who  sees  not  that  he  has  been  a  great  reader  of  books  of 
knight  errantry  ?  perhaps  was  at  some  time  of  his  life  in  danger  of  fall 
ing  into  those  very  extravagances  which  he  ridicules  so  happily  in  Ids 
hero  ? 


SATIEO-MASTIX.  59 

Drest  up  in  civilest  shape  a  courtezan, 

Let  her  walk  saint-like  noteless  and  unknown, 

Yet  she  's  betray 'd  by  some  trick  of  her  own. 

The  happy  man. 

He  that  makes  gold  his  wife,  but  not  his  whore, 
He  that  at  noonday  walks  by  a  prison  door, 
He  that  in  the  sun  is  neither  beam  nor  moat, 
He  that 's  not  mad  after  a  petticoat, 
He  for  whom  poor  men's  curses  dig  no  grave, 
He  that  is  neither  lord's  nor  lawyer's  slave, 
He  that  makes  This  his  sea  and  That  his  shore, 
He  that  in 's  coffin  is  richer  than  before, 
He  that  counts  Youth  his  sword  and  Age  his  staff, 
He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph, 
He  that  upon  his  death-bed  is  a  swan, 
And  dead,  no  crow :  he  is  a  Happy  Man. 

[The  turn  of  this  is  the  same  with  lago's  definition  of  a  Deserving 
Woman  :  "  She  that  was  ever  fair  and  never  proud,"  &c.  The  matter  is 
superior.] 


SATIEO-MASTIX,  OR  THE  UNTRUSSINO  OF  THE 
HUMOROUS  POET,  BY  THOMAS  DECKER. 

The  king  exacts  an  oath  from  Sir  Walter  Terill  to  send  his  Iride  Cedes- 
Una  to  court  on  the  marriage  night.  Her  father,  to  save  her  honour, 
gives  her  a  poisonous  mixture  which  she  swallows. 

TEBILL.     C^LESTINA.    FATHEB. 

Oftl.  Why  didst  thou  swear  ? 

Ter.  The  king 

Sat  heavy  on  my  resolution, 

Till  (out  of  breath)  it  panted  out  an  oath. 

Ccel.  An  oath !  why,  what 's  an  oath  ?  'tis  but  the  smoke 
Of  flame  and  blood ;  the  blister  of  the  spirit 
Which  riseth  from  the  steam  of  rage,  the  bubble 
That  shoots  up  to  the  tongue  and  scalds  the  voice ; 
(For  oaths  are  burning  words.)    Thou  sworest  but  one, 
'Tis  frozen  long  ago  :  if  one  be  number 'd, 
What  countrymen  are  they,  where  do  they  dwell, 
That  speak  naught  else  but  oaths  ? 


60  THOMAS  DECKEB. 

Ter.  They're  men  of  hell. 

An  oath !  why  'tis  the  traffic  of  the  soul, 

'Tis  law  within  a  man ;  the  seal  of  faith, 

The  bond  of  every  conscience ;  unto  whom 

"We  set  our  thoughts  like  hands :  yea,  such  a  one 

I  swore,  and  to  the  king :  a  king  contains 

A  thousand  thousand ;  when  I  swore  to  him, 

I  swore  to  them ;  the  very  hairs  that  guard 

His  head  will  rise  up  like  sharp  witnesses 

Against  my  faith  and  loyalty :  his  eye 

"Would  straight  condemn  me  :  argue  oaths  no  more  ; 

My  oath  is  high,  for  to  the  king  I  swore. 

Gad.  Must  I  betray  my  chastity,  so  long 

Clean  from  the  treason  of  rebelling  lust  ? 

0  husband,  O  my  father,  if  poor  I 

Must  not  live  chaste,  then  let  me  chastely  die. 

Fath.  Ay,  here's  a  charm  shall  keep  thee  chaste,  come,  come. 
Old  time  hath  left  us  but  an  hour  to  play 
Our  parts ;  begin  the  scene  ;  who  shall  speak  first  ? 
O  I,  I  play  the  king,  and  kings  speak  first : 
Daughter,  stand  thou  here,  thou  son  Terill  there : 
We  need  no  prologue,  the  king  entering  first 
He 's  a  most  gracious  prologue  :  marry,  then 
For  the  catastrophe  or  epilogue, 
There 's  one  in  cloth  of  silver,  which  no  doubt 
"Will  please  the  hearers  well  when  he  steps  out ; 
His  mouth  is  fill'd  with  words  :  see  where  he  stands : 
He  '11  make  them  clap  their  eyes  besides  their  hands. 
But  to  my  part :  suppose  who  enters  now, 
A  king  whose  eyes  are  set  in  silver ;  one 
That  blusheth  gold,  speaks  music,  dancing  walks, 
Now  gathers  nearer,  takes  thee  by  the  hand, 
"When  straight  thou  thinkst  the  very  orb  of  heaven 
Moves  round  about  thy  fingers ;  then  he  speaks, 
Thus — thus — I  know  not  how. 

CteZ.  Nor  I  to  answer  him. 

Mttk.  No,  girl !  know'st  thou  not  how  to  answer  him  ? 
"Why,  then  the  field  is  lost,  and  he  rides  home 
Like  a  great  conqueror :  not  answer  him ! 
Out  of  thy  part  already !  foil'd  the  scene ! 
Disrank'd  the  lines !  disarm' d  the  action! 


SATIKO-MAST1X.  61 

Ter.  Yes,  yes,  true  chastity  is  tongued  so  weak 
"Tis  overcome  ere  it  know  how  to  speak. 

FatJi.    Come,  come,  thou  happy  close  of  every  wrong, 
'Tis  thou  that  canst  dissolve  the  hardest  doubt ; 
'Tis  time  for  thee  to  speak,  we  all  are  out. 
Daughter,  and  you  the  man  whom  I  call  son, 
I  must  confess  I  made  a  deed  of  gift 
To  heaven  and  you,  and  gave  my  child  to  both ; 
"When  on  my  blessing  I  did  charm  her  soul 
In  the  white  circle  of  true  chastity 
Still  to  run  true  till  death :  now,  sir,  if  not, 
She  forfeits  my  rich  blessing,  and  is  fined 
With  an  eternal  curse ;  then  I  tell  you, 
She  shall  die  now,  now  whilst  her  soul  is  true. 

Ter.  Die ! 

Ccel.  Ay,  I  am  death's  echo. 

Fath.  0  my  son : 

I  am  her  father ;  every  tear  I  shed 

Is  threescore  ten  years  old ;  I  weep  and  smile 

Two  kinds  of  tears :  I  weep  that  she  must  die, 

I  smile  that  she  must  die  a  virgin :  thus 

"We  joyful  men  mock  tears,  and  tears  mock  us. 

Ter.  What  speaks  that  cup  ? 

FatJi.  White  wine  and  poison. 

Ter.  0! 

That  very  name  of  poison  poisons  me. 

Thou  winter  of  a  man,  thou  walking  grave, 

"Whose  life  is  like  a  dying  taper :  how 

Canst  thou  define  a  lover's  labouring  thoughts  ? 

What  scent  hast  thou  but  death  ?  what  taste  but  earth  ? 

The  breath  that  purls  from  thee  is  like  the  steam 

Of  a  new-open' d  vault :  I  know  thy  drift ; 

Because  thou  'rt  travelling  to  the  land  of  graves, 

Thou  covet 'st  company,  and  hither  bring' st 

A  health  of  poison  to  pledge  death :  a  poison 

For  this  sweet  spring ;  this  element  is  mine, 

This  is  the  air  I  breathe ;  corrupt  it  not : 

This  heaven  is  mine,  I  bought  it  with  my  soul 

Of  him  that  sells  a  heaven  to  buy  a  soul. 

Fath.  Well,  let  her  go ;  she 's  thine,  thou  call'st  her  thine, 
Jhy  element,  the  air  thou  breathest ;  thou  know'st 


02  THOMAS  DECKER. 

The  air  thou  breathest  is  common ;  make  her  so. 
Perhaps  thou  'It  say  none  but  the  king  shall  wear 
Thy  night-gown,  she  that  laps  thee  warm  with  love ; 
And  that  kings  are  not  common :  then  to  show 
By  consequence  he  cannot  make  her  so. 
Indeed  she  may  promote  her  shame  and  thine, 
And  with  your  shames  speak  a  good  word  for  mine. 
The  king  shining  so  clear,  and  we  so  dim, 
Our  dark  disgraces  will  be  seen  through  him. 
Imagine  her  the  cup  of  thy  moist  life, 
"What  man  would  pledge  a  king  in  his  own  wife  ? 

Ter.  She  dies :  that  sentence  poisons  her :  0  life ! 

"What  slave  would  pledge  a  king  in  his  own  wife  ? 

Ccel.  Welcome,  0  poison,  physic  against  lust, 

Thou  wholesome  medicine  to  a  constant  blood ; 

Thou  rare  apothecary  that  canst  keep 

My  chastity  preserved  within  this  box 

Of  tempting  dust,  this  painted  earthen  pot 

That  stands  upon  the  stall  of  the  white  soul, 

To  set  the  shop  out  like  a  flatterer, 

To  draw  the  customers  of  sin :  come,  come, 

Thou  art  no  poison,  but  a  diet  drink 

To  moderate  my  blood :  white-innocent  wine, 

Art  thou  made  guilty  of  my  death  ?  0  no, 

For  thou  thyself  art  poison' d :  take  me  hence, 

Eor  innocence  shall  murder  innocence.  [Drinks. 

Tsr.  Hold,  hold,  thou  shalt  not  die,  my  bride,  my  wife. 
0  stop  that  speedy  messenger  of  death ; 

0  let  him  not  run  down  that  narrow  path 
"Which  leads  unto  thy  heart,  nor  carry  news 
To  thy  removing  soul  that  thou  must  die. 

C&l.  'Tis  done  already,  the  spiritual  court 
Is  breaking  up,  all  offices  discharged, 
My  soul  removes  from  this  weak  standing-house 
Of  frail  mortality :  dear  father,  bless 
Me  now  and  ever :  dearer  man,  farewell ; 

1  jointly  take  my  leave  of  thee  and  life ; 
Go  tell  the  king  thou  hast  a  constant  wife. 

JMh.  Smiles  on  my  cheeks  arise 

To  see  how  sweetly  a  true  virgin  dies. 
[The  beauty  and  force  of  thia  scene  are  much  diminished  to  the  reader 


WESTWAED  HOE.  63 

of  the  entire  play,  when  he  comes  to  find  that  this  solemn  preparation  is 
but  a  sham  contrivance  of  the  father's,  and  the  potion  which  Cselestina 
swallows  nothing  more  than  a  sleeping  draught ;  from  the  effects  of  which 
she  is  to  awake  in  due  time,  to  the  surprise  of  her  husband,  and  the  great 
mirth  and  edification  of  the  king  and  his  courtiers.  As  Hamlet  says,  they 
do  but  "poison  in  jest." — The  sentiments  are  worthy  of  a  real  martyr 
dom,  and  an  Appian  sacrifice  in  earnest.] 


WESTWARD  HOE.    A  COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  DECKER 
AND  JOHN  WEBSTER. 

Pleasure,  the  general  pursuit. 

Sweet  Pleasure ! 

Delicious  Pleasure !  earth's  supremest  good, 

The  spring  of  blood,  though  it  dry  up  our  blood. 

Bob  ine  of  that  (though  to  be  drunk  with  pleasure, 

As  rank  excess  ev'n  in  best  things  is  bad, 

Turns  man  into  a  beast),  yet,  that  being  gone, 

A  horse,  and  this  (the  goodliest  shape)  all  one. 

"We  feed ;  wear  rich  attires ;  and  strive  to  cleave 

The  stars  with  marble  towers  ;  fight  battles  ;  spend 

Our  blood,  to  buy  us  names  ;  and  in  iron  hold 

"Will  we  eat  roots  to  imprison  fugitive  gold : 

But  to  do  thus  what  spell  can  us  excite  ? 

This  ;  the  strong  magic  of  our  appetite : 

To  feast  which  richly,  life  itself  undoes. 

"Who  'd  not  die  thus  ? 

"Why  even  those  that  starve  in  voluntary  wants, 

And,  to  advance  the  mind,  keep  the  flesh  poor, 

The  world  enjoying  them,  they  not  the  world ; 

"Would  they  do  this,  but  that  they  are  proud  to  suck 

A  sweetness  from  such  sourness  ? 

Music. 
Let  music 

Charm  with  her  excellent  voice  an  awful  silence 
Through  all  this  building,  that  her  sphery  soul 
May  (on  the  wings  of  air)  in  thousand  forms 
Invisibly  fly,  yet  be  enjoy 'd. 


64  JOHN  MAESTON. 


THE  HISTOEY  OF  ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA.    THE  FIKST 
PAET.    BY  JOHN  MAESTON. 

Andrugio  duke  of  Genoa  banished  his  country,  with  the  loss  of  a  son 
supposed  drowned,  is  cast  upon  the  territory  of  his  mortal  enemy  the 
duke  of  Venice  ;  with  no  attendants  but  Lucio  an  old  nobleman,  and 
a  page. 

Andr.  Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shuddering  morn  that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven  ? 

Luc.  I  think  it  is,  so  please  your  excellence, 

Andr.  Away,  I  have  no  excellence  to  please. 
Prithee  observe  the  custom  of  the  world ; 
That  only  flatters  greatness,  states  exalts. 
And  please  my  excellence !     0  Lucio, 
Thou  hast  been  ever  held  respected,  dear, 
Even  precious  to  Andrugio 's  inmost  love : 
Good,  flatter  not. 

My  thoughts  are  fixt  in  contemplation 
"Why  this  huge  earth,  this  monstrous  animal 
That  eats  her  children,  should  not  have  eyes  and  ears. 
Philosophy  maintains  that  Nature  's  wise, 
And  forms  no  useless  nor  imperfect  thing. 
Did  Nature  make  the  earth,  or  the  earth  Nature  ? 
For  earthly  dirt  makes  all  things,  makes  the  man, 
Moulds  me  up  honour,  and,  like  a  cunning  Dutchman, 
Paints  me  a  puppet  ev'n  with  seeming  breath, 
And  gives  a  sot  appearance  of  a  soul. 
Gro  to,  go  to ;  thou  liest,  Philosophy. 
Nature  forms  things  imperfect,  useless,  vain. 
"Why  made  she  not  the  earth  with  eyes  and  ears  ? 
That  she  might  see  desert  and  hear  men's  plaints ; 
That  when  a  soul  is  splitted,  sunk  with  grief, 
He  might  fall  thus  upon  the  breast  of  Earth, 
And  in  her  ear  halloo  his  misery, 
Exclaiming  thus :  O  thou  all-bearing  Earth, 
Which  men  do  gape  for  till  thou  cram'st  their  mouths 
And  chokest  their  throats  with  dust ;  open  thy  breast, 
And  let  me  sink  into  thee :  look  who  knocks ; 
Andrugio  calls.     But  O,  she 's  deaf  and  blind. 
A  wretch  but  lean  relief  on  earth  can  find. 


ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA.  65' 

Luc.  Sweet  lord,  abandon  passion ;  and  disarm. 
Since  by  the  fortune  of  the  tumbling  sea 
We  are  roll'd  up  upon  the  Venice  marsh, 
Let 's  clip  all  fortune,  lest  more  lowering  fate— - 

Andr.  More  lowering  fate  !  0  Lucio,  choke  that  breath. 
Now  I  defy  chance.     Fortune's  brow  hath  frown' d, 
Even  to  the  utmost  wrinkle  it  can  bend : 
Her  venom's  spit.     Alas !  what  country  rests, 
What  son,  what  comfort,  that  she  can  deprive  ? 
Triumphs  not  Venice  in  my  overthrow  ? 
G-apes  not  my  native  country  for  my  blood  ? 
Lies  not  my  son  tomb'd  in  the  swelling  main  ? 
And  in  more  lowering  fate  ?     There 's  nothing  left 
Unto  Andrugio  but  Andrugio : 
And  that 

Nor  mischief,  force,  distress,  nor  hell  can  take : 
Fortune  my  fortunes,  not  my  mind,  shall  shake 

Luc.  Speak  like  yourself:  but  give  me  \eave,  my  lord, 
To  wish  your  safety.     If  you  are  but  seen, 
Your  arms  display  you ;  therefore  put  them  off, 
And  take 

Andr.  Wouldst  have  me  go  unarm' d  among  my  foes  ? 
Being  besieged  by  passion,  entering  lists 
To  combat  with  despair  and  mighty  grief: 
My  soul  beleaguer 'd  with  the  crushing  strength 
Of  sharp  impatience.     Ha,  Lucio ;  go  unarm 'd  ? 
Come,  soul,  resume  the  valour  of  thy  birth ; 
Myself  myself  will  dare  all  opposites : 
I  '11  muster  forces,  an  unvanquish'd  power : 
Cornets  of  horse  shall  press  the  ungrateful  earth : 
This  hollow- wombed  mass  shall  inly  groan 
And  murmur  to  sustain  the  weight  of  arms : 
Ghastly  amazement,  with  upstarted  hair, 
Shall  hurry  on  before,  and  usher  us, 
Whilst  trumpets  clamour  with  a  sound  of  death. 

Luc.  Peace,  good  my  lord,  your  speech  is  all  too  light. 
Alas !  survey  your  fortunes,  look  what 's  left 
Of  all  your  forces  and  your  utmost  hopes  ; 
A  weak  old  man,  a  page,  and  your  poor  self. 

Andr.  Andrugio  lives ;  and  a  fair  cause  of  arms. 
AVhy,  that 's  an  army  all  invincible. 

F 


66  JOHN  MABSTOK. 

He  who  hath  that,  hath  a  battalion  royal, 
Armour  of  proof,  huge  troops  of  barbed  steeds, 
Main  squares  of  pikes,  millions  of  harquebush. 
O,  a  fair  cause  stands  firm,  and  will  abide ; 
Legions  of  angels  fight  upon  her  side. 

[The  situation  of  Andrugio  and  Lucio  resembles  that  of  Lear  and 
Kent,  in  that  king's  distresses.  Andrugio,  like  Lear,  manifests  a  kind 
of  royal  impatience,  a  turbulent  greatness,  an  affected  resignation.  The 
enemies  which  he  enters  lists  to  combat,  "despair,  and  mighty  grief, 
and  sharp  impatience,"  and  the  forces  ("  cornets  of  horse,"  &c.)  which 
he  brings  to  vanquish  them,  are  in  the  boldest  style  of  allegory.  They 
are  such  a  "  race  of  mourners"  as  "  the  infection  of  sorrows  loud"  in  the 
intellect  might  beget  on  "  some  pregnant  cloud"  in  the  imagination.] 


ANTONIO'S  REVENGE.  THE  SECOND  PAET  OF  THE 
HISTOEY  OF  ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA.  BY  JOHN 
MAESTON. 

The  Prologue*: 

The  rawish  dank  of  clumsy  winter  ramps 

The  fluent  summer's  vein :  and  drizzling  sleet 

Chilleth  the  wan  bleak  cheek  of  the  numb'd  earth, 

"Whilst  snarling  gusts  nibble  the  juiceless  leaves 

Prom  the  naked  shuddering  branch,  and  pills2  the  skin 

From  off  the  soft  and  delicate  aspects. 

O,  now  methinks  a  sullen  tragic  scene 

"Would  suit  the  time  with  pleasing  congruence ! 

May  we  be  happy  in  our  weak  devoir, 

And  all  part  pleased  in  most  wish'd  content. 

But  sweat  of  Hercules  can  ne'er  beget 

So  blest  an  issue.     Therefore  we  proclaim, 

If  any  spirit  breathes  within  this  round 

Uncapable  of  weighty  passion, 

(As  from  his  birth  being  hugged  in  the  arms 

1  This  prologue,  for  its  passionate  earnestness,  and  for  the  tragic  note 
of  preparation  which  it  sounds,  might  have  preceded  one  of  those  old  tales 
of  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line,  which  Milton  has  so  highly  commended,  as 
free  from  the  common  error  of  the  poets  in  his  days,  "  of  intermixing 
comic  stuff  with  tragic  sadness  and  gravity,  brought  in  without  discretion 
corruptly  to  gratify  the  people." — It  is  as  solemn  a  preparative  as  the 
"  warning  voice  which  he  who  saw  the  Apocalypse,  heard  cry  " — .  2  peels. 


ANTONIO'S  BEYENGE.  67 

And  nuzled  'twixt  the  breasts  of  Happiness1) 

Who  winks  and  shuts  his  apprehension  up 

From  common  sense  of  what  men  were,  and  are ; 

Who  would  not  know  what  men  must  be :  let  such 

Hurry  amain  from  our  black- visaged  shows  ; 

We  shall  affright  their  eyes.     But  if  a  breast, 

Nail'd  to  the  earth  with  grief;  if  any  heart, 

Pierced  through  with  anguish,  pant  within  this  ring ; 

If  there  be  any  blood,  whose  heat  is  choked 

And  stifled  with  true  sense  of  misery : 

If  aught  of  these  strains  fill  this  consort  up, 

They  arrive  most  welcome.     O,  that  our  power 

Could  lacky  or  keep  wing  with  our  desires  ; 

That  with  unused  poise  of  style  and  sense 

We  might  weigh  massy  in  judicious  scale ! 

Yet  here 's  the  prop  that  doth  support  our  hopes : 

When  our  scenes  falter,  or  invention  halts, 

Your  favour  will  give  crutches  to  our  faults. 

Antonio,  son  to  Andrugio  duke  of  Genoa,  whom  Piero  the  Venetian 
prince  and  father-in-law  to  Antonio  has  cruelly  murdered,  Mils  Piero' s 
little  son  Julio,  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  ghost  of  Andrugio. — The  scene,  a 
churchyard :  the  time,  midnight. 

JULIO.    ANTONIO. 

*Jul.  Brother  Antonio,  are  you  here  i'  faith  ? 

Why  do  you  frown  ?     Indeed  my  sister  said, 

That  I  should  call  you  brother,  that  she  did, 

When  you  were  married  to  her.   Buss  me :  good  truth, 

I  love  you  better  than  my  father,  'deed. 

Ant.  Thy  father  ?  gracious,  0  bounteous  heaven, 
I  do  adore  thy  justice.     Venit  in  nostras  manus 
Tandem  vindicta,  venit  et  tota  quidem, 

Jul.  Truth,  since  my  mother  died,  I  loved  you  best. 

Something  hath  anger' d  you :  pray  you,  look  merrily. 

Ant.  I  will  laugh,  and  dimple  my  thin  cheek 

With  capering  joy ;  chuck,  my  heart  doth  leap 
To  grasp  thy  bosom.     Time,  place,  and  blood, 
How  fit  you  close  together !  heaven's  tones 
Strike  not  such  music  to  immortal  souls, 

1  "  Sleek  favourites  of  Fortune."    Preface  to  Poems  by  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


68  JOHN  MABSTOff. 

As  your  accordance  sweets  my  breast  withal. 

M  ethinks  I  pace  upon  the  front  of  Jove, 

And  kick  corruption  with  a  scornful  heel, 

Griping  this  flesh,  disdain  mortality. 

0,  that  I  knew  which  joint,  which  side,  which  limb 

"Were  father  all  and  had  no  mother  in  it ; 

That  I  might  rip  it  vein  by  vein,  and  carve  revenge 

In  bleeding  races !  but  since  'tis  mix'd  together, 

Have  at  adventure,  pell-mell,  no  reverse. 

Come  hither,  boy ;  this  is  Andrugio's  hearse. 

Jul.  O  Grod,  you  '11  hurt  me.     .For  my  sister's  sake, 
Pray  you  don't  hurt  me.     And  you  kill  me,  'deed 
I  '11  tell  my  father. 

Ant.  0  for  thy  sister's  sake  I  flag  revenge. 

Andrugitfs  ghost  cries  "Revenge." 

Ant.  Stay,  stay,  dear  father,  fright  mine  eyes  no  more. 
B/evenge  as  swift  as  lightning  bursteth  forth 
And  clears  his  heart.     Come,  pretty  tender  child, 
It  is  not  thee  I  hate,  or  thee  I  kill. 
Thy  father's  blood  that  flows  within  thy  veins, 
Is  it  I  loathe ;  is  that,  Revenge  must  suck. 
I  love  thy  soul :  and  were  thy  heart  lapt  up 
In  any  flesh  but  in  Piero's  blood, 
I  would  thus  kiss  it :  but,  being  his,  thus,  thus, 
And  thus  I  '11  punish  it.     Abandon  fears : 
Whilst  thy  wounds  bleed,  my  brows  shall  gush  out  tears. 

Jul.  So  you  will  love  me,  do  even  what  you  will.          [Dies. 

Ant.  Now  barks  the  wolf  against  the  full-cheek' d  moon ; 
Now  lions'  half-clam' d  entrails  roar  for  food ; 
Now  croaks  the  toad,  and  night-crows  screech  aloud 
Fluttering  'bout  casements  of  departing  souls ; 
Now  gape  the  graves,  and  through  their  yawns  let  loose 
Imprison' d  spirits  to  revisit  earth : 
And  now,  swart  night,  to  swell  thy  hour  out, 
Behold  I  spurt  warm  blood  in  thy  black  eyes. 

From  under  the  earth  a  groan. 

Howl  not,  thou  putry  mould ;  groan  not,  ye  graves ; 
Be  dumb,  all  breath.  Here  stands  Andrugio's  son, 
Worthy  his  father.  So ;  I  feel  no  breath ; 


ANTONIO'S  EEVENGT5.  69 

His  jaws  are  fallen,  his  dislodged  soul  is  fled. 
And  now  there 's  nothing  but  Piero  left. 
He  is  all  Piero,  father  all.     This  blood, 
This  breast,  this  heart,  Piero  all : 
Whom  thus  I  mangle,  spright  of  Julio, 
Porget  this  was  thy  trunk.     I  live  thy  friend. 
Mayst  thou  be  twined  with  the  softest  embrace 
Of  clear  eternity1 :  but  thy  father's  blood 
I  thus  make  incense  of  to  vengeance.    *          # 
•          ft*-**** 

Day  breaking. 

see,  the  dapple  grey  coursers  of  the  morn 

Beat  up  the  light  .with  their  bright  silver  hoofs 
And  chase  it  through  the  sky. 

One  who  died,  slandered. 

Look  on  those  lips, 

Those  now  lawn  pillows,  on  whose  tender  softness 
Chaste  modest  speech,  stealing  from  out  his  breast, 
Had  wont  to  rest  itself,  as  loath  to  post 
From  out  so  fair  an  inn :  look,  look,  they  seem 
To  stir, 
And  breathe  defiance  to  black  obloquy. 

Wherein  fools  are  happy. 

Even  in  that,  note  a  fool's  beatitude : 
He  is  not  capable  of  passion ; 
Wanting  the  power  of  distinction, 
He  bears  an  unturn'd  sail  with  every  wind : 
Blow  east,  blow  west,  he  steers  his  course  alike. 
I  never  saw  a  fool  lean :  the  chub-faced  fop 
^  Shines  sleek  with  full  cram'd  fat  of  happiness : 
Whilst  studious  contemplation  sucks  the  juice 
Prom  wizard's2  cheeks,  who  making  curious  search 
Por  nature's  secrets,  the  Pirst  Innating  Cause 
Laughs  them  to  scorn,  as  man  doth  busy  apes 
When  they  will  zany  men. 

1  "To  lie  immortal  in  the  arms  of  fire."     Brown's  Eeligio  Medici. 
Of  the  punishments  in  hell.  3  Wise  men's. 


70  JOHN  MABSTOtf. 

Maria  (the  duchess  of  Genoa}  describes  the  death  of  Mellida,  her 
daughter-in-law. 

Being  laid  upon  her  bed  she  grasp'd  my  hand, 

And  kissing  it  spake  thus  :  Thou  very  poor, 

Why  dost  not  weep  ?  the  jewel  of  thy  brow, 

The  rich  adornment  that  enchased  thy  breast, 

Is  lost ;  thy  son,  my  love,  is  lost,  is  dead. 

And  have  I  lived  to  see  his  virtues  blurr'd 

With  guiltless  blots  ?     O  world,  thou  art  too  subtile 

For  honest  natures  to  converse  withal : 

Therefore  I  '11  leave  thee :  farewell,  mart  of  woe ; 

I  fly  to  clip  my  love,  Antonio. — 

With  that,  her  head  sunk  down  upon  her  breast ; 

Her  cheek  changed  earth,  her  senses  slept  in  rest . 

Until  my  fool1,  that  crept  unto  the  bed, 

Screech' d  out  so  loud  that  he  brought  back  her  soul, 

Call'd  her  again,  that  her  bright  eyes  'gan  ope 

And  stared  upon  him :  he  audacious  fool 

Dared  kiss  her  hand,  wish'd  her  soft  rest,  loved  bride; 

She  fumbled  out,  thanks,  good :  and  so  she  died. 


THE  MALCONTENT :  A  TEAGI-COMEDY, 
BY  JOHN  MAESTON. 

The  Malcontent  describes  himself. 
I  cannot  sleep,  my  eyes'  ill-neighbouring  lids 
Will  hold  no  fellowship.     O  thou  pale  sober  night, 
Thou  that  in  sluggish  fumes  all  sense  dost  steep ; 
Thou  that  givest  all  the  world  full  leave  to  play, 
Unbend' st  the  feebled  veins  of  sweaty  labour : 
The  gaily-slave,  that  all  the  toilsome  day 
Tugs  at  the  oar  against  the  stubborn  wave, 
Straining  his  rugged  veins,  snores  fast ; 
The  stooping  scythe-man,  that  doth  barb  the  field, 
Thou  makest  wink  sure ;  in  night  all  creatures  sleep, 
Only  the  Malcontent,  that  'gainst  his  fate 
Eepines  and  quarrels  :  alas  !  he 's  Goodman  Tell-clock  ; 

1  Antonio,  who  is  thought  dead,  but  still  lives  in  that  disguise. 


THE  WONDEB  OF  WOMEtf*  71 

His  sallow  jaw-bones  sink  with  wasting  moan ; 
Whilst  others'  beds  are  down,  his  pillow 's  stone. 

Place  for  a  Penitent, 

My  cell  'tis,  lady ;  where,  instead  of  masks, 

Music,  tilts,  tournies,  and  such  court-like  shows, 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  checkless  winds 

Shall  groan  again,  whilst  the  unquiet  sea 

Shakes  the  whole  rock  with  foamy  battery. 

There  usherless1  the  air  comes  in  and  out ; 

The  rheumy  vault  will  force  your  eyes  to  weep, 

Whilst  you  behold  true  desolation. 

A  rocky  barrenness  shall  pierce  your  eyes ; 

Where  all  at  once  one  reaches,  where  he  stands, 

With  brows  the  roof,  both  walls  with  both  his  hands. 


THE  WONDER  OF  WOMEN,  OR  THE  TRAGEDY  OF 
SOPHONISBA.    BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

Description  of  the  witch  Erictho. 

Here  in  this  desert,  the  great  Soul  of  Charms 

Dreadful  Erictho  lives  ;  whose  dismal  brow 

Contemns  all  roofs,  or  civil  coverture. 

Forsaken  graves  and  tombs  (the  ghosts  forced  out) 

She  joys  to  inhabit. 

A  loathsome  yellow  leanness  spreads  her  face, 

A  heavy  hell-like  paleness  loads  her  cheeks. 

Unknown  to  a  clear  heaven.     But  if  dark  winds 

Or  black  thick  clouds  drive  back  the  blinded  stars, 

When  her  deep  magic  makes  forced  heaven  quake, 

And  thunder,  spite  of  Jove  ;  Erictho  then 

From  naked  graves  stalks  out,  heaves  proud  her  head, 

With  long  unkemb'd  hair  loaden,  and  strives  to  snatch 

The  night's  quick  sulphur ;  then  she  bursts  up  tombs 

From  half-rot  sear-cloths ;  then  she  scrapes  dry  gums 

1  i.e.  without  the  ceremony  of  an  usher,  to  give  notice  of  its  approach, 
as  is  usual  in  courts.  As  fine  as  Shakspeare  :  "  the  bleak  air  thy  bois 
terous  chamberlain." 


72  JOHN  MABSTON. 

For  her  black  rites :  but  when  she  finds  a  corse 

But  newly  graved,  whose  entrails  are  not  turu'd 

To  slimy  filth,  with  greedy  havoc  then 

She  makes  fierce  spoil,  and  swells  with  wicked  triumph 

To  bury  her  lean  knuckles  in  his  eyes : 

Then  doth  she  gnaw  the  pale  and  o'er-grown  nails 

From  his  dry  hand :  but  if  she  find  some  life 

Yet  lurking  close,  she  bites  his  gelid  lips, 

And  sticking  her  black  tongue  in  his  dry  throat, 

She  breathes  dire  murmurs,  which  enforce  him  bear 

Her  baneful  secrets  to  the  spirits  of  horror. 

Her  cave. 
Hard  by  the  reverent  ruins 


Of  a  once  glorious  temple,  rear'd  to  Jove, 
Whose  very  rubbish  (like  the  pitied  fall 
Of  virtue  much  unfortunate)  yet  bears 
A  deathless  majesty,  though  now  quite  rased, 
Hurl'd  down  by  wrath  and  lust  of  impious  kings, 
So  that,  where  holy  Flamens  wont  to  sing 
Sweet  hymns  to  heaven,  there  the  daw,  and  crow, 
The  ill-voiced  raven,  and  still-chattering  pye, 
Send  out  ungrateful  sounds  and  loathsome  filth ; 
Where  statues  and  Jove's  acts  were  vively1  limn'd, 
Boys  with  black  coals  draw  the  veil'd  parts  of  nature 
And  lecherous  action-3  of  imagined  lust ; 
Where  tombs  and  beauteous  urns  of  well-dead  men 
Stood  in  assured  rest,  the  shepherd  now 
Unloads  his  belly,  corruption  most  abhorr'd 
Mingling  itself  with  their  renowned  ashes  : 
There  once  a  charnel-house,  now  a  vast  cave, 
Over  whose  brow  a  pale  and  untrod  grove 
Throws  out  her  heavy  shade,  the  mouth  thick  arms 
Of  darksome  yew,  sun-proof,  for  ever  choke  ; 
Within,  rests  barren  darkness,  fruitless  drought 
Pines  in  eternal  night ;  the  steam  of  hell 
Yields  not  so  lazy  air :  there,  that 's  her  cell. 

1  livelily. 


THE  INSATIATE  COUNTESS.  73 

THE  INSATIATE  COUNTESS  :  A  TKAOEDY, 
BY  JOHN  MAESTON. 

Isabella  (the  countess),  after  a  long  series  of  crimes  of  infidelity  to  her 
husband  and  of  murder,  is  brought  to  suffer  on  a  scaffold.  Roberto, 
her  husband,  arrives  to  take  a  last  leave  of  her. 

Roberto.  Bear  record,  all  you  blessed  saints  in  heaven, 
I  come  not  to  torment  thee  in  thy  death ; 
For  of  himself  he  's  terrible  enough. 
But  call  to  mind  a  lady  like  yourself, 
And  think  how  ill  in  such  a  beauteous  soul, 
Upon  the  instant  morrow  of  her  nuptials, 
Apostasy  and  wild  revolt  would  show. 
"Withal  imagine  that  she  had  a  lord 
Jealous  the  air  should  ravish  her  chaste  looks ; 
Doting,  like  the  Creator  in  his  models, 
Who  views  them  every  minute  and  with  care 
Mix'd  in  his  fear  of  their  obedience  to  him. 
.    Suppose  he  sung  through  famous  Italy, 
More  common  than  the  looser  songs  of  Petrarch, 
To  every  several  zany's  instrument : 
And  he  poor  wretch,  hoping  some  better  fate 
Might  call  her  back  from  her  adulterate  purpose, 
Lives  in  obscure  and  almost  unknown  life  ; 
Till  hearing  that  she  is  condemn' d  to  die, 
For  he  once  loved  her,  lends  his  pined  corpse 
Motion  to  bring  him  to  her  stage  of  honour, 
Where,  drown'd  in  woe  at  her  so  dismal  chance, 
He  clasps  her :  thus  he  falls  into  a  trance. 

Isabella.  O  my  offended  lord,  lift  up  your  eyes  ; 
But  yet  avert  them  from  my  loathed  sight. 
Had  I  with  you  enjoy'd  the  lawful  pleasure, 
To  which  belongs  nor  fear  nor  public  shame, 
I  might  have  lived  in  honour,  died  in  fame. 
Your  pardon  on  my  faltering  knees  I  beg ; 
Which  shall  confirm  more  peace  unto  my  death, 
Than  all  the  grave  instructions  of  the  Church. 

Roberto.  Freely  thou  hast  it.     Farewell,  my  Isabella ; 

Let  thy  death  ransom  thy  soul,  0  die  a  rare  example. 

The  kiss  thou  gavest  me  in  the  church,  here  take : 

As  I  leave  thee,  so  thou  the  world  forsake.  [Exit. 


74  JOHN  MAHSTON. 

Executioner.  Madam,  tie  up  your  hair. 
Isabella.  0  these  golden  nets, 

That  have  ensnared  so  many  wanton  youths ! 

Not  one,  but  has  been  held  a  thread  of  life, 

And  superstitiously  depended  on. 

What  else  ? 

Executioner.  Madam,  I  must  entreat  you  blind  your  eyes. 
Isabella.  I  have  lived  too  long  in  darkness,  my  friend : 

And  yet  mine  eyes  with  their  majestic  light 

Have  got  new  Muses  in  a  poet's  spright. 

They  've  been  more  gazed  at  than  the  god  of  day ; 

Their  brightness  never  could  be  nattered : 

Yet  thou  command' st  a  fixed  cloud  of  lawn 

To  eclipse  eternally  these  minutes  of  light. 

I  am  prepared. 

Women's  inconstancy. 

Who  would  have  thought  it  ?    She  that  could  no  more 

Forsake  my  company,  than  can  the  day 

Forsake  the  glorious  presence  of  the  sun, 

When  I  was  absent,  then  her  galled  eyes 

Would  have  shed  April  showers,  and  outwept 

The  clouds  in  that  same  o'er-passionate  mood 

When  they  drown' d  all  the  world :  yet  now  forsakes  me. 

Women,  your  eyes  shed  glances  like  the  sun ; 

Now  shines  your  brightness,  now  your  light  is  done. 

On  the  sweetest  flowers  you  shine,  'tis  but  by  chance, 

And  on  the  basest  weed  you  '11  waste  a  glance. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL :  A  COMEDY,  BY  JOHN  MAKSTON. 

Venetian  Merchant. 

No  knight, 

But  one  (that  title  off),  was  even  a  prince, 
A  sultan  Solyman :  thrice  was  he  made, 
In  dangerous  arms,  Venice'  Providetore. 
He  was  a  merchant,  but  so  bounteous, 
Valiant,  wise,  learned,  all  so  absolute, 
That  naught  was  valued  praiseful  excellent, 


WHAT  YOU  WILL.  75 

But  in 't  was  he  most  praiseful  excellent. 

O,  I  shall  ne'er  forget  how  he  went  clothed! 

He  would  maintain  it  a  base  ill-used  fashion, 

To  bind  a  merchant  to  the  sullen  habit 

Of  precise  black,  chiefly  in  Venice  state 

"Where  merchants  gilt  the  top1. 

And  therefore  should  you  have  him  pass  the  bridge 

Up  the  Bialto  like  a  soldier ; 

In  a  black  beaver  belt,  ash  colour  plain, 

A  Florentine  cloth-o' -silver  jerkin,  sleeves 

"White  satin  cut  on  tinsel,  then  long  stock  ; 

French  panes  embroider 'd,  goldsmith's  work:  0  God! 

Methinks  I  see  him ;  how  he  would  walk  ! 

"With  what  a  jolly  presence  he  would  pace 

Bound  the  Rialto2 ! 

Scholar  and  Ms  Dog. 

I  was  a  scholar :  seven  useful  springs 
Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 
Of  cross' d  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man  ; 
The  jnore  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 
Delight  my  spaniel  slept,  whilst  I  baused  leaves, 
Toss'd  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 
'  Of  titled  words  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh, 
Shrunk  up  my  veins :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell 
Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 

1  "  Her  whose  merchant  sons  were  kings."  Collins. 

2  To  judge  of  the  liberality  of  these  notions  of  dress  we  must  advert 
to  the  days  of  Gxesham,  arid  the  consternation  which  a  phsenomenon 
habited  like  the  merchant  here  described  would  have  excited  among  the 
flat  round  caps,  and  cloth  stockings,  upon  Change,  when  those  "  original 
arguments  or  tokens  of  a  citizen's  vocation  were  in  fashion  not  more  for 
thrift  and  usefulness  than  for  distinction  and  grace.' '   The  blank  uniformity 
to  which  all  professional  distinctions  in  apparel  have  been  long  hastening, 
is  one  instance  of  the  decay  of  symbols  among  us,  which  whether  it  has 
contributed  or  not  to  make  us  a  more  intellectual,  has  certainly  made  us 
a  less  imaginative  people.    Shakspeare  knew  the  force  of  signs  : — "  a  ma 
lignant  and  a  turban' d  Turk."     "  This  meal-cap  miller,"  says  the  author 
of  God's  Revenge  against  Murder,  to  express  his  indignation  at  an  atro 
cious  outrage  committed  by  the  miller  Pierpt  upon  the  person  of  the  fair 
Marieta. 


76  GEOBGE  CHAPMAN. 

Of  antick  Donate :  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Still  on  went  I ;  first,  an  sit  anima  ; 

Then,  an  it  were  mortal.     O  hold,  hold ;  at  that 

They  're  at  brain-buffets,  fell  by  the  ears  amain 

Pell-mell  together :  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Then,  whether  'twere  corporeal,  local,  fix'd, 

Ex  traduce,  but  whether  't  had  free  will 

Or  no,  hot  philosophers 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propp'd, 

I  stagger' d,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 

But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observed,  and  pryed, 

Stuff' d  noting-books  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

At  length  he  waked,  and  yawn'd ;  and  by  yon  sky, 

For  aught  I  know  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 

Preparations  for  Second  Nuptials. 

Now  is  Albano's1  marriage-bed  new  hung 

"With  fresh  rich  curtains  ;  now  are  my  valence  up, 

Imbost  with  orient  pearl,  my  grandsire's  gift ; 

Now  are  the  lawn  sheets  fumed  with  violets, 

To  fresh  the  pall'd  lascivious  appetite  ; 

Now  work  the  cooks,  the  pastry  sweats  with  slaves, 

The  march-panes  glitter  ;  now,  now  the  musicians 

Hover  with  nimble  sticks  o'er  squeaking  crowds2, 

Tickling  the  dried  guts  of  a  mewing  cat : 

The  tailors,  starchers,  semsters,  butchers,  poulterers, 

Mercers,  all,  all none  think  on  me. 


(LESAR  AND  POMPEY:  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

Sacrifice. 

Imperial  Ca3sar,  at  your  sacred  charge 
I  drew  a  milk-white  ox  into  the  temple, 
And  turning  there  his  face  into  the  East 
(Fearfully  shaking  at  the  shining  light) 
Down  fell  his  horned  forehead  to  his  hoof. 

Albano,  the  first  husband,  speaks ;  supposed  dead.         2  Fiddles. 


OESAB  AND  POMPET.  77 

"When  I  began  to  greet  him  with  the  stroke 
That  should  prepare  him  for  the  holy  rites, 
"With  hideous  roars  he  laid  out  such  a  throat 
As  made  the  secret  lurkings  of  the  god 
To  answer  echo-like  in  threatening  sounds : 
I  struck  again  at  him,  and  then  he  slept ; 
His  life-blood  boiling  out  at  every  wound 
In  streams  as  clear  as  any  liquid  ruby. 

the  beast  cut  up,  and  laid  on  the  altar, 

His  limbs  were  all  lick'd  up  with  instant  flames ; 
Not  like  the  elemental  fire  that  burns 
In  household  uses,  lamely  struggling  up, 
This  way  and  that  way  winding  as  it  rises, 
But  right  and  upright  reach' d  his  proper  sphere 
Where  burns  the  fire  eternal  and  sincere. 

Joy  unexpected,^  best. 

Joys  unexpected,  and  in  desperate  plight, 
Are  still  most  sweet,  and  prove  from  whence  they  come ; 
"When  earth's  still  moon-like  confidence  in  joy 
Is  at  her  full :  true  joy  descending  far 
Prom  past  her  sphere,  and  from  that  highest  heaven 
That  moves  and  is  not  moved. 

Inward  Help  the  best  Help. 

I  will  stand  no  more 

On  others'  legs,  nor  build  one  joy  without  me. 

If  ever  I  be  worth  a  house  again, 

I  '11  build  all  inward :  not  a  light  shall  ope 

The  common  out-way :  no  expense,  no  art, 

No  ornament,  no  door,  will  I  use  there ; 

But  raise  all  plain  and  rudely  like  a  rampire, 

Against  the  false  society  of  men, 

That  still  batters 

All  reason  piece-meal ;  and,  for  earthly  greatness 

All  heavenly  comforts  rarefies  to  air. 

[  '11  therefore  live  in  dark ;  and  all  my  light, 

Like  ancient  temples,  let  in  at  my  top. 

That  were  to  turn  one's  back  to  all  the  world, 

And  onlylook  at  heaven. 

When  our  diseased  affections 


78  GEOEGE  CHAPMAN". 

Harmful  to  human  freedom,  and  storm-like 
Inferring  darkness  to  the  infected  mind, 
Oppress  our  comforts ;  'tis  but  letting  in 
The  light  of  reason,  and  a  purer  spirit 
Take  in  another  way ;  like  rooms  that  fight 
With  windows  'gainst  the  wind,  yet  let  in  light. 


BTJSSY  D'AMBOIS :   A  TRAGEDY,  BY  GEOEGE  CHAPMAN. 

A  Nuntius  (or  Messenger)  in  the  presence  of  King  Henry  the  Third  of 
France  and  his  court  tells  the  manner  of  a  combat,  to  which  he  ivas 
witness,  of  three  to  three ;  in  which  IfAmbois  remained  sole  survivor ; 
begun  upon  an  affront  passed  upon  I?  Ambois  by  some  courtiers. 

HENKY,  GUISE,  BEAUPKE,  NUNTIUS,  &c. 

Nuntius.  I  saw  fierce  D'Ambois  and  his  two  brave  friends 
Enter  the  field,  and  at  their  heels  their  foes, 
"Which  were  the  famous  soldiers,  Barrisor, 
L' Anou,  and  Pyrrhot,  great  in  deeds  of  arms  : 
All  which  arrived  at  the  evenest  piece  of  earth 
The  field  afforded,  the  three  challengers 
Turn'd  head,  drew  all  their  rapiers,  and  stood  rank'd; 
"When  face  to  face  the  three  defendants  met  them, 
Alike  prepared,  and  resolute  alike. 
Like  bonfires  of  contributory  wood 
Every  man's  look  show'd,  fed  with  other's  spirit ; 
As  one  had  been  a  mirror  to  another, 
Like  forms  of  life  and  death  each  took  from  other : 
And  so  were  life  and  death  mix'd  at  their  heights, 
That  you  could  see  no  fear  of  death  (for  life) 
Nor  love  of  life  (for  death)  :  but  in  their  brows 
Pyrrho's  opinion  in  great  letters  shone ; 
That  "  life  and  death  in  all  respects  are  one." 

Henry.  Pass'd  there  no  sort  of  words  at  their  encounter  ? 

Nuntius.  As  Hector  'twixt  the  hosts  of  Greece  and  Troy, 
When  Paris  and  the  Spartan  king  should  end 
The  nine  years'  war,  held  up  his  brazen  lance 
For  signal  that  both  hosts  should  cease  from  arms, 
And  hear  him  speak ;  so  Barrisor  (advised) 
Advanced  his  naked  rapier  'twixt  both  sides, 


BTJSST  D'AMBOIS.  79 

Bipp'd  up  the  quarrel,  and  compared  six  lives 

Then  laid,  in  balance  with  six  idle  words ; 

Offer 'd  remission  and  contrition  too : 

Or  else  that  he  and  D'Ambois  might  conclude 

The  others'  dangers.     D'Ambois  liked  the  last : 

But  Barrisor's  friends  (being  equally  engaged 

In  the  main  quarrel)  never  would  expose 

His  life  alone  to  that  they  all  deserved. 

And  (for  the  other  offer  of  remission) 

D'Ambois  (that  like  a  laurel  put  in  fire 

Sparkled  and  spit)  did  much  much  more  than  scorn 

That  his  wrong  should  incense  him  so  like  chaff 

To  go  so  soon  out,  and,  like  lighted  paper, 

Approve  his  spirit  at  once  both  fire  and  ashes  : 

So  drew  they  lots,  and  in  them  fates  appointed 

That  Barrisor  should  fight  with  fiery  D'Ambois  ; 

Pyrrhot  with  Melynell;  with  Brisac  L'Anou: 

And  then  like  flame  and  powder  they  commix' d, 

So  sprightly,  that  I  wish'd  they  had  been  spirits  ; 

That  the  ne'er-shutting  wounds,  they  needs  must  open, 

Might  as  they  open'd  shut,  and  never  kill1. 

But  D'Ambois'  sword  (that  lighten' d  as  it  flew) 

Shot  like  a  pointed  comet  at  the  face 

Of  manly  Barrisor ;  and  there  it  stuck : 

Thrice  pluck' d  he  at  it,  and  thrice  drew  on  thrusts 

From  him,  that  of  himself  was  free  as  fire ; 

Who  thrust  still,  as  he  pluck' d,  yet  (past  belief) 

He  with  his  subtile  eye,  hand,  body,  'scaped ; 

At  last  the  deadly  bitten  point  tugg'd  off, 

On  fell  his  yet  undaunted  foe  so  fiercely 

That  (only  made  more  horrid  with  his  wound) 

Great  D'Ambois  shrunk,  and  gave  a  little  ground : 

But  soon  re  turn' d,  redoubled  in  his  danger, 

And,  at  the  heart  of  Barrisor  seal'd  his  anger. 

Then,  as  in  Arden  I  have  seen  an  oak 

Long  shook  with  tempests,  and  his  lofty  top 

Bent  to  his  root,  which  being  at  length  made  loose 

(Even  groaning  with  his  weight)  he  'gan  to  nod 

This  way  and  that,  as  loath  his  curled  brows 

1  One  can  hardly  believe  but  that  these  lines  were  written  after  Milton 
had  described  his  warring  angels. 


80  GEORGE  CHAPMAff. 

(Which  he  had  oft  wrapt  in  the  sky  with  storms) 
Should  stoop ;  and  yet,  his  radical  fibres  burst, 
Storm-like  he  fell,  and  hid  the  fear-cold  earth : 
So  fell  stout  Barrisor,  that  had  stood  the  shocks 
Of  ten  set  battles  in  your  highness'  war 
'  Gainst  the  sole  soldier  of  the  world  Navarre. 

Guise.  O  piteous  and  horrid  murder ! 

JBeaupre.  Such  a  life 

Methinks  had  metal  in  it  to  survive 
An  age  of  men. 

Henry.  Such  often  soonest  end. 

Thy  felt  report  calls  on ;  we  long  to  know 
On  what  events  the  other  have  arrived. 

Nuntius.  Sorrow  and  fury,  like  two  opposite  fumes 
Met  in  the  upper  region  of  a  cloud, 
At  the  report  made  by  this  worthy's  fall, 
Brake  from  the  earth,  and  with  them  rose  revenge, 
Entering  with  fresh  powers  his  two  noble  friends : 
And  under  that  odds  fell  surcharged  Brisac, 
The  friend  of  D' Ambois,  before  fierce  L'Anou ; 
Which  D' Ambois  seeing ;  as  I  once  did  see, 
In  my  young  travels  through  Armenia, 
An  angry  unicorn  in  his  full  career 
Charge  with  too  swift  a  foot  a  jeweller 
That  watch' d  him  for  the  treasure  of  his  brow  ; 
And,  ere  he  could  get  shelter  of  a  tree, 
Nail  him  with  his  rich  antler  to  the  earth ; 
So  D' Ambois  ran  upon  revenged  L'Anou, 
Who  eyeing  the  eager  point  borne  in  his  face, 
And  giving  back,  fell  back,  and  in  his  fall 
His  foe's  uncurbed  sword  stopp'd  in  his  heart : 
By  which  time,  all  the  life-strings  of  the  two  other 
Were  cut,  and  both  fell  (as  their  spirit  flew) 
Upwards ;  and  still  hunt  honour  at  the  view. 
And  now,  of  all  the  six,  sole  D' Ambois  stood 
Untouch'd,  save  only  with  the  others'  blood. 

Henry.  All  slain  outright  but  he  ? 

Nuntius.  All  slain  outright  but  he : 

Who  kneeling  in  the  warm  life  of  his  friends 
(All  freckled  with  the  blood  his  rapier  rain'd) 
He  kiss'd  their  pale  lips,  and  bade  both  farewell. 


BFSST  D'AMBOIS.  81 

False  Greatness. 

As  cedars  beaten  with  continual  storms, 

So  great  men  flourish ;  and  do  imitate 

Unskilful  statuaries,  who  suppose, 

In  forming  a  colossus,  if  they  make  him 

Straddle  enough,  strut,  and  look  big,  and  gape, 

Their  work  is  goodly :  so  men  merely  great, 

In  their  aifected  gravity  of  voice, 

Sourness  of  countenance,  manners'  cruelty, 

Authority,  wealth,  and  all  the  spawn  of  fortune, 

Think  they  bear  all  the  kingdom's  worth  before  them ; 

Yet  differ  not  from  those  colossic  statues, 

"Which,  with  heroic  forms  without  o'erspread, 

"Within  are  naught  but  mortar,  flint,  and  lead. 

Virtue. — Policy. 

as  great  seamen  using  all  their  wealth 

And  skills  in  Neptune's  deep  invisible  paths, 

In  tall  ships  richly  built  and  ribb'd  with  brass, 

To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world ; 

When  they  have  done  it,  coming  near  the  haven, 

Are  fain  to  give  a  warning  piece,  and  call 

A  poor  staid  fisherman  that  never  pass'd 

His  country's  sight,  to  waft  and  guide  them  in ; 

So  when  we  wander  furthest  through  the  waves 

Of  glassy  glory,  and  the  gulfs  of  state, 

Topp'd  with  all  titles,  spreading  all  our  reaches, 

As  if  each  private  arm  would  sphere  the  earth, 

We  must  to  Virtue  for  her  guide  resort, 

Or  we  shall  shipwreck  in  our  safest  port. 

Nick  of  Time. 

There  is  a  deep  nick  in  Time's  restless  wheel 

For  each  man's  good,  when  which  nick  comes,  it  strikes : 

As  rhetoric  yet  works  not  persuasion, 

But  only  is  a  mean  to  make  it  work ; 

So  no  man  riseth  by  his  real  merit, 

But  when  it  cries  clink  in  his  Eaiser's  spirit. 

a 


82  GEORGE  CHAEMAff. 

Difference  of  the  English  and  French  Courts. 

HENRY.     GUISE.    MONTSURRT. 

Guise.  I  like  not  their1  court  fashion ;  it  is  too  crest-fallen 
In  all  observance,  making  demigods 
Of  their  great  nobles,  and  of  their  old  queen2 
An  ever  young  and  most  immortal  goddess. 

Mont.  No  question  she 's  the  rarest  queen  in  Europe. 

Guise.  Eut  what 's  that  to  her  immortality  ? 

Henry.  Assure  you,  cousin  Guise ;  so  great  a  courtier, 
So  full  of  majesty  and  royal  parts, 
No  queen  in  Christendom  may  vaunt  herself. 
Her  court  approves  it.     That 's  a  court  indeed ; 
Not  mix'd  with  clowneries  used  in  common  houses : 
But,  as  courts  should  be,  the  abstracts  of  their  kingdoms, 
In  all  the  beauty,  state,  and  worth  they  hold. 
So  is  her's  amply,  and  by  her  inform' d. 
The  world  is  not  contracted  in  a  man, 
With  more  proportion  and  expression, 
Than  in  her  court  her  kingdom.     Our  French  court 
Is  a  mere  mirror  of  confusion  to  it. 
The  king  and  subject,  lord  and  every  slave, 
Dance  a  continual  hay.     Our  rooms  of  state 
Kept  like  our  stables :  no  place  more  observed 
Than  a  rude  market-place  ;  and  though  our  custom 
Keep  his  assured  confusion  from  our  eyes, 
'Tis  ne'er  the  less  essentially  unsightly. 


BYRON'S  CONSPIRACY.    BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

JByron  described. 
he  is  a  man 


Of  matchless  valour,  and  was  ever  happy 
In  all  encounters,  which  were  still  made  good 
With  an  unwearied  sense  of  any  toil ; 
Having  continued  fourteen  days  together 
Upon  his  horse :  his  blood  is  not  voluptuous, 
1  The  English.  ,    *  Queen  Elizabeth. 


Nor  much  inclined  to  women ;  his  desires 

Are  higher  than  his  state ;  and  his  deserts 

Not  much  short  of  the  most  he  can  desire, 

If  they  be  weigh' d  with  what  Prance  feels  by  them* 

He  is  past  measure  glorious :  and  that  humour 

Is  fit  to  feed  his  spirit,  whom  it  possesseth 

With  faith  in  any  error ;  chiefly  where 

Men  blow  it  up  with  praise  of  his  perfections : 

The  taste  whereof  in  him  so  soothes  his  palate, 

And  takes  up  all  his  appetite,  that  oft  times 

He  will  refuse  his  meat,  and  company, 

To  feast  alone  with  their  most  strong  conceit. 

Ambition  also  cheek  by  cheek  doth  march 

"With  that  excess  of  glory,  both  sustain' d 

With  an  unlimited  fancy,  that  the  king, 

Nor.  France  itself,  without  him  can  subsist. 

Men's  glories  eclipsed  when  they  turn  traitors. 

As  when  the  moon  hath  comforted  the  night, 
And  set  .the  world  in  silver  of  her  light, 
The  planets,  asterisms,  and  whole  state  of  heaven, 
In  beams  of  gold  descending :  all  the  winds 
Bound  up  in  caves,  charged  not  to  drive  abroad 
Their  cloudy  heads  :  a  universal  peace 
(Proclaim' d  in  silence)  of  the  quiet  earth: 
Soon  as  her  hot  and  dry  fumes  are  let  loose, 
Storms  and  clouds  mixing  suddenly  put  out 
The  eyes  of  all  those  glories ;  the  creation 
Turn'd  into  chaos ;  and  we  then  desire, 
For  all  our  joy  of  life,  the  death  of  sleep. 
So  when  the- glories  of  our  lives  (men's  loves, 
Clear  consciences,  our  fames  and  loyalties), 
That  did  us  worthy  comfort,  are  eclipsed ; 
Grief  and  disgrace  invade  us  ;  and  for  all 
Our  night  of  life  besides,  our  misery  craves 
Dark  earth  would  ope  and  hide  us  in  our  graves. 

Opinion  the  Scale  of  Good  or  Sad. 

there  is  no  truth  of  any  good 

To  be  discern' d  on  earth ;  and,  by  conversion, 
Naught  therefore  simply  bad :  but  as  the  stuif 


84  GEOBGKE  CHAPMAW. 

Prepared  for  arras  pictures,  is  no  picture 
Till  it  be  form'd,  and  man  hath  cast  the  beams 
Of  his  imaginous  fancy  thorough  it, 
In  forming  ancient  kings  and  conquerors 
As  he  conceives  they  look'd  and  were  attired, 
Though  they  were  nothing  so  ;  so  all  things  here 
Have  all  their  price  set  down  from  men's  conceits ; 
Which  make  all  terms  and  actions  good  or  bad, 
And  are  but  pliant  and  well-colour' d  threads 
Put  into  feigned  images  of  truth. 

Insinuating  Manners. 

We  must  have  these  lures,  when  we  hawk  for  friends ; 

And  wind  about  them  like  a  subtile  river, 

That,  seeming  only  to  run  on  his  course, 

Doth  search  yet,  as  he  runs,  and  still  finds  out 

The  easiest  parts  of  entry  on  the  shore, 

Gliding  so  slily  by,  as  scarce  it  touch' d, 

Yet  still  eats  something  in  it. 

The  Stars  not  able  to  foreshow  any  thing. 

I  am  a  nobler  substance  than  the  stars : 

And  shall  the  baser  over-rule  the  better  ? 

Or  are  they  better  since  they  are  the  bigger  ? 

I  have  a  will,  and  faculties  of  choice, 

To  do  or  not  to  do ;  and  reason  why 

I  do  or  not  do  this :  the  stars  have  none. 

They  know  not  why  they  shine,  more  than  this  taper, 

Nor  how  they  work,  nor  what.    I  '11  change  my  course, 

1  '11  piecemeal  pull  the  frame  of  all  my  thoughts : 

And  where  are  all  your  Caput  Algols  then  ? 

Tour  planets  all  being  underneath  the  earth 

At  my  nativity, — what  can  they  do  ? 

Malignant  in  aspects !  in  bloody  houses ! 

The  Master  Spirit. 

Give  me  a  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  fill'd  with  a  lusty  wind, 
Ev'n  till  his  sail-yards  tremble,  his  mast  crack, 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  side  so  low, 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air. 
There  is  no  danger  to  a  man,  that  knows 


BTEON'S  TRAGEDY.  85 

What  life  and  death  is :  there 's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge ;  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law : 
He  goes  before  them,  and  commands  them  all, 
That  to  himself  is  a  law  rational. 

Tile  Natures  in  High  Places. 

foolish  statuaries, 

That  under  little  saints  suppose1  great  bases, 

Make  less  (to  sense)  the  saints  :  and  so,  where  fortune 

Advanceth  vile  minds  to  states  great  and  noble, 

She  much  the  more  exposeth  them  to  shame ; 

Not  able  to  make  good,  and  fill  their  bases 

"With  a  conformed  structure. 

Innocence  the  Harmony  of  the  Faculties. 

Innocence,  the  sacred  amulet 

'Gainst  all  the  poisons  of  infirmity, 
Of  all  misfortune,  injury,  and  death : 
That  makes  a  man  in  tune  still  in  himself; 
Free  from  the  hell  to  be  his  own  accuser ; 
Ever  in  quiet,  endless  joy  enjoying, 
No  strife  nor  no  sedition  in  his  powers ; 
,  No  motion  in  his  will  against  his  reason ; 
No  thought  'gainst  thought;  nor  (as  'twere  in  the  confines 
Of  wishing  and  repenting)  doth  possess 
Only  a  wayward  and  tumultuous  peace  : 
But,  all  parts  in  him  friendly  and  secure, 
Fruitful  of  all  best  things  in  all  worst  seasons, 
He  can  with  every  wish  be  in  their  plenty ; 
When  the  infectious  guilt  of  one  foul  crime 
Destroys  the  free  content  of  all  our  time. 


BYRON'S  TRAGEDY.    BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 
King  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France  Messes  the  young  Dauphin. 

My  royal  blessing,  and  the  King  of  Heaven 
Make  thee  an  aged  and  a  happy  king ! 
Help,  nurse,  to  put  my  sword  into  his  hand. 
1  Put  under. 


86  GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

Hold,  boy,  by  this ;  and  with  it  may  thy  arm 

Cut  from  thy  tree  of  rule  all  traitorous  branches, 

That  strive  to  shadow  and  eclipse  thy  glories. 

.Have  thy  old  father's  angel  for  thy  guide, 

Redoubled  be  his  spirit  in  thy  breast ; 

Who,  when  this  state  ran  like  a  turbulent  sea, 

In  civil  hates  and  bloody  enmity, 

Their  wraths  and  envies  (like  so  many  winds) 

Settled  and  burst :  and  like  the  halcyon's  birth 

Be  thine,  to  bring  a  calm  upon  the  shore ; 

In  which  the  eyes  of  war  may  ever  sleep, 

As  over- watch' d  with  former  massacres, 

"When  guilty  mad  noblesse  fed  on  noblesse, 

All  the  sweet  plenty  of  the  realm  exhausted ; 

When  the  naked  merchant  was  pursued  for  spoil ; 

"When  the  poor  peasants  frighted  neediest  thieves 

With  their  pale  leanness,  nothing  left  on  them 

But  meagre  carcases,  sustain' d  with  air, 

Wandering  like  ghosts  affrighted  from  their  graves ; 

When,  with  the  often  and  incessant  sounds 

The  very  beasts  knew  the  alarum  bell, 

And  hearing  it  ran  bellowing  to  their  home  ; 

From  which  unchristian  broils  and  homicides 

Let  the  religious  sword  of  justice  free 

Thee,  and  thy  kingdoms,  govern' d  after  me ; 

O  Heaven !    Or  if  the  unsettled  blood  of  France, 

With  ease  and  wealth,  renew  her  civil  furies,. 

Let  all  my  powers  be  emptied  in  my  son ; 

To  curb  and  end  them  all  as  I  have  done. 

Let  him  by  virtue  quite  out  off  from  Fortune 

Her  feather' d  shoulders,  and  her  winged  shoes, 

And  thrust  from  her  light  feet  her  turning  stone ; 

That  she  may  ever  tarry  by  his  throne. 

And  of  his  worth  let  after  ages  say, 

(He  fighting  for  the  land,  and  bringing  home 

Just  conquests,  loaden  with  his  enemies'  spoils,) 

His  father  pass'd  all  France  in  martial  deeds, 

But  he  his  father  twenty  times  exceeds. 

What  we  have,  we  slight ;  what  we  want,  we  think  excellent. 
—  as  a  man,  match' d  with  a  lovely  wife, 


BYRON'S  TRAGEDY.  §7 

"When  his  most  heavenly  theory  of  her  beauties 
Is  dull'd  and  quite  exhausted  with  his  practice, 
He  brings  her  forth  to  feasts,  where  he,  alas  ! 
Falls  to  his  viands  with  no  thought  like  others, 
That  think  him  blest  in  her ;  and  they,  poor  men, 
Court,  and  make  faces,  offer  service,  sweat 
"With  their  desires'  contention,  break  their  brains 
For  jests  and  tales,  sit  mute,  and  loose  their  looks, 
Par  out  of  wit  and  out  of  countenance. 
So  all  men  else-  do,  what  they  have,  transplant ; 
And  place  their  wealth  in  thirst  of  what  they  want. 

Soliloquy  of  King  Henry  deliberating  on  the  death  of  a  traiior. 

0  thou  that  govern' st  the  keen  swords  of  kings, 

Direct  my  arm  in  this  important  stroke,; 

Or  hold  it,  being  advanced :  the  weight  'of  blood, 

Even  in  the  basest  subject,  doth  exact 

Deep  consultation  in  the  highest  king : 

For  in  one  subject,  death's  unjust  affrights, 

Passions,  and  pains,  though  he  be  ne'er  so  poor, 

Ask  more  remorse,  than  the  voluptuous  spleens 

Of  all  kings  in  the  world  deserve  respect. 

He  should  be  born  grey-headed,  that  will  bear 

The  weight  of  empire.     Judgment  of  the  life, 

Free  state,  arid  reputation,  of  a  man, 

(If  it  be  just  and  worthy,)  dwells  so  dark, 

That  it  denies  access  to  sun  and  moon : 

The  soul's  eye,  sharpen' d  with  that  sacred  liglib 

Of  whom  the  sun  itsejf  is  but  a  beam, 

Must  only  give  that  judgment.     0,  how  much 

Err  those  kings  then,  that  play  with  life  and  death ; 

And  nothing  put  into  their  serious  states 

But  humour  and  their  lusts  ;  for  which  alone 

Men  long  for  kingdoms :  whose  huge  counterpoise 

In  cares  and  dangers  could  a  fool  comprise, 

He  would  not  be  a  king,  but  would  be  wise  \ 

[The  selections  which  I  have  made  from  this  poet  are  sufficient  to 
give  an  idea  of  that  "full  and  heightened  style"  which  Webster  makes 
characteristic  of  Chapman.  Of  all  the  English  play-writers,  Chapman 
perhaps  approaches  nearest  to  Shakspeare  in  the  descriptive  and  didactic, 
in  passages  which  are  less  purely  dramatic.  Dramatic  imitation  was  not 


88  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

his  talent.  He  could  not  go  out  of  himself,  as  Shakspeare  could  shift  at 
pleasure,  to  inform  and  animate  other  existences,  but  in  himself  he  had 
an  eye  to  perceive  and  a  soul  to  embrace  all  forms.  He  would  have  made 
a  great  epic  poet,  if  indeed  he  has  not  abundantly  shown  himself  to  be 
one ;  for  his  Homer  is  not  so  properly  a  translation  as  the  stories  of 
Achilles  and  Ulysses  re-written.  The  earnestness  and  passion  which  he 
has  put  into  every  part  of  ,these  poems  would  be  incredible  to  a  reader  of 
mere  modern  translations.  His  almost  Greek  zeal  for  the  honour  of  his 
heroes  is  only  paralleled  by  that  fierce  spirit  of  Hebrew  bigotry,  with  which 
Milton,  as  if  personating  one  of  the  zealots  of  the  old  law,  clothed  himself 
when  he  sat  down  to  paint  the  acts  of  Samson  against  the  uncircum- 
cised.  The  great  obstacle  to  Chapman's  translations  being  read  is  their 
unconquerable  quaintness.  He  pours  out  in  the  same  breath  the  most 
just  and  natural  and  the  most  violent  and  forced  expressions.  He  seems 
to  grasp  whatever  words  come  first  to  hand  during  the  impetus  of  inspi 
ration,  as  if  all  other  must  be  inadequate  to  the  divine  meaning.  But 
passion  (the  ah1  in  all  in  poetry)  is  everywhere  present,  raising  the  low, 
dignifying  the  mean,  and  putting  sense  into  the  absurd.  He  makes  his 
readers  glow,  weep,  tremble,  take  any  affection  winch  he  pleases,  be  moved 
by  words  or  in  spite  of  them,  be  disgusted  and  overcome  their  disgust. 
I  have  often  thought  that  the  vulgar  misconception  of  Shakspeare,  as  of 
a  wild  irregular  genius  "  in  whom  great  faults  are  compensated  by  great 
beauties,"  would  be  really  true,  applied  to  Chapman.  But  there  is  no 
scale  by  which  to  balance  such  disproportionate  subjects  as  the  faults  and 
beauties  of  a  great  genius.  To  set  off  the  former  with  any  fairness  against 
the  latter,  the  pain  which  they  give  us  should  be  in  some  proportion  to 
the  pleasure  which  we  receive  from  the  other.  As  these  transport  us  to 
the  highest  heaven,  those  should  steep  us  in  agonies  infernal.] 


A  CHALLENGE  FOE  BEAUTY.    BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

f'etrocella,  a  fair  Spanish  lady,  loves  Montferrers,  an  English  sea  cap 
tain,  who  is  captive  to  Valladaura,  a  noble  Spaniard. —  Valladawa 
loves  the  lady ;  and  employs  Montferrers  to  be  the  messenger  of  his 
love  to  her. 

PETBOCELLA.    MONTFEBEEBS. 

Pet.  "What  art  thou  in  thy  country  ? 
Mont.  There,  a  man. 
Pet.  "What  here  ? 

Mont.  No  better  than  you  see ;  a  slave. 
Pet.  Whose? 

Mont.  His  that  hath  redeem' d  me. 
Pet.  VaUadaura's  ?  ^ 

Mont.  Yes,  I  proclaim  't ;  I  that  was  once  mine  own, 
-  Am  now  become  his  creature. 


A  CHALLENGE  FOE  BEAUTY.  89 

Pet.  I  perceive, 

Tour  coming  is  to  make  me  think  you  noble 

"Would  you  persuade  me  deem  your  friend  a  god  ? 

For  only  such  make  men.     Are  you  a  gentleman  ? 
Mont.  Not  here ;  for  I  am  all  dejectedness, 

Captive  to  fortune,  and  a  slave  to  want ; 

I  cannot  call  these  clothes  I  wear  mine  own ; 

I  do  not  eat  but  at  another's  cost ; 

This  air  I  breathe  is  borrow' d ;  ne'er  was  man 

So  poor  and  abject.     I  have  not  so  much 

In  all  thk  universe  as  a  thing  to  leave, 

Or  a  country  I  can  freely  boast  is  mine. 

My  essence  and  my  being  is  another's. 

What  should  I  say  ?     I  am  not  anything ; 

And  I  possess  as  little. 
Pet.  Tell  me  that  ? 

Come,  come,  I  know  you  to  be  no  such  man. 

You  are  a  soldier  valiant  and  renown' d ; 

Tour  carriage  tried  by  land,  and  proved  at  sea  j 

Of  which  I  have  heard  such  full  expression, 

No  contradiction  can  persuade  you  less  j 

And  in  this  faith  I  am  constant. 
Mont.  A  mere  worm, 

Trod  on  by  every  fate. 
Pet.  Raised  by  your  merit 

To  be  a  common  argument  through  Spain, 

And  speech  at  princes'  tables,  for  your  worth ; 

Tour  presence  when  you  please  to  expose  *t  abroad 

Attracts  all  eyes,  and  draws  them  after  you ; 

And  those  that  understand  you,  call  their  friends,   . 

And  pointing  through  the  street  say,  This  is  he 

This  is  that  brave  and  noble  Englishman, 

Whom  soldiers  strive  to  make  their  precedent, 

And  other  men  their  wonder. 
Mont.  This  your  scorn 

Makes  me  appear  more  abject  to  myself, 

Than  all  diseases  I  have  tasted  yet 

Had  power  to  asperse  upon  me ;  and  yet,  lady, 

I  could  say  something,  durst  I. 
Pet.  Speak  't  at  once. 
Mont.  And  yet 


00  THOMAS  HETWOOD. 

Pet.  Nay,  but  we  '11  admit  no  pause. 

Mont.  I  know  not  how  my  phrase  may  relish  you, 

And  loath  I  were  to  offend ;  even  in  what 's  past 

I  must  confess  I  was  too  bold.     Farewell ; 

I  shall  no  more  distaste  you. 
Pet.  Sir,  you  do  not ; 

I  do  proclaim  you  do  not.     Stay,  I  charge  you ; 

Or,  as  you  say  you  have  been  fortune's  scorn, 

So  ever  prove  to  woman. 
Mont.  You  charge  deeply, 

And  yet  now  I  bethink  me •  . 

Pet.  As  you  are  a  soldier, 

And  Englishman,  have  hope  to  be  redeem 'd " 

From  this  your  scorned  bondage  you  sustain ; 

Have  comfort  in  your  mother  and  fair  sister ; 

Renown  so  blazed  in  the  ears  of  Spain ; 

Hope  to  rebreathe  that  air  you  tasted  first ; 

So  tell  me  — 
Mont.  What? 
Pet.  Your  apprehension  catch' d, 

And  almost  was  in  sheaf 

Mont.  Lady,  I  shall. 

Pet.  And  in  a  word. 

Mont.    I  will. 

Pet.  Pronounce  it  then.  ' 

Mont.  I  love  you. 

Pet.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Mont.  Still  it  is  my  misery 

Thus  to  be  mock'd  in  all  things. 
Pet.  Pretty,  faith. 
Mont.  I  look'd  thus  to  be  laugh' d  at ;  my  estate 

And  fortunes,  I  confess,  deserve  no  less ; 

That  made  me  so  unwilling  to  denounce 

Mine  own  derisions  !  but,  alas !  I  find 

No  nation,  sex,  complexion,  birth,  degree, 

But  jest  at  want,  and  mock  at  misery. 
Pet.  Lo-ve  me  ? 
Mont.  I  do,  I  do ;  and  maugre  fate, 

And  epite  of  all  sinister  evil,  shall. 

And  now  I  charge  you,  by  that  filial  zeal 

You  owe  your  father,  by  the  memory 


A  CHALLENGE  FOB  BEAUTY. 


91 


Of  your  dear  mother,  by  the  joys  you  hope 

In  blessed  marriage,  by  the  fortunate  issue     . 

Stored  in  your  womb,  by  these  and  all  things  else 

That  you  can  style  with  goodness  ;  instantly, 

"Without  evasion,  trick,  or  circumstance, 

Nay,  least  premeditation  answer  me, 

Affect  you  me,  or  no  ? 
Pet.  How  speak  you  that  ? 
Mont.  Without  demur  or  pause. 
Pet.  Give  me  but  time 

To  sleep  upon  't. 
Mont.  I  pardon  you  no  minute ;  not  so  much, 

As  to  apparel  the  least  phrase  you  speak. 

Speak  in  the  shortest  sentence. 
Pet.  You  have  vanquish' d  me, 

At  mine  own  weapon :  noble  sir,  I  love  you : 

And  what  my  heart  durst  never  tell  my  tongue, 

Lest  it  should  blab  my  thoughts,  at  last  I  speak, 

And  iterate ;  I  love  you. 
Mont.  0,  my  happiness ! 

What  wilt  thou  feel  me  still  ?  art  thou  not  weary 

Of  making  me  thy  May-game,  to  possess  me 

Of  such  a  treasure's  mighty  magazine, 

Not  suffer  me  to  enjoy  it ;  ta'en  with  this  hand, 

With  that  to  give  't  another  ? 
Pet.  You  are  sad,  sir ; 

Be  so  no  more  :  if  you  have  been  dejected, 

It  lies  in  me  to  mount  you  to  that  height 

You  could  not  aim  at  greater.     I  am  yours. 

These  lips,  that  only  witness  it  in  air, 

Now  with  this  truth  confirm  it.  [kisses  Mm. 

Mont.  I  was  born  to  't ; 

And  it  shall  out  at  once. 
Pet.  Sir;  you  seem  passionate ; 

As  if  my  answer  pleased  not. 
Mont.  Now  my  death ; 

For  mine  own  tongue  must  kill  me :  noble  lady, 

You  have  endear' d  me  to  you,  but  my  vow 

Was,  ne'er  to  match  with  any,  of  what  state 

Or  birth  soever,  till  before  the  contract 

Some  one  thing  I  impose  her. 


92  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Pet.  She  to  do  it  ? 

Mont.  Or,  if  she  fail  me  in  my  first  demand, 

I  to  abjure  her  ever. 
Pet.  I  am  she, 

That  beg  to  be  employ 'd  so :  name  a  danger, 

"Whose  very  face  would  fright  all  womanhood, 

And  manhood  put  in  trance,  nay,  whose  aspect 

"Would  ague  such  as  should  but  hear  it  told ; 

But  to  the  sad  beholder,  prove  like  those 

That  gazed  upon  Medusa's  snaky  locks, 

And  turn'd  them  into  marble :  these  and  more, 

Should  you  but  speak 't,  I'd  do. 
Mont.  And  swear  to  this  ? 
Pet.  I  vow  it  by  my  honour,  my  best  hopes, 

And  all  that  I  wish  gracious :  name  it  then, 

For  I  am  in  a  longing  in  my  soul, 

To  show  my  love's  expression. 
Mont.  You  shall  then  — 
Pet.  I  '11  do  it,  as  I  am  a  virgin : 

Lie  it  within  mortality,  I  '11  do  it. 
Mont.  You  shall  — 
Pet.  I  will :  that  which  appears  in  you 

So  terrible  to  speak,  I  '11  joy  to  act ; 

And  take  pride  in  performance. 
Mont.  Then  you  shall  — 
Pet.  What,  soldier,  what  ? 
Mont.  love  noble  Valladaura 

And  at  his  soonest  appointment  marry  him. 
Pet.  Then  I  am  lost. 

Miracle  of  Beauty. 
I  remember1, 

There  lived  a  Spanish  princess  of  our  name, 
An  Isabella  too,  and  not  long  since, 
"Who  from  her  palace  windows  steadfastly 
Gazing  upon  the  sun,  her  hair  took  fire. 
Some  augurs  held  it  as  a  prodigy : 
I  rather  think  she  was  Latona's  brood, 
And  that  Apollo  courted  her  bright  hair ; 
Else,  envying  that  her  tresses  put  down  his, 
i  A  proud  Spanish  princess  relates  this. 


A  WOMAN  KILLED  WITH 

He  scorch' d  them  off  in  envy :  nor  dare  I 
(From  her  derived)  expose  me  to  his  beams ; 
Lest,  as  he  burns  the  phoenix  in  her  nest, 
Made  of  the  sweetest  aromatic  wood, 
Either  in  love,  or  envy,  he  agree 
To  use  the  like  combustion  upon  me. 


THE  ROYAL  KING  AND  THE  LOYAL  SUBJECT. 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Nolle  Traitor. 

A  Persian  history 

I  read  of  late,  how  the  great  Sophy  once 
Plying  a  noble  falcon  at  the  herne, 
In  comes  by  chance  an  eagle  sousing  by : 
"Which  when  the  hawk  espies,  leaves  her  first  game, 
And  boldly  ventures  on  the  king  of  birds ; 
Long  tugg'd  they  in  the  air,  till  at  the  length 
The  falcon  (better  breathed)  seized  on  the  eagle, 
And  struck  it  dead.     The  barons  praised  the  bird, 
And  for  her  courage  she  was  peerless  held. 
The  emperor,  after  some  deliberate  thoughts, 
Made  her  no  less ;  he  caused  a  crown  of  gold 
To  be  new  framed,  and  fitted  to  her  head, 
In  honour  of  her  courage  :  then  the  bird, 
"With  great  applause,  was  to  the  market-place 
In  triumph  borne  ;  where,  when  her  utmost  worth 
Had  been  proclaim' d,  the  common  executioner 
First  by  the  king's  command  took  off  her  crown, 
And  after  with  a  sword  struck  off  her  head, 
As  one  no  better  than  a  noble  traitor 
Unto  the  king  of  birds. 


A  WOMAN  KILLED  WITH  KINDNESS :  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Mr.  Frankford  discovers  ihat  his  Wife  has  oeen  unfaithful  to  hint 

Mrs.  Fra.  0,  by  what  words,  what  title,  or  what  name 
Shall  I  entreat  your  pardon  ?    Pardon !  0  ! 


94  ,  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

I  am  as  far  from  hoping  such  sweet  grace, 
As  Lucifer  from  heaven.     To  call  you  husband  ! 
(0  me  most  wretched !)  I  have  lost  that  name : 
-I  am  no  more  your  wife. 

Fran.  Spare  thou  thy  tears,  for  I  will  weep  for  thee ; 
And  keep  thy  countenance,  for  I  '11  blush  for  thee. 
Now,  I  protest,  T  think,  'tis  I  am  tainted, 
For  I  am  most  ashamed  ;  and  'tis  more  hard 
For  me  to  look  upon  thy  guilty  face, 
Than  on  the  sun's  clear  brow:  what  wouldst  thou  speak  ? 

Mrs,  Fra.  I  would  I  had  no  tongue,  no  ears,  no  eyes, 
No  apprehension,  no  capacity. 
"When  do  you  spurn  me  like  a  dog  ?  when  tread  me 
Under  feet  ?  when  drag  me  by  the  hair  ? 
Though  I  deserve  a  thousand  thousand  fold 
More  than  you  can  inflict :  yet,  once  my  husband, 
For  womanhood,  to  which  I  am  a  shame, 
Though  once  an  ornament ;  even  for  his  sake, 
That  hath  redeem' d  our  souls,  mark  not  my  face, 
Nor  hack  me  with  your  sword :  but  let  me  go  » 
Perfect  and  undeformed  to  my  tomb. 
I  am  not  worthy  that  I  should  prevail 
In  the  least  suit ;  no,  not  to  speak  to  you, 
Nor  look  on  you,  nor  to  be  in  your  presence : 
Yet  as  an  abject  this  one  suit  I  crave ; 
This  granted,  I  am  ready  for  my  grave. 

Fran.  My  God,  with  patience  arm  me !  rise,  nay,  rise, 
And  I  '11  debate  with  thee.     "Was  it  for  want 
Thou  play'dst  the  strumpet  ?     Wast  thou  not  supplied 
"With  every  pleasure,  fashion,  and  new  toy ; 
Nay,  even  beyond  my  calling  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  I  was. 

Fran.  "Was  it  then  disability  in  me  ? 

Or  in  thine  eye  seem'd  he  a  properer  man  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  O  no. 

Fran   Did  not  I  lodge  thee  in  my  bosom  ? 
"Wear  thee  in  my  heart  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  You  did. 

Fran.  I  did  indeed,  witness  my  tears  I  did. 

Gro  bring  my  infants  hither.     0  Nan,  0  Nan ; 
If  neither  fear  of  shjfme,  regard  of  honour, 


A  WOMAN  KILLED  WITH  KINDNESS.  '95 

The  blemish  "of  my  house,  nor  my  dear  love, 
Could  have  withheld  thee  from  so  lewd  a  fact, 
Yet  for  these  infants,  these  young  harmless  souls, 
On  whose  white  brows  thy  shame  is  character 'd, 
And  grows  in  greatness  as  they  wax  in  years ; 
Look  but  on  them,  and  melt  away  in  tears. 
Away  with  them ;  lest  as  her  spotted  body 
Hath  stain' d  their  names  with  stripe  of  bastardy, 
So  her  adulterous  breath  may  blast  their  spirits 
With  her  infectious  thoughts.     Away  with  them. 

Mrs.  Fra.  In  this  one  life  I  die  ten  thousand  deaths. 

Fran.  Stand  up,  stand  up,  I  will  do  nothing  rashly. 
I  will  retire  awhile  into  my  study, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  thy  sentence  presently.          \_Eorit. 

He  returns  tvith  Cranwell  Ms  friend.     She  falls  on  her  knees. 

Fran.  My  words  are  register 'd  in  heaven  already. 

With  patience  hear  me.     I  '11  not  martyr  thee, 

Nor  mark  thee  for  a  strumpet ;  but  with  usage 

Of  more  humility  torment  thy  soul, 

And  kill  thee  even  with  kindness. 
Cran.  Mr.  Frankford. 
Fran.  Good  Mr.  Cranwell. — Woman,  hear  thy  judgment ; 

G-o  make  thee  ready  in  thy  best  attire  ; 

Take  with  thee  all  thy  gowns,  all  thy  apparel : 

Leave  nothing  that  did  ever  call  thee  mistress, 

Or  by  whose  sight,  being  left  here  in  the  house, 

I  may  remember  such  a  woman  was. 

Choose  thee  a  bed  and  hangings  for  thy  chamber  ; 

Take  with  thee  everything  which  hath  thy  mark, 

And  get  thee  to  my  manor  seven  miles  off ; 

Where  live  ;  'tis  thine,  I  freely  give  it  thee  : 

My  tenants  by  shall  furnish  thee  with  wains 

To  carry  all  thy  stuff  within  two  hours  ; 

No  longer  will  I  limit  thee  my  sight. 

Choose  which  of  all  my  servants  thou  likest  best, 

And  they  are  thine  to  attend  thee. 
Mrs.  Fra.  A  mild  sentence. 
Fran.  But  as  thou  hopest  for  heaven,,  as  thou  believest 

Thy  name  's  recorded  in  the  book  of  life, 

I  charge  thee  never  after  this  sad  day 


96  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


To  see  me  or  to  meet  me  ;  or  to  send 

By  word,  or  writing,  gift,  or  otherwise, 

To  move  me,  by  thyself,  or  by  thy  friends  ; 

Nor  challenge  any  part  in  my  two  children. 

So  farewell,  Nan  ;  for  we  will  henceforth  be 

As  we  had  never  seen,  ne'er  more  shall  see. 
Mrs.  Fra.  How  full  my  heart  is,  in  mine  eyes  appears  ; 

What  wants  in  words,  I  will  supply  in  tears. 
Fran.  Come,  take  your  coach,  your  stuff;  all  must  along  : 

Servants  and  all  make  ready,  all  be  gone. 

It  was  thy  hand  cut  two  hearts  out  of  one. 

CRAI^WELL,  FRAFKFOKD,  and  NICHOLAS,  a  Servant. 

Omn.  Why  do  you  search  each  room  about  your  house, 
Now  that  you  have  despatch'  d  your  wife  away  ? 

Fran.  0  sir,  to  see  that  nothing  may  be  left 

That  ever  was  my  wife's  :  I  loved  her  dearly, 

And  when  I  do  but  think  of  her  unkindness, 

My  thoughts  are  all  in  hell  ;  to  avoid  which  torment, 

I  would  not  have  a  bodkin  nor  a  cuff, 

A  bracelet,  necklace,  or  rebato  wire, 

Nor  anything  that  ever  was  call'd  her's, 

Left  me,  by  which  I  might  remember  her. 

Seek  round  about. 

Nic.  Here  's  her  lute  flung  in  a  corner. 

Fran.  Her  lute  ?    O  Glod  !  upon  this  instrument 
Her  fingers  have  ran  quick  division, 
Swifter  than  that  which  now  divides  our  hearts. 
These  frets  have  made  me  pleasant,  that  have  now 
Frets  of  my  heart-strings  made.     O  master  Cranwell, 
Oft  hath  she  made  this  melancholy  wood 
(|Now  mute  and  dumb  for  her  disastrous  chance) 
§peak  sweetly  many  a  note,  sound  many  a  strain 
To  her  own  ravishing  voice,  which  being  well  strung, 
What  pleasant  strange  airs  have  they  jointly  rung  ! 
Post  with  it  after  her  ;  now  nothing  's  left  ; 
Of  her  and  her's  I  am  at  once  bereft. 

Nicholas  overtakes  Mrs.  Frankford  on  Tier  journey,  and  delivers  the  lute. 

JUrs.  Fra.  I  know  the  lute  ;  oft  have  I  sung  to  thee  : 
"We  both  are  out  of  tune,  both  out  of  time. 


A  WOMAN  KILL'D  WITH  KIKPFEPS  97 

NIC.  My  master  commends  him  unto  ye  ; 

There  's  all  he  can  find  that  was  ever  yours. 

He  prays  you  to  forget  him,  and  so  he  bids  you  farewell. 

Mrs.  Fra.  I  thank  him,  he  is  kind,  and  ever  was. 
All  you  that  have  true  feeling  of  my  grief, 
That  know  my  loss,  and  have  relenting  hearts, 
Gird  me  about ;  and  help  me  with  your  tears 
To  wash  my  spotted  sins :  my  lute  shall  groan ; 
It  cannot  weep,  but  shall  lament  my  moan. 
If  you  return  unto  your  master,  say, 
(Though  not  from  me,  for  I  am  unworthy 
To  blast  his  name  so  with  a  strumpet's  tongue) 
That  you  have  seen  me  weep,  wish  myself  dead. 
Nay  you  may  say  too  (for  my  vow  is  past) 
Last  night  you  saw  me  eat  and  drink  my  last. 
This  to  your  master  you  may  say  and  swear : 
For  it  is  writ  in  heaven,  and  decreed  here. 
Gro  break  this  lute  on  my  coach's  wheel, 
As  the  last  music  that  I  e'er  shall  make ; 
Not  as  my  husband's  gift,  but  my  farewell 
To  all  earth's  joy ;  and  so  your  master  tell. 

NIC.  I  '11  do  your  commendations. 

Mrs.  Fra.  0  no  : 

I  dare  not  so  presume ;  nor  to  my  children : 
I  am  disclaim' d  in  both,  alas !  I  am. 

0  never  teach  them,  when  they  come  to  speak, 
To  name  the  name  of  mother  ;  chide  their  tongue 
If  they  by  chance  light  on  that  hated  word 

Tell  them  'tis  naught,  for  when  that  word  they  name 
(Poor  pretty  souls  !)  they  harp  on  their  own  shame. 
So,  now  unto  my  coach,  then  to  my  home, 
So  to  my  death-bed  ;  for  from  this  sad  hour, 

1  never  will  nor  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  taste 
Of  any  cates  that  may  preserve  my  life : 

I  never  will  nor  smile,  nor  sleep,  nor  rest. 

But  when  my  tears  have  wash'd  my  black  soul  white, 

Sweet  Saviour,  to  thy  hands  I  yield  my  sprite. 

Mrs.   Frankford  (dying).       Sir  Francis    Acton    (her   brother).      Sir 
Charles  Mountford,  Mr.  Malby,  and  oilier  of  her  husband' s  friends. 

Mai.  How  fare  you,  Mrs.  Frankford  ? 


98  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Mrs.  Fra.  Sick,  sick,  0  sick :  give  me  some  air.    I  pray 

Tell  me,  0  tell  me,  where  is  Mr.  Frankford. 

Will  he  not  deign  to  see  me  ere  I  die  ? 
Mai.  Yes,  Mrs.  Frankford :  divers  gentlemen 

Your  loving  neighbours,  with  that  just  request 

Have  moved  and  told  him  of  your  weak  estate  : 

Who,  though  with  much  ado  to  get  belief, 

Examining  of  the  general  circumstance, 

Seeing  your  sorrow  and  your  penitence, 

And  hearing  therewithal  the  great  desire 

You  have  to  see  him  ere  you  left  the  world, 

He  gave  to  us  his  faith  to  follow  us ; 

And  sure  he  will  be  here  immediately. 
Mrs.  Fra.  You  have  half  revived  me  with  the  pleasing  news : 

Eaise  me  a  little  higher  in  my  bed. 

Blush  I  not,  brother  Acton  ?  blush  I  not,  Sir  Charles  ? 

Can  you  not  read  my  fault  writ  in  my  cheek  ? 

Is  not  my  crime  there  ?  tell  me,  gentlemen. 
Char.  Alas !  good  mistress,  sickness  hath  not  left  you 

Blood  in  your  face  enough  to  make  you  blush. 
Mrs.  Fra.  Then  sickness,  like  a  friend,  my  fault  would  hide. 

Is  my  husband  come  ?  my  soul  but  tarries 

His  arrival,  then  I  am  fit  for  heaven. 
Acton.  I  came  to  chide  you,  but  my  words  of  hate 

Are  turn'd  to  pity  and  compassionate  grief. 

I  came  to  rate  you,  but  my  brawls,  you  see, 

Melt  into  tears,  and  I  must  weep  by  thee. 

Here  's  Mr.  Frankford  now. 

MB.  FBAKKFOBD  enters. 

Fran.  G-ood-morrow,  brother ;  morrow,  gentlemen : 
Grod,  that  hath  laid  this  cross  upon  our  heads, 
Might  (had  he  pleased)  have  made  our  cause  of  meeting 
On  a  more  fair  and  more  contented  ground : 
But  he  that  made  us,  made  us  to  this  woe. 

Mrs.  Fra.  And  is  he  come  ?  methinks  that  voice  I  know. 

Fran.  How  do  you,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  Well,  Mr.  Frankford,  well ;  but  shall  be  better 
I  hope  within  this  hour.     Will  you  vouchsafe 
(Out  of  your  grace  and  your  humanity) 
To  take  a  spotted  strumpet  by  the  hand  ? 


A  WOMAN  KILL'D  WITH  KINDNESS.  99 

Fran.  This  hand  once  held  my  heart  in  faster  bonds 
Than  now  'tis  griped  by  me.     God  pardon  them 
That  made  us  first  break  hold. 

Mrs.  Fra.  Amen,  amen. 

Out  of  my  zeal  to  heaven,  whither  I  'm  now  bound, 

I  was  so  impudent  to  wish  you  here ; 

And  once  more  beg  your  pardon.     O  !  good  man, 

And  father  to  my  children,  pardon  me. 

Pardon,  O  pardon  me :  my  fault  so  heinous  is, 

That  if  you  in  this  world  forgive  it  not, 

Heaven  will  not  clear  it  in  the  world  to  come. 

Faintness  hath  so  usurp' d  upon  my  knees 

That  kneel  I  cannot :  but  on  my  heart's  knees 

My  prostrate  soul  lies  thrown  down  at  your  feet 

To  beg  your  gracious  pardon.     Pardon,  O  pardon  me  I 

Fran.  As  freely  from  the  low  depth  of  my  soul 
As  my  Redeemer  hath  for  us  given  his  death, 
I  pardon  thee  ;  I  will  shed  tears  for  thee  ; 
Pray  with  thee : 

And,  in  mere  pity  of  thy  weak  estate, 
I  '11  wish  to  die  with  thee. 

All.  So  do  we  all. 

Fran.  Even  as  I  hope  for  pardon  at  that  day, 

"When  the  great  Judge  of  heaven  in  scarlet  sits, 
So  be  thou  pardon' d.     Though  thy  rash  offence 
Divorced  our  bodies,  thy  repentant  tears 
Unite  our  souls. 

Char.  Then  comfort,  mistress  Frankford ; 

You  see  your  husband  hath  forgiven  your  fall ; 
Then  rouse  your  spirits,  and  cheer  your  fainting  soul. 

Susan.  How  is  it  with  you  ?«. 

Acton.  How  d'  ye  feel  yourself? 

Mrs.  Fra.  Not  of  this  world. 

Fran.  I  see  you  are  not,  and  I  weep  to  see  it. 
My  wife,  the  mother  to  my  pretty  babes ; 
Both  those  lost  names  I  do  restore  thee  back, 
And  with  this  kiss  I  wed  thee  once  again : 
Though  thou  art  wounded  in  thy  honour 'd  name, 
And  with  that  grief  upon  thy  death-bed  liest ; 
Honest  in  heart,  upon  my  soul,  thou  diest. 

H2 


100  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Mrs.  Fra.  Pardon' d  on  earth,  soul,  thou  in  heaven  art  free 
Once  more.     Thy  wife  dies  thus  embracing  thee. 

[Heywood  is  a  sort  of  prose  Shakspeare.  His  scenes  are  to  the  full  as 
natural  and  affecting.  But  we  miss  the  Poet,  that  which  in  Shakspeare 
always  appears  out  and  above  the  surface  of  the  nature.  Heywood's 
characters,  his  country  gentlemen,  &c.  are  exactly  what  we  see  (but  of 
the  best  kind  of  what  we  see)  in  life.  Shakspeare  makes  us  believe,  while 
we  are  among  his  lovely  creations,  that  they  are  nothing  but  what  we  are 
familiar  with,  as  in  dreams  new  things  seem  old :  but  we  awake,  and  sigh 
for  the  difference.] 


THE  ENGLISH  TEAYELLEE.    BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Young  Q-eraldine  comes  home  from  Ms  travels,  and  finds  his  playfellow, 
that  should  have  been  his  ^vife,  married  to  old  Wincott.  The  old  gen 
tleman  receives  him  hospitably  as  a  friend  of  his  father's ;  takes  delight 
to  hear  him  tell  of  his  travels,  and  treats  him  in  all  respects  like  a 
second  father ;  his  house  being  always  open  to  him.  Young  Qeraldine 
and  the  Wife  agree  not  to  wrong  the  old  gentleman. 

"WIFE.     GEEALDINE. 

Ger.  "We  now  are  left  alone. 

Wife.  Why,  say  we  be  ;  who  should  be  jealous  of  us  ? 
This  is  not  first  of  many  hundred  nights, 
That  we  two  have  been  private,  from  the  first 
Of  our  acquaintance  ;  when  our  tongues  but  dipt 
Our  mother's  tongue,  and  could  not  speak  it  plain, 
"We  knew  each  other :  as  in  stature,  so 
Increased  our  sweet  society.     Since  your  travel, 
And  my  late  marriage,  through  my  husband's  love, 
Midnight  has  been  as  mid-day,  and  my  bedchamber 
As  free  to  you,  as  your  own  father's  house, 
And  you  as  welcome  to  it. 

Ger.  I  must  confess, 

It  is  in  you,  your  noble  courtesy ; 

In  him,  a  more  than  common  confidence, 

And,  in  his  age,  can  scarce  find  precedent. 

Wife.  Most  true :  it  is  withal  an  argument, 
That  both  our  virtues  are  so  deep  imprest 
In  his  good  thoughts,  he  knows  we  cannot  err. 


THE  ENGLISH  TEAVELLEB.  101 

Ger.  A  villain  were  he,  to  deceive  such  trust, 

Or  (were  there  one)  a  much  worse  character. 
Wife.  And  she  no  less,  whom  either  beauty,  youth, 

Time,  place,  or  opportunity  could  tempt 

To  injure  such  a  husband. 
Gcr.  You  deserve, 

Even  for  his  sake,  to  be  for  ever  young ; 

And  he,  for  yours,  to  have  his  youth  renew' d : 

So  mutual  is  your  true  conjugal  love. 

Yet  had  the  fates  so  pleased — 
Wife.  I  know  your  meaning. 

It  was  once  voiced,  that  we  two  should  have  match' d ; 

The  world  so  thought  and  many  tongues  so  spake ; 

But  Heaven  hath  now  disposed  us  other  ways : 

And  being  as  it  is  (a  thing  in  me 

"Which  I  protest  was  never  wish'd  nor  sought) 

Now  done,  I  not  repent  it. 
Ger.  In  those  times 

Of  all  the  treasures  of  my  hopes  and  love 

You  were  the  exchequer,  they  were  stored  in  you ; 

And  had  not  my  unfortunate  travel  cross' d  them, 

They  had  been  here  reserved  still. 
Wife.  Troth  they  had, 

I  should  have  been  your  trusty  treasurer. 
Ger.  However,  let  us  love  still,  I  entreat ; 

That,  neighbourhood  and  breeding  will  allow ; 

So  much,  the  laws  divine  and  human  both 

'Twixt  brother  and  a  sister  will  approve : 

Heaven  then  forbid  that  they  should  limit  us 

Wish  well  to  one  another. 
Wife.  If  they  should  not, 

We  might  proclaim  they  were  not  charitable, 

Which  were  a  deadly  sin  but  to  conceive. 
Ger.  Will  you  resolve  me  one  thing  ? 
Wife.  As  to  one, 

That  in  my  bosom  hath  a  second  place, 

Next  my  dear  husband. 
Ger.  That  's  the  thing  I  crave, 

And  only  that ;  to  have  a  place  next  him. 
Wife.  Presume  on  that  already,  but  perhaps 

You  mean  to  stretch  it  further. 


102  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Ger.  Only  thus  far : 

Your  husband 's  old ;  to  whom  my  soul  does  wish 

A  Nestor's  age,  so  much  he  merits  from  me ; 

Yet  if  (as  proof  and  nature  daily  teach, 

Men  cannot  always  live,  especially 

Such  as  are  old  and  crazed  ;)  he  be  called  hence, 

Fairly,  in  full  maturity  of  time, 

And  we  two  be  reserved  to  after  life ; 

Will  you  confer  your  widowhood  on  me  ? 
Wife.  You  ask  the  thing  I  was  about  to  beg ; 

Your  tongue  hath  spoke  mine  own  thoughts. 
Ger.  'Tis  enough,  that  word 

Alone  instates  me  happy :  now,  so  please  you, 

"We  will  divide ;  you  to  your  private  chamber, 

I  to  find  out  my  friend. 
Wife.  You  are  now  my  brother ; 

But  then,  my  second  husband.  [They  part. 

Young  Geraldine  absents  himself  from  the  house  of  Mr.  Wincott  longer 
than  is  usual  to  him.  The  old  gentleman  sends  for  him,  to  find  out  the 
reason.  He  pleads  his  father's  commands. 

WlNCOTT.      GrEBALDINE. 

Ger.  "With  due  acknowledgement 

Of  all  your  more  than  many  courtesies  : 

You  have  been  my  second  lather,  and  your  wife 

My  noble  and  chaste  mistress ;  all  your  servants 

At  my  command ;  and  this  your  bounteous  table 

As  free  and  common  as  my  father's  house : 

Neither  'gainst  any  or  the  least  of  these 

Can  I  commence  just  quarrel. 
Win.  What  might  then  be 

The  cause  of  this  constraint,  in  thus  absenting 

Yourself  from  such  as  love  you  ? 
Ger.  Out  of  many, 

I  will  propose  some  few :  the  care  I  have 

Of  your  (as  yet  unblemished)  renown ; 

The  untouch'd  honour  of  your  virtuous  wife ; 

And  (which  I  value  least,  yet  dearly  too) 

My  own  fair  reputation. 
Win.  How  can  these, 

In  any  way  be  question' d  ? 


THE    ENGLISH  TEAYELLEE.  103 

Ger.  O,  dear  sir,  .__, 

Bad  tongues  have  been  too  busy  with  us  all ; 
Of  which  I  never  yet  had  time  to  think, 
But  with  sad  thoughts  and  griefs  unspeakable. 
It  hath  been  whisper' d  by  some  wicked  ones, 
But  loudly  thunder 'd  in  my  father's  ears, 
By  some  that  have  malign' d  our  happiness 
(Heaven,  if  it  can  brook  slander,  pardon  them !)  ; 
That  this  my  customary  coming  hither, 
Hath  been  to  base  and  sordid  purposes ; 
To  wrong  your  bed,  injure  her  chastity, 
And  be  mine  own  undoer :  which,  how  false 

Win.  As  heaven  is  true,  I  know  it  — 

Ger.  Now  this  calumny 

Arriving  first  unto  my  father's  ears, 
His  easy  nature  was  induced  to  think 
That  these  things  might  perhaps  be  possible : 
I  answer 'd  him,  as  I  would  do  to  heaven, 
And  clear' d  myself  in  his  suspicious  thoughts 
As  truly,  as  the  high  all-knowing  Judge 
Shall  of  these  stains  acquit  me ;  which  are  merely 
Aspersions  and  untruths.     The  good  old  man 
Possess' d  with  my  sincerity,  and  yet  careful 
Of  your  renown,  her  honour,  and  my  fame, 
To  stop  the  worst  that  scandal  could  inflict, 
And  to  prevent  false  rumours,  charges  me, 
The  cause  removed,  to  take  away  the  effect ; 
"Which  only  could  be,  to  forbear  your  house : 
And  this  upon  his  blessing.     You  hear  all. 

Win.  And  I  of  all  acquit  you :  this  your  absence, 
With  which  my  love  most  cavill'd,  orators 
In  your  behalf.     Had  such  things  pass'd  betwixt  you, 
Not  threats  nor  chidings  could  have  driven  you  hence ; 
It  pleads  in  your  behalf,  and  speaks  in  her's ; 
And  arms  me  with  a  double  confidence 
Both  of  your  friendship  and  her  loyalty. 
I  am  happy  in  you  both,  and  only  doubtful 
"Which  of  you  two  doth  most  impart  my  love. 
You  shall  not  hence  to-night. 

Ger.  Pray,  pardon,  sir. 

Win.  You  are  in  your  lodging. 


104  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Oer,  But  my  father's  charge. 

Win.  My  conjuration  shall  dispense  with  that ; 

You  may  be  up  as  early  as  you  please, 

But  hence  to-night  you  shall  not. 
Ger.  You  are  powerful. 

Traveller's  Stories. 

Sir,  my  husband 

Hath  took  much  pleasure  in  your  strange  discourse 
About  Jerusalem  and  the  Holy  Land ; 
How  the  new  city  differs  from  the  old ; 
What  ruins  of  the  Temple  yet  remain ; 
And  whether  Sion,  and  those  hills  about, 
"With  these  adjacent  towns  and  villages, 
Keep  that  proportion'd  distance  as  we  read: 
And  then  in  Borne,  of  that  great  Pyramis 
Bear'd  in  the  front,  on  four  lions  mounted ; 
How  many  of  those  idol  temples  stand, 
First  dedicated  to  their  heathen  gods, 
Which  ruin'd,  which  to  better  use  repair' d ; 
Of  their  Pantheon,  and  their  Capitol ; 
What  structures  are  demolish' d,  what  remain. 

—  And  what  more  pleasure  to  an  old  man's  ear, 
That  never  drew  save  his  own  country's  air, 
Than  hear  such  things  related  ? 

Shipwreck  by  Drink. 

This  gentleman  and  I 

Pass'd  but  just  now  by  your  next  neighbour's  house, 
Where,  as  they  say,  dwells  one  young  Lionel, 
An  unthrift  youth :  his  father  now  at  sea. 

There  this  night 

Was  a  great  feast. 

In  the  height  of  their  carousing,  all  their  brains 

Warm'd  with  the  heat  of  wine,  discourse  was  offer' d 

Of  ships  and  storms  at  sea :  when  suddenly, 

Out  of  his  giddy  wildness,  one  conceives 

The  room  wherein  they  quaff 'd  to  be  a  pinnace, 

Moving  and  floating,  and  the  confused  noise 

To  be  the  murmuring  winds,  gusts,  mariners ; 

That  their  unsteadfast  footing  did  proceed 


THE  ENGLISH  TEAVELLEB.  105 

From  rocking  of  the  vessel :  this  conceived, 

Each  one  begins  to  apprehend  the  danger, 

And  to  look  out  for  safety.     Fly,  saith  one, 

Tip  to  the  main  top,  and  discover.     He 

Climbs  by  the  bed-post  to  the  tester  there, 

Reports  a  turbulent  sea  and  tempest  towards ; 

And  wills  them,  if  they  '11  save  their  ship  and  lives, 

To  cast  their  lading  overboard.     At  this 

All  fall  to  work,  and  hoist  into  the  street, 

As  to  the  sea,  what  next  came  to  their  hand, 

Stools,  tables,  tressels,  trenchers,  bedsteads,  cups, 

Pots,  plate,  and  glasses.     Here  a  fellow  whistles ; 

They  take  him  for  the  boatswain :  one  lies  struggling 

Upon  the  floor,  as  if  he  swam  for  life : 

A  third  takes  the  base-viol  for  the  cock-boat, 

Sits  in  the  belly  on  't,  labours,  and  rows ; 

His  oar,  the  stick  with  which  the  fidler  play'd : 

A  fourth  bestrides  his  fellow,  thinking  to  scape 

(As  did  Arion)  on  the  dolphin's  back, 

Still  fumbling  on  a  gittern. The  rude  multitude, 

"Watching  without,  and  gaping  for  the  spoil 

Cast  from  the  windows,  went  by  the  ears  about  it ; 

The  constable  is  call'd  to  atone  the  broil ; 

Which  done,  and  hearing  such  a  noise  within 

Of  eminent  shipwreck,  enters  the  house,  and  finds  them 

In  this  confusion :  they  adore  his  staff, 

And  think  it  Neptune's  trident ;  and  that  he 

Comes  with  his  Tritons  (so  they  call'd  his  w^atch) 

To  calm  the  tempest  and  appease  the  waves : 

And  at  this  point  we  left  them. 

[This  piece  of  pleasant  exaggeration  (which  for  its  life  and  humour 
might  have  been  told,  or  acted,  by  Petruchio  himself)  gave  rise  to  the  title 
of  Cowley's  Latin  Play,  Naufragium  Joculare,  and  furnished  the  idea  of 
the  best  scene  in  it. — Heywood's  preface  to  this  play  is  interesting,  as  it 
shows  the  heroic  indiflerence  about  posterity,  which  some  of  these  great 
writers  seem  to  have  felt.  There  is  a  magnanimity  in  authorship  as  in 
everything  else. 

"  If,  reader,  thou  hast  of  this  play  been  an  auditor,  there  is  less  apology 
to  be  used  by  entreating  thy  patience.  This  tragi-comedy  (being  one  re 
served  amongst  220  in  which  I  had  either  an  entire  hand  or  at  the  least 
a  main  finger)  coming  accidentally  to  the  press,  and  I  having  intelligence 
tnereof,  thought  it  not  fit  that  it  should  pass  as  filius  populi,  a  bastard 
without  a  father  to  acknowledge  it :  true  it  is  that  my  plays  are  not  ex* 


]  06  THOMAS  HEYWOOD  AKD  EICHAED  BECOME. 

posed  to  the  world  in  volumes,  to  bear  the  title  of  works  (as  others*) :  one 
reason  is,  that  many  of  them  by  shifting  and  change  of  companies  have 
been  negligently  lost.  Others  of  them  are  still  retained  in  the  hands  of 
some  actors,  who  think  it  against  their  peculiar  profit  to  have  them  come 
in  print,  and  a  third  that  it  never  was  any  great  ambition  in  me  to  be  in 
this  kind  voluminously  read.  All  that  I  have  further  to  say  at  this  time 
is  only  this  :  censure  I  entreat  as  favourably  as  it  is  exposed  to  thy  view 
freely. 

"  Ever  studious  of  thy  pleasure  and  profit, 

"  TH.  HEYWOOD." 

Of  the  220  pieces  which  he  here  speaks  of  having  been  concerned  in, 
only  25,  as  enumerated  by  Dodsley,  have  come  down  to  us,  for  the  rea 
sons  assigned  in  the  preface.  The  rest  have  perished,  exposed  to  the 
casualties  of  a  theatre.  Heywood's  ambition  seems  to  have  been  confined 
to  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  players  speak  his  lines  while  he  lived.  It 
does  not  appear  that  he  ever  contemplated  the  possibility  of  being  read 
by  after-ages.  What  a  slender  pittance  of  fame  was  motive  sufficient  to 
the  production  of  such  plays  as  the  English  Traveller,  the  Challenge  for 
Beauty,  and  the  Woman  Kill'd  with  Kindness !  Posterity  is  bound  to 
take  care  that  a  writer  loses  nothing  by  such  a  noble  modesty.] 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIRE  WITCHES:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD  AND  RICHARD  BROOME. 

Jltfr.  Generous,  by  taking  off  a  bridle  from  a  seeming  horse  in  his  stable, 
discovers  it  to  be  his  wife,  who  has  transformed  herself  by  magical 
practices,  and  is  a  ivitch. 

ME.  G-EKEEOTJS.    WIFE.     BOBIN,  a  groom. 

Gen.  My  blood  is  turn'd  to  ice,  and  all  my  vitals 
Have  ceased  their  working.     Dull  stupidity 
Surpriseth  me  at  once,  and  hath  arrested 
That  vigorous  agitation,  which  till  now 
Express' d  a  life  within  me.     I,  methinks, 
Am  a  mere  marble  statue,  and  no  man. 
Unweave  my  age,  O  time,  to  my  first  thread ; 
Let  me  lose  fifty  years,  in  ignorance  spent ; 
That  being  made  an  infant  once  again, 
I  may  begin  to  know.     What,  or  where  am  I,   ' 
To  be  thus  lost  in  wonder  ? 

*  He  seems  to  glance  at  Ben  Jonson. 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIBE  WITCHES.  107 

Wife.  Sir. 

Gen.  Amazement  still  pursues  me,  how  am  I  changed, 

Or  brought  ere  I  can  understand  myself 

Into  this  new  world ! 
Rob.  You  will  believe  nd  witches  ? 
Gen.  This  makes  me  believe  all,  ay,  anything ; 

And  that  myself  am  nothing.     Prithee,  Robin, 

Lay  me  to  myself  open ;  what  art  thou, 

Or  this  new  transform' d  creature  ? 
Rob.  I  am  Eobin ; 

And  this  your  wife,  my  mistress. 
Gen.  Tell  me,  the  earth 

Shall  leave  its  seat,  and  mount  to  kiss  the  moon ; 

Or  that  the  moon,  enamour' d  of  the  earth, 

Shall  leave  her  sphere,  to  stoop  to  us  thus  low. 

"What,  what 's  this  in  my  hand,  that  at  an  instant 

Can  from  a  four-legg'd  creature  make  a  thing 

So  like  a  wife  ? 

Rol).  A  bridle ;  a  jugling  bridle,  sir. 
Gen.  A  bridle  !     Hence,  enchantment. 

A  viper  were  more  safe  within  my  hand, 

Than  this  charm' d  engine. — 

A  witch !  my  wife  a  witch ! 

The  more  I  strive  to  unwind 

Myself  from  this  meander,  I  the  more 

Therein  am  intricated.     Prithee,  woman, 

Art  thou  a  witch  ? 
Wife.  It  cannot  be  denied, 

I  am  such  a  curst  creature. 
Gen.  Keep  aloof: 

And  do  not  come  too  near  me.     0  my  trust ; 

Have  I,  since  first  I  understood  myself, 

Been  of  my  soul  so  chary,  still  to  study 

What  best  was  for  its  health,  to  renounce  all 

The  works  of  that  black  fiend  with  my  best  force ; 

And  hath  that  serpent  twined  me  so  about, 

That  I  must  lie  so  often  and  so  long 

With  a  devil  in  my  bosom  ? 

Wife.  Pardon,  sir.  [She  looks  down. 

Gen.  Pardon !  can  such  a  thing  as  that  be  hoped  ? 


108  THOMAS  HETWOOD  AND  EICHAED  BECOME. 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  lost  woman,  to  yon  hills ; 
It  must  be  thence  expected :  look  not  down 
Unto  that  horrid  dwelling ;  which  thou  hast  sought 
At  such  dear  rate  to  purchase.     Prithee  tell  me, 
(For  now  I  can  believe,)  art  thou  a  witch  ? 

Wife.  I  am. 

Gen.  With  that  word  I  am  thunderstruck, 

And  know  not  what  to  answer ;  yet  resolve  me, 
Hast  thou  made  any  contract  with  that  fiend, 
The  enemy  of  mankind  ? 

Wife.  0,  I  have. 

Gen.  What  ?  and  how  far  ? 

Wife.  I  have  promised  him  my  soul. 

Gen.  Ten  thousand  times  better  thy  body  had 

Been  promised  to  the  stake ;  ay,  and  mine  too, 
To  have  suffer' d  with  thee  in  a  hedge  of  flames, 

Than  such  a  compact  ever  had  been  made.     O 

Resolve  me,  how  far  doth  that  contract  stretch  ? 

Wife.  What  interest  in  this  soul  myself  could  claim, 
I  freely  gave  him :  but  his  part  that  made  it 
I  still  reserve,  not  being  mine  to  give. 

Gen.  0  cunning  devil :  foolish  woman,  know, 
Where  he  can  claim  but  the  least  little  part, 
He  will  usurp  the  whole.     Thou  'rt  a  lost  woman. 

Wife.  I  hope,  not  so. 

Gen.  Why,  hast  thou  any  hope  ? 

Wife.  Yes,  sir,  I  have. 

Gen.  Make  it  appear  to  me. 

Wife.  I  hope  I  never  bargain' d  for  that  fire, 

Further  than  penitent  tears  have  power  to  quench. 

Gen.  I  would  see  some  of  them. 

Wife.  You  behold  them  now 

(If  you  look  on  me  with  charitable  eyes) 
Tinctured  in  blood,  blood  issuing  from  the  heart. 
Sir,  I  am  sorry ;  when  I  look  towards  heaven, 
I  beg  a  gracious  pardon ;  when  on  you, 
Methinks  your  native  goodness  should  not  be 
Less  pitiful  .than  they :  'gainst  both  I  have  err'd; 
From  both  I  beg  atonement. 

Gen.  May  I  presume  't  ? 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIBE  WITCHES.  109 

Wife.  I  kneel  to  both  your  mercies. 

Gen.  Knowest  thou  what 
A  witch  is  ? 

Wife.  Alas !  none  better ; 

Or  after  mature  recollection  can  be 
More  sad  to  think  on  't. 

Gen.  Tell  me,  are  those  tears 

As  full  of  true-hearted  penitence, 

As  mine  of  sorrow  to  behold  what  state, 

"What  desperate  state,  thou  'rt  fallen  in  ? 

Wife.  Sir,  they  are. 

Gen.  Rise ;  and,  as  I  do  you,  so  Heaven  pardon  me ; 
"We  all  offend,  but  from  such  falling  off 
Defend  us !     "Well,  I  do  remember,  wife, 
"When  I  first  took  thee,  'twas  for  good  and  lad. 
0,  change  thy  bad  to  good,  that  1  may  keep  thee 
(As  then  we  pass'd  our  faiths)  'till  death  us  sever. 
O,  woman,  thou  hast  need  to  weep  thyself 
Into  a  fountain,  such  a  penitent  spring 
As  may  have  power  to  quench  invisible  flames ; 
In  which  my  eyes  shall  aid :  too  little,  all1. 

Frank  Hospitality. 

Gentlemen,  welcome,  'tis  a  word  I  use ; 

From  me  expect  no  further  compliment ; 

Nor  do  I  name  it  often  at  one  meeting ; 

Once  spoke,  to  those  that  understand  me  best, 

And  know  I  always  purpose  as  I  speak, 

Hath  ever  yet  sufficed :  so  let  it  you. 

Nor  do  I  love  that  common  phrase  of  guests, 

As,  we  make  bold,  or,  we  are  troublesome, 

"We  take  you  unprovided,  and  the  like ! 

I  know  you  understanding  gentlemen, 

And  knowing  me,  cannot  persuade  yourselves 

"With  me  you  shall  be  troublesome  or  bold. 

Nor  shall  you  find, 

Being  set  to  meat,  that  I  '11  excuse  your  fare, 

Or  say,  I  am  sorry  it  falls  out  so  poor, 

1  Compare  this  with  a  ek>ry  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  where  a  man 
discovers  his  wife  to  be  a  goul. 


110          THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

And,  had  I  known  your  coming,  we  'd  have  had 
Such  things  and  such ;  nor  blame  my  cook,  to  say 
This  dish  or  that  hath  not  been  sauced  with  care : 
"Words  fitting  best  a  common  hostess'  mouth, 
"When  there  's  perhaps  some  just  cause  of  dislike ; 
But  not  the  table  of  a  gentleman. 


A  FATE  QUAEEEL :  A  COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  MIDDLETON 
AND  WILLIAM  EOWLEY. 

Captain  Ager  in  a  dispute  with  a  Colonel  his  friend,  receives  from  the 
Colonel  the  appellation  of  Son  of  a  Whore.  A  challenge  is  given  and 
accepted;  but  the  Captain,  before  he  goes  to  the  field,  is  willing  to  be 
confirmed  of  his  mother's  honour  from  her  own  lips.  Lady  Ager,  being 
questioned  by  her  son,  to  prevent  a  duel,  falsely  slanders  herself  of  un- 
chastity.  The  Captain,  thinking  that  he  has  a  bad  cause,  refuses  to 
fight ;  but  being  reproached  by  the  Colonel  with  cowardice,  he  esteems 
that  he  has  now  a  sufficient  cause  for  a  quarrel,  in  the  vindicating  of 
his  honour  from  that  aspersion  ;  and  draws,  and  disarms  his  opponent. 

LADY.     CAPTAIN,  Tier  son. 

Lady.  "Where  left  you  your  dear  friend  the  colonel  ? 
Capt.  0,  the  dear  colonel,  I  should  meet  him  soon. 
Lady.  0,  fail  him  not  then,  he  's  a  gentleman 

The  fame  and  reputation  of  your  time 

Is  much  engaged  to. 
Gapt.  Yes,  an'  you  knew  all,  mother. 
Lady.  I  thought  I  'd  known  so  much  of  his  fair  goodness, 

More  could  not  have  been  look'd  for. 
Copt.  0  yes,  yes,  madam : 

And  this  his  last  exceeded  all  the  rest. 
Lady,  For  gratitude's  sake  let  me  know  this  I  prithee. 
Capt.  Then  thus ;  and  I  desire  your  censure  freely, 

Whether  it  appear 'd  not  a  strange  noble  kindness  in  him. 
Lady.  Trust  me,  I  long  to  hear  't. 
Capt.  You  know  he 's  hasty ; 

That  by  the  way. 
Lady.  So  are  the  best  conditions : 

Your  father  was  the  like. 
Capt.  I  begin  now 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  Ill 

To  doubt  me  more :  why  am  not  I  so  too  then  ? 
Blood  follows  blood  through  forty  generations ; 
And  I  've  a  slow-paced  wrath :  a  shrewd  dilemma. — 

[Aside. 

Lady.  "Well,  as  you  were  saying,  sir. 

Capt.  Marry,  thus,  good  madam. 

There  was  in  company  a  foul-mouth' d  villain 

Stay,  stay, 

"Who  should  I  liken  him  to  that  you  have  seen  ? 

He  comes  so  near  one  that  I  would  not  match  him  with, 

Faith,  just  of  the  colonel's  pitch :  he 's  ne'er  the  worse 

man; 

Usurers  have  been  compared  to  magistrates, 
Extortioners  to  lawyers,  and  the  like, 
But  they  all  prove  ne'er  the  worse  men  for  that. 

Lady.  That 's  bad  enough,  they  need  not. 

Capt.  This  rude  fellow, 

A  shame  to  all  humanity  and  manners, 
Breathes  from  the  rottenness  of  his  gall  and  malice, 
The  foulest  stain  that  ever  man's  fame  blemish' d, 
Part  of  which  fell  upon  your  honour,  madam, 
"Which  heighten' d  my  affliction. 

Lady.  Mine,  my  honour,  sir  ? 

Capt.  The  colonel  soon  enraged  (as  he 's  all  touchwood) 
Takes  fire  before  me,  makes  the  quarrel  his, 
Appoints  the  field ;  my  wrath  could  not  be  heard, 
His  was  so  high  pitch' d,  so  gloriously  mounted. 
Now  what 's  the  friendly  fear  that  fights  within  me, 
Should  his  brave  noble  fury  undertake 
A  cause  that  were  unjust  in  our  defence, 
And  so  to  lose  him  everlastingly, 
In  that  dark  depth  where  all  bad  quarrels  sink 
Never  to  rise  again,  what  pity  't  were, 
First  to  die  here,  and  never  to  die  there ! 

Lady.  Why,  what 's  the  quarrel,  speak,  sir,  that  should  raise 
Such  fearful  doubt,  my  honour  bearing  part  on 't  ? 
The  words,  whate'er  they  were 

Capt.  Son  of  a  whore. 

Lady.  Thou  liest : 

And  were  my  love  ten  thousand  times  more  to  thee, 
"Which  is  as  much  now  as  e'er  mother's  was, 


1 12          THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND  WILLIAM  BOWLET. 

So  thou  shouldst  feel  my  anger.     Dost  thou  call 
That  quarrel  doubtful  ?  where  are  all  my  merits  ? 

[Strikes  him. 

Not  one  stand  up  to  tell  this  man  his  error  ? 
Thou  mightst  as  well  call  the  Sun's  truth  in  question, 
As  thy  birth  or  my  honour. 

Capt.  Now  blessings  crown  you  for  't ; 

It  is  the  joyfull'st  blow  that  e'er  flesh  felt. 

Lady.  Nay,  stay,  stay,  sir ;  thou  art  not  left  so  soon : 
This  is  no  question  to  be  slighted  off, 
And  at  your  pleasure  closed  up  fair  again, 
As  though  you  'd  never  touch' d  it,  no ;  honour  doubted 
Is  honour  deeply  wounded ;  and  it  rages 
More  than  a  common  smart,  being  of  thy  making. 
For  thee  to  fear  my  truth  it  kills  my  comfort. 
"Where  should  fame  seek  for  her  reward,  when  he 
That  is  her  own  by  the  great  tie  of  blood 
Is  farthest  off  in  bounty  ?   0  poor  Goodness, 
That  only  pay'st  thyself  with  thy  own  works  ; 
For  nothing  else  looks  toward  thee.     Tell  me,  pray, 
"Which  of  my  loving  cares  dost  thou  requite 
"With  this  vile  thought  ?  which  of  my  prayers  or  wishes  ? 
Many  thou  owest  me  for.     This  seven  year  hast  thou 

known  me 

A  widow,  only  married  to  my  vow ; 
That 's  no  small  witness  of  my  faith  and  love 
To  him  that  in  life  was  thy  honour 'd  father : 
And  live  I  now  to  know  that  good  mistrusted  ? 

Capt.  No,  it  shall  appear  that  my  belief  is  cheerful ; 
For  never  was  a  mother's  reputation 
Noblier  defended ;  'tis  my  joy  and  pride 
I  have  a  firmness  to  bestow  upon  it. 

Lady.  What 's  that  you  said,  sir  ? 

Capt.  'Twere  too  bold  and  soon  yet 

To  crave  forgiveness  of  you.     I  will  earn  it  first. 
Dead  or  alive  I  know  I  shall  enjoy  it. 

Lady,  mat 's  all  this,  sir  ? 

Capt.  My  joy 's  beyond  expression 

I  do  but  think  how  wretched  I  had  been, 
"Were  this  another's  quarrel  and  not  mine. 

Lady.  Why,  is  it  your's  ? 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  113 

Copt.  Mine  ?  think  me  not  so  miserable, 

Not  to  be  mine :  then  were  I  worse  than  abject, 
More  to  be  loathed  than  vileness,  or  sin's  dunghill : 
Nor  did  I  fear  your  goodness,  faithful  madam, 
But  came  with  greedy  joy  to  be  confirm'd  in  't, 
To  give  the  nobler  onset :  then  shines  valour, 
And  admiration  from  her  fix'd  sphere  draws, 
When  it  comes  burnish' d  with  a  righteous  cause ; 
Without  which  I  'm  ten  fathoms  under  coward, 
That  now  am  ten  degrees  above  a  man, 
Which  is  but  one  of  virtue's  easiest  wonders. 

Lady.  But  pray  stay ;  all  this  while  I  understood  you 
The  colonel  was  the  man. 

Capt.  Yes,  he  's  the  man, 

The  man  of  injury,  reproach,  and  slander, 
Which  I  must  turn  into  his  soul  again. 

Lady.  The  colonel  do 't !  that 's  strange. 

Capt.  The  villain  did  it : 

That 's  not  so  strange.  Your  blessing,  and  your  leave— 

Lady.  Come,  come,  you  shall  not  go. 

Capt.  Not  go  ?  were  death 

Sent  now  to  summon  me  to  my  eternity, 

I  'd  put  him  off  an  hour :  why,  the  whole  world 

Has  not  chains  strong  enough  to  bind  me  from  it : 

The  strongest  is  my  reverence  for  you, 

Which  if  you  force  upon  me  in  this  case, 

I  must  be  forced  to  break  it. 

Lady.  Stay,  I  say. 

Capt.  In  anything  command  me  but  in  this,  madam. 

Lady.  'Las  !  I  shall  lose  him.    You  will  hear  me  first  ? 

Capt.  At  my  return  I  will. 

Lady.  You  '11  never  hear  me  more  then. 

Capt.  How! 

Lady.  Come  back,  I  say ! 

You  may  well  think  there 's  cause,  I  call  so  often. 

Capt.  Ha  ?  cause  ?  what  cause  ? 

Lady.  So  much,  you  must  not  go. 

Capt.  Must  not  ?  why  ? 

Lady.  I  know  a  reason  for  't ; 

Which  I  could  wish  you  'd  yield  to,  and  not  know  : 
If  not,  it  must  come  forth.     Faith,  do  not  know ; 
And  yet  obey  my  will. 


114          THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND  WILLIAM  BOWLEY. 

Capt.  "Why,  I  desire 

To  know  no  other  than  the  cause  I  have, 

Nor  should  you  wish  it,  if  you  take  your  injury ; 

For  one  more  great  I  know  the  world  includes  not. 
Lady.  Yes ;  one  that  makes  this  nothing : — yet  be  ruled, 

And  if  you  understand  not,  seek  no  farther. 
Capt.  I  must,  for  this  is  nothing. 
Lady.  Then  take  all ; 

And  if  amongst  it  you  receive  that  secret 

That  will  offend  you,  though  you  condemn  me, 

Yet  blame  yourself  a  little,  for  perhaps 

I  would  have  made  my  reputation  sound 

Upon  another's  hazard  with  less  pity ; 

But  upon  yours  I  dare  not. 
Capt.  How! 
Lady.  I  dare  not : 

'Twas  your  own  seeking,  this. 
Capt.  If  you  mean  evilly, 

I  cannot  understand  you,  nor  for  all  the  riches 

This  life  has,  would  I. 
Lady.  Would  you  never  might ! 
Capt.  Why,  your  goodness,  that  I  joy  to  fight  for. 
Lady.  In  that  you  neither  right  your  joy  nor  me. 
Capt.  What  an  ill  orator  has  virtue  got  here ! 

Why,  shall  I  dare  to  think  it  a  thing  possible, 

That  you  were  ever  false  ? 
Lady.  O,  fearfully ; 

As  much  as  you  come  to. 
Capt.  O  silence,  cover  me ; 

I  've  felt  a  deadlier  wound  than  man  can  give  me. 

False? 
Lady.  I  was  betray 'd  to  a  most  sinful  hour 

By  a  corrupted  soul  I  put  in  trust  once, 

A  kinswoman. 

Capt .  Where  is  she  ?  let  me  pay  her. 
Lady.  O,  dead  long  since. 
Capt.  Nay  then,  she  has  all  her  wages. 

False  ?  do  not  say 't ;  for  honour's  goodness  do  not ; 

You  never  could  be  so :  he  I  call'd  father 

Deserved  you  at  your  best ;  when  youth  and  merit 

Could  boast  at  highest  in  you,  you  'd  no  grace 
Or  virtue  that  he  match' d  not ;  no  delight 


A  FAIR  QtTABBEL.  115 

That  you  invented,  but  he  sent  it  crown'd 
To  your  full  wishing  soul. 

Lady.  That  heaps  my  guiltiness. 

Capt.  O,  were  you  so  unhappy  to  be  false 

Both  to  yourself  and  me,  but  to  me  chiefly  ? 

"What  a  day's  hope  is  here  lost,  and  with  it 

The  joys  of  a  just  cause !     Had  you  but  thought 

On  such  a  noble  quarrel,  you  'd  have  died 

Ere  you  'd  have  yielded,  for  the  sin's  hate  first, 

Next  for  the  hate  of  this  hour's  cowardice. 

Curst  be  the  heat  that  lost  me  such  a  cause, 

A  work  that  I  was  made  for.     Quench,  my  spirit, 

And  out  with  honour's  flaming  lights  within  thee : 

Be  dark  and  dead  to  all  respects  of  manhood ; 

I  never  shall  have  use  of  valour  more. 

Put  off  your  vow  for  shame :  why  should  you  hoard  up 

Such  justice  for  a  barren  widowhood, 

That  was  so  injurious  to  the  faith  of  wedlock  ? 

I  should  be  dead :  for  all  my  life's  work  's  ended. 

I  dare  not  fight  a  stroke  now,  nor  engage    \JExit  Lady. 

The  noble  resolution  of  my  friends ; 

Enter  two  Friends  of  CAPTAIN  A  GEE'S. 

That  were  more  vile.   They're  here.  Kill  me,  my  shame. 

I  am  not  for  the  fellowship  of  honour. 
Friend.  Captain,  fie,  come,  sir :  we  've  been  seeking  for  you 

Very  late  to-day ;  this  was  not  wont  to  be. 

Tour  enemy 's  in  the  field. 
Capt.  Truth  enters  cheerfully. 

2  Friend.  Good  faith,  sir,  you  've  a  royal  quarrel  on  't. 
Capt.  Yes,  in  some  other  country,  Spain  or  Italy, 

It  would  be  held  so. 
1  Friend.  How !  and  is  't  not  here  so  ? 
Capt.  'Tis  not  so  contumeliously  received 

In  these  parts,  and  you  mark  it. 
1  Friend.  Not  in  these  ? 

Why  prithee  what  is  more,  or  can  be  ? 
Capt.  Yes: 

That  ordinary  commotioner  the  lie 

Is  father  of  most  quarrels  in  this  climate, 

And  held  here  capital,  and  you  go  to  that. 


116          THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND  WILLIAM  BOWLEY. 

2  Friend.  But,  sir,  I  hope  you  will  not  go  to  that, 
Or  change  your  own  for  it ;  son  of  a  whore  \ 
"Why  there 's  the  lie  down  to  posterity ; 
The  lie  to  birth,  the  lie  to  honesty.  -^ 

"Why  would  you  cozen  yourself  so  and  beguile 
So  brave  a  cause,  manhood's  best  master-piece  ? 
Do  you  ever  hope  for  one  so  brave  again  ? 

Capt.  Consider  then  the  man,  the  colonel, 
Exactly  worthy,  absolutely  noble, 
However  spleen  and  rage  abuses  him : 
And  'tis  not  well  nor  manly  to  pursue 
A  man's  infirmity. 

1  Friend.  0  miracle ! 

So  hopeful,  valiant  and  complete  a  captain 
Possess' d  with  a  tame  devil :  come  out,  thou  spoilest 
The  most  improved  young  soldier  of  seven  kingdoms, 
Made  captain  at  nineteen ;  which  was  deserved 
The  year  before,  but  honour  comes  behind  still : 
Come  out,  I  say :  this  was  not  wont  to  be ; 
That  spirit  ne'er  stood  in  need  of  provocation, 
Nor  shall  it  now.     Away,  sir. 

Oapt.  Urge  me  not. 

1  Friend.  By  manhood's  reverend  honour  but  we  must. 

Oapt.  I  will  not  fight  a  stroke. 

1  Friend.  0  blasphemy 
To  sacred  valour ! 

Copt.  Lead  me  where  you  list. 

1  Friend.  Pardon   this   traitorous   slumber,    clogg'd  with 

evils: 
Give  captains  rather  wives  than  such  tame  devils. 

The  Field. 
Enter  CAPTAIN  AGES,  with  Us  two  Friends. 

Oapt.  "Well,  your  wills  now. 

1  Friend.  Our  wills  ?  our  loves,  our  duties 

To  honour 'd  fortitude :  what  wills  have  we 

But  our  desires  to  nobleness  and  merit, 

Yalour's  advancement,  and  the  sacred  rectitude 

Due  to  a  valorous  cause  ? 
Copt.  0,  that 's  not  mine. 


A  TATR  QTJABBEL.  117 

2  Friend.  War  has  his  court  of  justice,  that 's  the  field, 
Where  all  cases  of  manhood  are  determined, 
And  your  case  is  no  mean  one. 

Copt.  True ;  then  'twere  virtuous  : 

But  mine  is  in  extremes,  foul  and  unjust. 
Well,  now  ye  've  got  me  hither,  ye  are  as  far 
To  seek  in  your  desire  as  at  first  minute  : 
For  by  the  strength  and  honour  of  a  vow 
I  will  not  lift  a  finger  in  this  quarrel. 

1  Friend.  How !  not  in  this  ?  be  not  so  rash  a  sinner. 

"Why,  sir,  do  you  ever  hope  to  fight  again  then  ? 
Take  heed  on 't,  you  must  never  look  for  that. 
"Why,  the  universal  stock  of  the  world's  injury 
"Will  be  too  poor  to  find  a  quarrel  for  you. 
Give  up  your  right  and  title  to  desert,  sir ; 
If  you  fail  virtue  here,  she  needs  you  not 
All  your  time  after :  let  her  take  this  wrong, 
And  never  presume  then  to  serve  her  more : 
Bid  farewell  to  the  integrity  of  arms, 
And  let  that  honourable  name  of  soldier 
Fall  from  you  like  a  shiver 'd  wreath  of  laurel, 
By  thunder  struck  from  a  desertless  forehead 
That  wears  another's  right  by  usurpation. 
Good  captain,  do  not  wilfully  cast  away 
At  one  hour  all  the  fame  your  life  has  won 
This  is  your  native  seat.     Here  you  should  seek 
Most  to  preserve  it ;  or  if  you  will  dote 
So  much  on  life,  poor  life,  which  in  respect 
Of  life  in  honour  is  but  death  and  darkness, 
That  you  will  prove  neglectful  of  yourself, 
(Which  is  to  me  too  fearful  to  imagine,) 
Yet  for  that  virtuous  lady's  cause,  your  mother, 
Her  reputation,  dear  to  nobleness, 
As  grace  to  penitence ;  whose  fair  memory 
E'en  crowns  fame  in  your  issue  :  for  that  blessedness, 
Give  not  this  ill  place,  but  in  spite  of  hell 
And  all  her  base  fears  be  exactly  valiant. 
Copt.  0!  O! 

2  Friend.  Why,  well  said ;  there 's  fair  hope  in  that. 

Another  such  a  one. 

Capt.  Came  they  in  thousands, 

'Tis  all  against  you. 


118  THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND  WILLIAM  KOWLEY. 

1  Friend.  Then  poor  friendless  merit, 

Heaven  be  good  to  thee !  thy  professor  leaves  thee. 

Enter  COLONEL  and  his  two  Friends. 

He 's  come ;  do  you  but  draw :  we  '11  fight  it  for  you. 
Capt.  I  know  too  much  to  grant  that. 
1  Friend.  O  dead  manhood ! 

Had  ever  such  a  cause  so  faint  a  servant  ? 

Shame  brand  me  if  I  do  not  suifer  for  him. 
Col.  I  've  heard,  sir,  you  've  been  guilty  of  much  boasting 

For  your  brave  earliness  at  such  a  meeting. 

You  've  lost  the  glory  of  that  way  this  morning : 

I  was  the  first  to-day. 
Oapt.  So  were  you  ever 

In  my  respect,  sir. 
1  friend.  O  most  base  prseludium ! 
Capt.  I  never  thought  on  victory  our  mistress 

"With  greater  reverence  than  I  have  your  worth, 

Nor  ever  loved  her  better. 

Success  in  you  has  been  my  absolute  joy, 

And  when  1  've  wish'd  content  I  've  wish'd  your  friend 
ship. 
Col.  I  came  not  hither,  sir,  for  an  encomium. 

I  came  provided 

For  storms  and  tempests,  and  the  foulest  season 

That  ever  rage  let  forth,  or  blew  in  wildness, 

From  the  incensed  prison  of  man's  blood. 
Capt    'Tis  otherwise  with  me  :  I  come  with  mildness, 

Peace,  constant  amity,  and  calm  forgiveness, 

The  weather  of  a  Christian  and  a  friend. 
1  Friend.  Give  me  a  valiant  Turk,  though  not  worth  ten- 
pence. 
Capt.  Yet,  sir,  the  world  will  judge  the  injury  mine, 

Insufferable  mine,  mine  beyond  injury. 

Thousands  have  made  a  less  wrong  reach  to  hell, 

Ay  and  rejoiced  in  his  most  endless  vengeance 

(A  miserable  triumph  though  a  just  one)  ; 

But  when  I  call  to  memory  our  long  friendship, 

Methinks  it  cannot  be  too  great  a  wrong 

That  then  I  should  not  pardon.     "Why  should  man 

For  a  poor  hasty  syllable  or  two 

(And  vented  only  in  forgetful  fury) 


A  FAIB  QTJABBEL.  119 

Chain  all  the  hopes  and  riches  of  his  soul 

To  the  revenge  of  that  ?  die  lost  for  ever  ? 

For  he  that  makes  his  last  peace  with  his  Maker 

In  anger,  anger  is  his  peace  eternally : 

He  must  expect  the  same  return  again, 

"Whose  venture  is  deceitful.     Must  he  not,  sir  P 
Col.  I  see  what  I  must  do,  fairly  put  up  again, 

For  here  '11  be  nothing  done,  I  perceive  that. 
Copt.  What  shall  be  done  in  such  a  worthless  business 

But  to  be  sorry  and  to  be  forgiven  ? 

You,  sir,  to  bring  repentance  ;  and  I  pardon. 
Col.  I  bring  repentance,  sir  ? 
Capt.  If 't  be  too  much 

To  say,  repentance ;  call  it  what  you  please,  sir  $ 

Choose  your  own  word  ;  I  know  you  're  sorry  for  it, 

And  that 's  as  good. 
Col.  I  sorry  ?  by  fame's  honour,  I  am  wrong' d: 

Do  you  seek  for  peace  and  draw  the  quarrel  larger  ? 
Capt.  Then  'tis  I  'm  sorry  that  I  thought  you  so. 
1  Friend.  A  captain !  I  could  gnaw  his  title  off. 
Capt.  Nor  is  it  any  misbecoming  virtue,  sir, 

In  the  best  manliness,  to  repent  a  wrong  : 

"Which  made  me  bold  with  you. 

1  Friend.  I  could  cuff  his  head  off. 

2  Friend.  Nay,  pish. 

Col.  So  once  again  take  thou  thy  peaceful  rest  then ; 

\_To  his  swo'.'d. 

But  as  I  put  thee  up,  I  must  proclaim 
This  captain  here,  both  to  his  friends  and  mine, 
That  only  came  to  see  fair  valour  righted, 
A  base  submissive  coward :  so  I  leave  him. 

Capt.  0,  Heaven  has  pitied  iny  excessive  patience, 
And  sent  me  a  cause :  now  I  have  a  cause : 
A  coward  I  was  never. Come  you  back,  sir. 

Col.  How! 

Capt.  You  left  a  coward  here. 

Col.  Yes,  sir,  with  you. 

Capt.  'Tis  such  base  metal,  sir,  'twill  not  be  taken, 
It  must  home  again  with  you. 

2  Friend.  Should  this  be  true  now 

1  Friend.  Impossible !  coward  do  more  than  bastard ! 


120          THOMAS  MIDDLETON  AND  WILLIAM  EOWLET. 

Col.  I  prithee  mock  me  not,  take  heed  you  do  not, 
For  if  I  draw  once  more  I  shall  grow  terrible, 
And  rage  will  force  me  do  what  will  grieve  honour. 

Capt.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Col.  He  smiles,  dare  it  be  he  ?  what  think  ye,  gentlemen  ? 
Your  judgments ;  shall  I  not  be  cozen' d  in  him  P 
This  cannot  be  the  man ;  why  he  was  bookish, 
Made  an  invective  lately  against  fighting, 
A  thing  in  truth  that  moved  a  little  with  me ; 
Put  up  a  fouler  contumely  far 
Than  thousand  cowards  came  to,  and  grew  thankful. 

Capt.  Blessed  remembrance  in  time  of  need : 
I  'd  lost  my  honour  else. 

2  Friend.  Do  you  note  his  joy  ? 

Capt.  I  never  felt  a  more  severe  necessity : 

Then  came  thy  excellent  pity.     Not  yet  ready ! 
Have  you  such  confidence  in  my  just  manhood 
That  you  dare  so  long  trust  me,  and  yet  tempt  me 
Beyond  the  toleration  of  man's  virtue  ? 
Why,  would  you  be  more  cruel  than  your  injury  ? 
Do  you  first  take  pride  to  wrong  me,  and  then  think  me 
Not  worth  your  fury  ?  do  not  use  me  so : 
I  shall  deceive  you  then :  sir,  either  draw, 
And  that  not  slightingly,  but  with  the  care 
Of  your  best  preservation,  with  that  watchfulness 
As  you  'd  defend  yourself  from  circular  fire, 
Your  sin's  rage,  or  her  Lord  (this  will  require  it) 
Or  you  '11  be  too  soon  lost :  for  I  've  an  anger, 
.   Has  gather 'd  mighty  strength  against  you;  mighty, 
Yet  you  shall  find  it  honest  to  the  last, 
Noble  and  fair. 

Col.  I  '11  venture  it  once  again, 

And  if 't  be  but  as  true  as  it  is  wondrous, 
I  shall  have  that  I  come  for.     Your  leave,  gentlemen. 

[They  fight. 

1  Friend.  If  he  should  do 't  indeed,  and   deceive  us   all 

now 

Stay,  by  this  hand  he  offers  ;  fights  i'  faith ; 
Fights :  by  this  light,  he  fights,  sir. 

2  Friend.  So  methinks,  sir. 

1  Friend.  An  absolute  punto,  ha  ? 


A  PAIR  QUARREL.  .       121 

2  Friend.  'Twas  a  passado,  sir. 

1  Friend.  Why,  let  it  pass,  and  'twas ;  I  'm  sure  'twas  some 

what. 
What 's  that  now  ? 

2  Friend.  That 's  a  punto. 
1  Friend.  O,  go  to  then, 

I  knew  'twas  not  far  off:  What  a  world  's  this ! 

Is  coward  a  more  stirring  meat  than  bastard  ? 

ho !  I  honour  thee  : 

'Tis  right  and  fair,  and  he  that  "breathes  against  it 

He  breathes  against  the  justice  of  a  man  ; 

And  man  to  cut  him  off,  'tis  no  injustice. 

Thanks,  thanks,  for  this  most  unexpected  nobleness. 

\_The  Colonel  is  disarmed. 
Copt.  Truth  never  fails  her  servant,  sir,  nor  leaves  him 

With  the  day's  shame  upon  him. 
1  Friend.  Thou'st  redeem' d 

Thy  worth  to  the  same  height  'twas  first  esteem' d. 

[The  insipid  levelling  morality  to  which  the  modern  stage  is  tied  down 
•would  not  admit  of  such  admirable  passions  as  these  scenes  are  filled  with. 
A  puritanical  obtuseness  of  sentiment;  a  stupid  infantile  goodness,  is 
creeping  among  us,  instead  of  the  vigorous  passions,  and  virtues  clad  in 
flesh  and  blood,  with  which  the  old  dramatists  present  us.  Those  noble 
and  liberal  casuists  could  discern  in  the  differences,  the  quarrels,  the  ani 
mosities  of  man,  a  beauty  and  truth  of  moral  feeling,  no  less  than  in  the 
iterately  inculcated  duties  of  forgiveness  and  atonement.  With  us  all  is 
hypocritical  meekness.  A  reconciliation  scene  (let  the  occasion  be  never 
so  absurd  or  unnatural)  is  always  sure  of  applause.  Our  audiences  come 
to  the  theatre  to  be  complimented  on  their  goodness.  They  compare 
notes  with  the  amiable  characters  in  the  play,  and  find  a  wonderful  simi 
larity  of  disposition  between  them.  We  have  a  common  stock  of  dra 
matic  morality  out  of  which  a  writer  may  be  supplied  without  the  trouble 
of  copying  it  from  originals  within  his  own  breast.  To  know  the  bound 
aries  of  honour,  to  be  judiciously  valiant,  to  have  a  temperance  which 
shall  beget  a  smoothness  in  the  angry  swellings  of  youth,  to  esteem  life  as 
nothing  when  the  sacred  reputation  of  a  parent  is  to  be  defended,  yet  to 
shake  and  tremble  under  a  pious  cowardice  when  that  ark  of  an  honest 
confidence  is  found  to  be  frail  and  tottering,  to  feel  the  true  blows  of  a 
real  disgrace  blunting  that  sword  which  the  imaginary  strokes  of  a  sup 
posed  false  imputation  had  put  so  keen  an  edge  upon  but  lately ;  to  do, 
or  to  imagine  this  done  in  a  feigned  story,  asks  something  more  of  a  moral 
sense,  somewhat  a  greater  delicacy  of  perception  in  questions  of  right  and 
wrong,  than  goes  to  the  writing  of  two  or  three  hackneyed  sentences  about 
the  laws  of  honour  as  opposed  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  or  a  common-place 


122  WILLIAM  EOWLET. 

against  duelling.  Yet  such  things  would  stand  a  writer  nowadays  in  far 
better  stead  than  Captain  Ager  and  his  conscientious  honour ;  and  he 
would  be  considered  as  a  far  better  teacher  of  morality  than  old  Eowley 
or  Middleton  if  they  were  living.] 


ALL'S  LOST  BY  LUST:  A  TEAGEDY, 
BY  WILLIAM  EOWLEY. 

Hoderigo  king  of  Spain  takes  ihe  opportunity  to  violate  the  daughter 
of  Julianus,  while  that  old  general  is  fighting  his  battles  against  the 
Moors.  Jacinta  seeks  her  father  in  the  camp,  at  the  moment  of  victory. 

JTJLIANUS.     Servant. 

Se-rv.  Sir,  here  's  a  woman  (forced  by  some  tide  of  sorrow) 
With  tears  entreats  your  pity,  and  to  see  you. 

Jul.  If  any  soldier  has  done  violence  to  her, 
Beyond  our  military  discipline, 
Death  shall  divide  him  from  us :  fetch  her  in. 
I  have  myself  a  daughter,  on  whose  face 
But  thinking,  I  must  needs  be  pitiful : 
And  when  I  have  told  my  conquest  to  my  king, 
My  poor  girl  then  shall  know,  how  for  her  sake 
I  did  one  pious  act. 

Servant  returns  with  JACINTA  veiled. 

Is  this  the  creature  ? 
Serv.  Yes,  my  lord,  and  a  sad  one. 
Jul.  Leave  us.     A  sad  one ! 

The  downcast  look  calls  up  compassion  in  me : 

A  corse  going  to  the  grave  looks  not  more  deadly. 

Why  kneel' st  thou  ?  art  thou  wrong' d  by  any  soldier  ? 

Rise :  for  this  honour  is  not  due  to  me. 

Hast  not  a  tongue  to  read  thy  sorrows  out  ? 

This  book  I  understand  not. 
Jacin.  O  my  dear  father ! 
Jul.  Thy  father,  who  has  wrong' d  him  ? 
Jacin.  A  great  commander. 
Jul.  Under  me  ? 
Jacin.  Above  you. 
Jul.  Above  me !  who 's  above  a  general  ? 

None  but  the  general  of  all  Spain's  armies ; 


ALL  'S  LOST  BY  LUST.  123 

And  that 's  the  king,  king  Eoderick :  he 's  all  goodness, 
He  cannot  wrong  thy  father. 

Jacin.  What  was  Tarquin  ? 

Jul.  A  king,  and  yet  a  ravisher. 

Jacin.  Such  a  sin 

"Was  in  those  days  a  monster ;  now  'tis  common. 

Jul.  Prithee  be  plain. 

Jacin.  Have  not  you,  sir,  a  daughter  ? 

Jul.  If  I  have  not,  I  am  the  wretched' st  man 

That  this  day  lives :  for  all  the  wealth  I  have 
Lives  in  that  child. 

Jacin.  O  for  your  daughter's  sake  then  hear  my  woes. 

Jul.  Rise  then,  and  speak  them. 

Jacin.  No,  let  me  kneel  still : 

Such  a  resemblance  of  a  daughter's  duty 
Will  make  you  mindful  of  a  father's  love : 
Eor  such  my  injuries  must  exact  from  you, 
As  you  would  for  your  own. 

Jul.  And  so  they  do ; 

For  whilst  I  see  thee  kneeling,  I  think  of  my  Jacinta. 

Jacin.  Say  your  Jacinta  then,  chaste  as  the  rose 
Coming  on  sweetly  in  the  springing  bud, 
And  ne'er  felt  heat,  to  spread  the  summer  sweet ; 
But,  to  increase  and  multiply  it  more, 
Did  to  itself  keep  in  its  own  perfume ; 
Say  that  some  rapine  hand  had  pluck' d  the  bloom1, 
Jacinta,  like  that  flower,  and  ravish' d  her, 
Defiling  her  white  lawn  of  chastity 
With  ugly  blacks  of  lust :  what  would  you  do  ? 

Jul.  O  'tis  too  hard  a  question  to  resolve, 
Without  a  solemn  council  held  within 
Of  man's  best  understanding  faculties : 
There  must  be  love,  and  fatherhood,  and  grief, 
And  rage,  and  many  passions  ;  and  they  must  all 
Beget  a  thing  call'd  vengeance :  but  they  must  sit  upon't. 

Jacin.  Say  this  were  done  by  him  that  carried 

The  fairest  seeming  face  of  friendship  to  yourself. 

Jul.  We  should  fall  out. 

Jacin.  Would  you  in  such  a  case  respect  degrees  ? 

Jul.  I  know  not  that. 

1  "  Cropt  this  fair  rose,"  &c. — Qtway. 


124  \VTLLIAM  BOWLEY. 

Jacin.  Say  he  were  noble. 

Jul.  Impossible :  the  act 's  ignoble.     The  bee  can  breed 

No  poison,  though  it  suck  the  juice  of  hemlock. 
Jacin.  Say  a  king  should  do  it ;  were  the  act  less  done, 

By  the  greater  power  ?  does  majesty 

Extenuate  a  crime  ? 
Jul.  Augment  it  rather. 
Jacin.  Say  then  that  Eoderick,  your  king  and  master, 

To  quit  the  honours  you  are  bringing  home, 

Had  ravish' d  your  Jacinta. 
Jul.  Who  has  sent 

A  fury  in  this  foul-fair  shape  to  vex  me  ? 

I  have  seen  that  face  methinks,  yet  know  it  not : 

How  darest  thou  speak  this  treason  'gainst  my  king  ? 

Durst  any  man  in  the  world  bring  me  this  lie, 

By  this,  he  had  been  in  hell :  Roderick  a  Tarquin ! 
Jacin.  Yes,  and  thy  daughter  (had  she  done  her  part) 

Should  be  the  second  Lucrece.  View  me  well : 

I  am  Jacinta. 
Jul.  Ha! 

Jacin.  The  king  my  ravisher. 
Jul.  The  king  thy  ravisher !  0,  unkingly  sound ! 

He  dares  not  sure ;  yet  in  thy  sullied  eyes 

I  read  a  tragic  story. 

ANTONIO,  ALONZO,  and  other  Officers,  enter. 

Jul.  O  noble  friends, 

Our  wars  are  ended,  are  they  not  ? 

All.  They  are,  sir. 

Jul.  But  Spain  has  now  begun  a  civil  war, 

And  to  confound  me  only.     See  you  my  daughter  ? 
She  sounds  the  trumpet  which  draws  forth  my  sword 
To  be  revenged. 

Alon.  On  whom  ?  speak  loud  your  wrongs ; 
Digest  your  choler  into  temperance : 
Give  your  considerate  thoughts  the  upper  hand 
In  your  hot  passions,  'twill  assuage  the  swelling 
Of  your  big  heart :  if  you  have  injuries  done  you, 
Revenge  them,  and  we  second  you. 

Jacin.  ^Father,  dear  father. 

Jul.  Daughter,  dear  daughter. 


ALL  'S  LOST  BY  LTTST.  125 

Jacin.  "Why  do  you  kneel  to  me,  sir  ? 

Jul.  To  ask  thee  pardon  that  I  did  beget  thee. 
I  brought  thee  to  a  shame,  stains  all  the 'way 
'Twixt  earth  and  Acheron :  not  all  the  clouds 
(The  skies'  large  canopy),  could  they  drown  the  seas 
"With  a  perpetual  inundation, 
Can  wash  it  ever  out :  leave  me,  I  pray.      [Falls  down. 

Alon.  His  fighting  passions  will  be  o'er  anon, 
And  all  will  be  at  peace. 

Ant.  Best  in  my  judgment 

We  wake  him  with  the  sight  of  his  won  honours. 
Call  uj)  the  army,  and  let  them  present 
His  prisoners  to  him ;  such  a  sight  as  that 
"Will  brook  no  sorrow  near  it. 

Jul.  'Twas  a  good  doctor  that  prescribed  that  physic. 
I  '11  be  your  patient,  sir ;  show  me  my  soldiers, 
And  my  new  honours  won  :  I  will  truly  weigh  them 
With  my  full  griefs ;  they  may  perhaps  o'ercome. 

Alon.  Why,  now  there 's  hope  of  his  recovery. 

Jul.  Jacinta  welcome,  thou  art  my  child  still : 
No  forced  stain  of  lust  can  alienate 
Our  consanguinity. 

'Jacin.  Dear  father, 

Eecollect  your  noble  spirits ;  conquer  grief, 
The  manly  way :  you  have  brave  foes  subdued, 
Then  let  no  female  passions  thus  o'erwhelm  you. 

Jul.  Mistake  me  not,  my  child,  I  am  not  mad, 
Nor  must  be  idle ;  for  it  were  more  fit 
(If  I  could  purchase  more)  I  had  more  wit, 
To  help  in  these  designs :  I  am  grown  old : 
Yet  I  have  found  more  strength  within  this  arm 
Than  (without  proof)  I  durst  have  boasted  on. 
Roderick,  thou  king  of  monsters,  couldst  thou  do  this, 
And  for  thy  lust  confine  me  from  the  court  ? 
There 's  reason  in  thy  shame,  thou  shouldst  not  see  me. 
Ha !  they  come,  Jacinta,  they  come,  hark,  hark ; 
Now  thou  shalt  see  what  cause  I  have  given  my  king. 

Vanquished  Moor's  address  to  the  Sun. 

Descend  thy  sphere,  thou  burning  deity. 
Haste  from  our  shame,  go  blushing  to  thy  bed ; 


126  WILLIAM  ROWLEY, 

Thy  sons1  we  are,  thou  everlasting  ball, 
Yet  never  shamed  these  our  impressive  browa 
Till  now :  we  that  are  stamp'd  with  thine  own  seal, 
Which  the  whole  ocean  cannot  wash  away, 
Shall  those  cold  ague  cheeks  that  nature  moulds 
"Within  her  winter  shop,  those  smooth  white  skins, 
That  with  a  palsy  hand  she  paints  the  limbs, 
Make  us  recoil  ? 

Man's  ITeart. 

I  would  fain  know  what  kind  of  thing  a  man's  heart  is. 

—  were  you  never 

At  Barber  Surgeons'  Hall  to  see  a  dissection  ? 
I  will  report  it  to  you :  'tis  a  thing  framed 
"With  divers  corners,  and  into  every  corner 
A  man  may  entertain  a  friend :  (there  came 
*The  proverb,  A  man  may  love  one  well,  and  yet 
Retain  a  friend  in  a  corner.) 

—  tush,  'tis  not 
The  real  heart ;  but  the  unseen  faculties. 


Those  I  '11  decipher  unto  you :  (for  surely 


The  most  part  are  but  ciphers.)     The  heart  indeed 
For  the  most  part  doth  keep  a  better  guest 
Than  himself  in  him ;  that  is,  the  soul.     Now  the  soul 
Being  a  tree,  there  are  divers  branches  spreading  out  of  it, 
As  loving-affection,  suffering-sorrows,  and  the  like. 
Then,  sir,  these  affections  or  sorrows  being  but  branches, 
Are  sometimes  lopp'd  off,  or  of  themselves  wither ; 
And  new  shoot  in  their  rooms :  as  for  example ; 
Tour  friend  dies,  there  appears  sorrow,  but  it  quickly 
Withers ;  then  is  that  branch  gone.    Again,  you  love  a 

friend ; 

There  affection  springs  forth :  at  last  you  distaste ; 
Then  that  branch  withers  again,  and  another  buds 
In  his  room. 

1  "  Children  of  the  Sun." — Zanga  in  the  Revenge. 


A  NEW  WONDER,  ETC.  127 

A  NEW  WONDER :  A  WOMAN  NEVER  TEXT.    A  COMEDY, 
BY  WILLIAM  EOWLEY. 

The  Woman  never  Text  states  her  Case  to  a  Divine. 

WIDOW.     DOCTOR. 

Doct.  You  sent  for  me,  gentlewoman  ? 

Wid.  Sir,  I  did,  and  to  this  end. 

I  have  some  scruples  in  my  conscience ; 
Some  doubtful  problems  which  I  cannot  answer, 
Nor  reconcile  ;  I  'd  have  you  make  them  plain. 
Doct.  This  is  my  duty ;  pray  speak  your  mind. 

Wid.  And  as  I  speak,  I  must  remember  Heaven 
That  gave  those  blessings  which  I  must  relate : 
Sir,  you  now  behold  a  wondrous  woman ; 
You  only  wonder  at  the  epithet ; 
I  can  approve  it  good :  guess  at  mine  age. 

Doct.  At  the  half  way  'twixt  thirty  and  forty. 

Wid.  'Twas  not  much  amiss  ;  yet  nearest  to  the  last. 
How  think  you  then,  is  not  this  a  wonder, 
That  a  woman  lives  full  seven  and  thirty  years, 
Maid  to  a  wife,  and  wife  unto  a  widow, 
Now  widow' d,  and  mine  own ;  yet  all  this  while, 
From  the  extremest  verge  of  my  remembrance, 
Ev'n  from  my  weaning  hour  unto  this  minute, 
Did  never  taste  what  was  calamity. 
I  know  not  yet  what  grief  is,  yet  have  sought 
A  hundred  ways  for  its  acquaintance :  with  me 
Prosperity  hath  kept  so  close  a  watch, 
That  ev'n  those  things  that  I  have  meant  a  cross, 
Have  that  way  turn'd  a  blessing.     Is  it  not  strange  ? 

Doct.  Unparallel'd ;  this  gift  is  singular, 

And  to  you  alone  belonging :  you  are  the  moon, 
For  there 's  but  one,  all  women  else  are  stars, 
For  there  are  none  of  like  condition. 
Full  oft  and  many  have  I  heard  complain 
Of  discontents,  thwarts,  and  adversities  ; 
But  a  second  to  yourself  I  never  knew, 
To  groan  under  the  superflux  of  blessings, 
To  have  ever  been  alien  unto  sorrow. 
No  trip  of  fate  ?  sure  it  is  wonderful. 


128  WILLIAM  BOWLEY. 

Wid.  Ay,  sir,  'tis  wonderful,  but  is  it  well  P 
For  it  is  now  my  chief  affliction. 
I  have  heard  you  say,  that  the  child  of  heaven 
Shall  suffer  many  tribulations  ; 

Nay,  kings  and  princes  share  them  with  their  subjects : 
Then  I  that  know  not  any  chastisement, 
How  may  I  know  my  part  of  childhood  ? 

Dbct.  'Tis  a  good  doubt ;  but  make  it  not  extreme. 
'Tis  some  affliction,  that  you  are  afflicted 
For  want  of  affliction ;  cherish  that : 
Yet  wrest  it  not  to  misconstruction ; 
For  all  your  blessings  are  free  gifts  from  Heaven, 
Health,  wealth,  and  peace ;  nor  can  they  turn  into 
Curses,  but  by  abuse.     Pray  let  me  question  you : 
You  lost  a  husband,  was  it  no  grief  to  you  ? 

Wid.  It  was,  but  very  small :  no  sooner  I 
Had  given  it  entertainment  as  a  sorrow, 
Eut  straight  it  turned  unto  my  treble  joy : 
A  comfortable  revelation  prompts  me  then, 
That  husband  (whom  in  life  I  held  so  dear) 
Had  changed  a  frailty  to  unchanging  joys  ; 
Methought  I  saw  him  stellified  in  heaven, 
And  singing  hallelujahs  'mongst  a  quire 
Of  white  sainted  souls :  then  again  it  spake, 
And  said,  it  was  a  sin  for  me  to  grieve 
At  his  best  good,  that  I  esteemed  best : 
And  thus  this  slender  shadow  of  a  grief 
Vanish' d  again. 

Doct.  All  this  was  happy,  nor 

Can  you  wrest  it  from  a  heavenly  blessing.     Do  not 
Appoint  the  rod ;  leave  still  the  stroke  unto 
The  magistrate :  the  time  is  not  past,  but 
You  may  feel  enough. — 

Wid.  One  taste  more  I  had,  although  but  little, 
Yet  I  would  aggravate  to  make  the  most  on 't : 
'Twas  thus :  the  other  day  it  was  my  hap, 
In  crossing  of  the  Thames, 
To  drop  that  wedlock  ring  from  off  my  finger, 
That  once'  conjoined  me  and  my  dead  husband : 
It  sunk ;  I  prized  it  dear ;  the  dearer,  'cause  it  kept 
Still  in  mine  eye  the  memory  of  my  loss : 


A  NEW  WONDEK,  ETC.  129 

Yet  I  grieved  the  loss ;  and  did  joy  withal, 
That  I  had  found  a  grief.     And  this  is  all 
The  sorrow  I  can  boast  of. 

Doct.  This  is  but  small. 

Wid.  Nay,  sure  I  am  of  this  opinion, 

That  had  I  suffer 'd  a  draught  to  be  made  for  it, 
The  bottom  would  have  sent  it  up  again ; 
I  am  so  wondrously  fortunate. 

Foster,  a  wealthy  merchant,  has  a  profligate  brother,  Stephen,  whom 
Robert,  son  to  Foster,  relieves  out  of  prison  with  some  of  his  father's 
money  entrusted  to  him.  For  this,  his  father  turns  him  out  of  doors 
and  disinherits  him.  Meantime  by  a  reverse  of  fortune,  Stephen  be 
comes  rich  ;  and  Foster  by  losses  in  trade  is  thrown  into  the  same  prison 
(Ludgate)  from  which  his  brother  had  been  relieved.  Stephen  adopts 
his  nephew,  on  the  condition  that  he  shall  not  assist  or  go  near  his 
father:  but  filial  piety  prevails  above  the  consideration  either  of  his 
uncle's  displeasure  or  of  his  father's  late  unJdndness  ;  and  he  visits  hi-s 
father  in  prison. 

FOSTEE.      EOBEET. 

Fos.  0  torment  to  my  soul,  what  makest  thou  here  ? 

Cannot  the  picture  of  my  misery 

Be  drawn,  and  hung  out  to  the  eyes  of  men, 

But  thou  must  come  to  scorn  arid  laugh  at  it  ? 
Hob.  Dear  sir,  I  come  to  thrust  my  back  under  your  load, 

To  make  the  burthen  lighter. 
Fos.  Hence  from  my  sight,  dissembling  villain,  go : 

Thine  uncle  sends  defiance  to  my  woe, 

And  thou  must  bring  it :  hence,  thou  basilisk, 

That  kill'st  me  with  thine  eyes.     Nay,  never  kneel ; 

These  scornful  mocks  more  than  my  Woes  I  feel. 
Rob.  Alas !  I  mock  ye  not,  but  come  in  love 

And  natural  duty,  sir,  to  beg  your  blessing ; 

And  for  mine  uncle 

Fos.  Him  and  thee  I  curse. 

I  '11  starve  ere  I  eat  bread  from  his  purse, 

Or  from  thy  hand :  out,  villain ;  tell  that  cur, 

Thy  barking  uncle,  that  I  lie  not  here 

Upon  my  bed  of  riot,  as  he  did, 

Cover 'd  with  all  the  villaniea  which  man 

Had  ever  woven ;  tell  him  I  lie  not  so ; 

It  was  the  hand  of  Heaven  struck  me  thus  low, 


130  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

And  I  do  thank  it.     Get  thee  gone,  I  say, 
Or  I  shall  curse  thee,  strike  thee ;  prithee  away: 
Or  if  thou  'It  laugh  thy  fill  at  my  poor  state, 
Then  stay,  and  listen  to  the  prison  grate, 
And  hear  thy  father,  an  old  wretched  man, 
That  yesterday  had  thousands,  beg  and  cry 
To  get  a  penny :  0,  my  misery ! 

Hoi.  Dear  sir,  for  pity  hear  me. 

Fos.  Upon  my  curse  I  charge,  no  nearer  come ; 
I  '11  be  no  father  to  so  vile  a  son. 

Rol.  0  my  abortive  fate ! 

Why  for  my  good  am  I  thus  paid  with  hate  ? 
Prom  this  sad  place  of  Ludgate  here  I  freed 
An  uncle,  and  I  lost  a  father  for  it ; 
Now  is  my  father  here,  whom  if  I  succour, 
I  then  must  lose  my  uncle's  love  and  favour. 
My  father  once  being  rich,  and  uncle  poor, 
I  him  relieving  was  thrust  forth  of  doors. 
Baffled,  reviled,  and  disinherited. 
Now  mine  own  father  here  must  beg  for  bread, 
Mine  uncle  being  rich ;  and  yet,  if  I 
Peed  him,  myself  must  beg.     0  misery, 
How  bitter  is  thy  taste !  yet  I  will  drink 
Thy  strongest  poison ;  fret  what  mischief  can, 
I  '11  feed  my  father ;  though  like  the  pelican, 
I  peck  mine  own  breast  for  him. 
His  Father  appears  above  at  the  Grate,  a  Sox  hanging  down. 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  one  penny  to  buy  a  loaf  of  bread,  for  the 
tender  mercy. 

Rob.  0  me,  my  shame !  I  know  that  voice  full  well ; 
I  '11  help  thy  wants  although  thou  curse  me  still. 
H.e  stands  where  he  is  unseen  by  his  Father. 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  some  Christian  man  send  back 
Tour  charity  to  a  number  of  poor  prisoners. 
One  penny  for  the  tender  mercy — 

{Itobert  puts  in  money. 
The  hand  of  Heaven  reward  you,  gentle  sir ; 
Never  may  you  want,  never  feel  misery ; 
Let  blessings  in  unnumber'd  measure  grow, 
And  fall  upon  your  head,  where'er  you  go. 


A.  NEW  WONDER,  ETC.  131 

Rob.  0  happy  comfort !  curses  to  the  ground 

First  struck  me :  now  with  blessings  I  am  crown'd1. 
Fos.  Bread,  bread,  for  the  tender  mercy,  one  penny  for  a 

loaf  of  bread. 
Rob.  I  '11  buy  more  blessings  :  take  thou  all  my  store  ; 

I  '11  keep  no  coin  and  see  my  father  poor. 
Fos.  Grood  angels  guard  you,  sir,  my  prayers  shall  be 

That  Heaven  may  bless  you  for  this  charity. 
Rob.  If  he  knew  me,  sure  he  would  not  say  so : 

Tet  I  have  comfort,  if  by  any  means 

I  get  a  blessing  from  my  father's  hands. 

How  cheap  are  good  prayers !  a  poor  penny  buys 

That,  by  which  man  up  in  a  minute  flies 

And  mounts  to  heaven. 

Enter  STEPHEN. 

0  me,  mine  uncle  sees  me. 
StepTi.  Now,  sir,  what  makes  you  here 

So  near  the  prison  ? 
Rob.  I  was  going,  sir, 

To  buy  meat  for  a  poor  bird  I  have, 
That  sits  so  sadly  in  the  cage  of  late, 

1  think  he  '11  die  for  sorrow. 
Stepti.  So,  sir : 

Your  pity  will  not  quit  your  pains,  I  fear  me. 

I  shall  find  that  bird  (I  think)  to  be  that  churlish  wretch 

Tour  father,  that  now  has  taken 

Shelter  here  in  Ludgate.     Go  to,  sir ;  urge  me  not, 

You  'd  best ;  I  have  given  you  warning :  fawn  not  on  him, 

Nor  come  not  near  him  if  you  '11  have  my  love. 
Rob.  'Las !  sir ;  that  lamb 

Were  most  unnatural  that  should  hate  the  dam. 
StepTi.  Lamb  me  no  lambs,  sir. 
Rob.  Grood  uncle,  'las !  you  know,  when  you  lay  here, 

I  succour'd  you:  so  let  me  now  help  him. 
Stepk.  Yes,  as  he  did  me ; 

To  laugh  and  triumph  at  my  misery. 

You  freed  me  with  his  gold,  but  'gainst  his  will : 

For  him  I  might  have  rotted,  and  lain  still. 
.     So  shall  he  now. 

1  A  blessing  stolen  at  least  as  fairly  as  Jacob's  was. 

K2 


132  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

Rob.  Alack  the  day ! 

Steph.  If  him  thou  pity,  'tis  thine  own  decay. 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  some  charitable  man  remember  the  poor 

Prisoners,  bread  for  the  tender  mercy,  one  penny. 
Rob.  0  listen,  uncle,  that  's  my  poor  father's  voice. 
Stejpk.  There  let  him  howl.    Get  you  gone,  and  come  not  near 

him. 
Rob.  0  my  soul, 

What  tortures  dost  thou  feel !  earth  ne'er  shall  find 

A  son  so  true,  yet  forced  to  be  unkind. 

Robert  disobeys  his  Uncle's  injunctions,  and  again  visits  his  Father. 

FOSTER.     WIFE.     EGBERT. 
Fos.  Ha !  what  art  thou  ?     Call  for  the  keeper  there, 

And  thrust  him  out  of  doors,  or  lock  me  up. 
Wife.  0,  'tis  your  son. 
Fos.  I  know  him  not. 

I  am  no  king,  unless  of  scorn  and  woe : 

Why  kneel' st  thou  then  ?  why  dost  thou  mock  me  so  ? 
Rob.  0  my  dear  father,  hither  am  I  come, 

Not  like  a  threatening  storm  to  increase  your  wrack, 

For  I  would  take  all  sorrows  from  your  back, 

To  lay  them  all  on  my  own. 

Fos.  Eise,  mischief,  rise ;  away,  and  get  thee  gone. 
Rob.  0,  if  I  be  thus  hateful  to  your  eye, 

I  will  depart,  and  wish  I  soon  may  die ; 

Yet  let  your  blessing,  sir,  but  fall  on  me. 
Fos.  My  heart  still  hates  thee. 
Wife.  Sweet  husband. 
Fos.  Gret  you  both  gone  ; 

That  misery  takes  some  rest  that  dwells  alone. 

Away,  thou  villain. 
Rob.  Heaven  can  tell ; 

Ache  but  your  finger,  I  to  make  it  well 

Would  cut  my  hand  off. 
Fos.  Hang  thee,  hang  thee. 
Wife.  Husband. 

Fos.  Destruction  meet  thee.     Turn  the  key  there,  ho. 
Rob.  Grood  sir,  I  'm  gone,  I  will  not  stay  to  grieve  you, 

0,  knew  you,  for  your  woes  what  pains  I  feel, 

You  would  not  scorn  me  so.     See,  sir,  to  cool 


A  NEW  WOKDEK,  ETC.  133 

Tour  heat  of  burning  sorrow,  I  have  got 
Two  hundred  pounds,  and  glad  it  is  my  lot 
To  lay  it  down  with  reverence  at  your  feet ; 
No  comfort  in  the  world  to  me  is  sweet, 
Whilst  thus  you  live  in  moan. 

Fos.  Stay. 

Rob.  G-ood  truth,  sir,  I  '11  have  none  of  it  back, 
Could  but  one  penny  of  it  save  my  life. 

Wife.  Yet  stay,,  and  hear  him :  O,  unnatural  strife 
In  a  hard  father's  bosom  ! 

Fos.  I  see  mine  error  now  :  O,  can  there  grow 
A  rose  upon  a  bramble  ?   did  there  e'er  flow 
Poison  and  health  together  in  one  tide  ? 
I  'm  born  a  man :  reason  may  step  aside, 
And  lead  a  father's  love  out  of  the  way : 
Forgive  me,  my  good  boy,  I  went  astray ; 
Look,  on  my  knees  I  beg  it :  not  for  joy, 
Thou  bring' st  this  golden  rubbish ;  which  I  spurn : 
But  glad  in  this,  the  heavens  mine  eye-balls  turn, 
And  fix  them  right  to  look  upon  that  face, 
Where  love  remains  with  pity,  duty,  grace. 
O,  my  dear  wronged  boy ! 

Rob.  Gladness  o'erwhelms 

My  heart  with  joy :  I  cannot  speak. 

Wife.  Crosses  of  this  foolish  world 

Did  never  grieve  my  heart  with  torments  more 

Than  it  is  now  grown  light 

With  joy  and  comfort  of  this  happy  sight. 

[The  old  play-writers  are  distinguished  by  ail  honest  boldness  of  exhi 
bition  ;  they  show  every  thing  without  being  ashamed.  If  a  reverse  in 
fortune  be  the  thing  to  be  personified,  they  fairly  bring  us  to  the  prison- 
grate  and  the  alms-basket.  A  poor  man  on  our  stage  is  always  a  gentle 
man  ;  lie  may  be  known  by  a  peculiar  neatness  of  apparel,  and  by  wearing 
black.  Our  delicacy,  in  fact,  forbids  the  dramatizing  of  distress  at  all.  It 
is  never  shown  in  its  essential  properties1 ;  it  appears  but  as  the  adjunct 

1  Guzman  de  Alfarache,  in  that  good  old  book  "  The  Spanish  Rogue," 
has  summed  up  a  few  of  the  properties  of  poverty: — "That  poverty,  which 
is  not  the  daughter  of  the  spirit,  is  but  the  mother  of  shame  and  reproach; 
it  is  a  disreputation  that  drowns  all  the  other  good  parts  that  are  in  man; 
it  is  a  disposition  to  all  kind  of  evil ;  it  is  man's  most  foe ;  it  is  a  leprosy 
full  of  anguish  ;  it  is  a  way  that  leads  unto  hell ;  it  is  a  sea  wherein  our 


134  THOMAS  MIDDLETOtf, 

to  some  virtue,  as  something  which  is  to  be  relieved,  from  the  approbation 
of  which  relief  the  spectators  are  to  derive  a  certain  soothing  of  self-referred 
satisfaction.  We  turn  .away  from  the  real  essences  of  things  to  hunt  after 
their  relative  shadows,  moral  duties  :  whereas,  if  the  truth  of  things  were 
fairly  represented,  the  relative  duties  might  be  safely  trusted  to  them 
selves,  and  moral  philosophy  lose  the  name  of  a  science.] 


WOMEN  BEWAEE  WOMEN :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  THOMAS 
MIDDLETON. 

Livia,  the  Duke's  creature,  cajoles  a  poor  widow  with  the  appearance  of 
hospitality  and  neighbourly  attentions,  that  she  may  get  her  daughter- 
in-law  (who  is  left  in  the  mother's  care  in  the  son's  absence)  into  her 
trains^  to  serve  the  Duke's  pleasure. 


LIYIA.     WIDOW.     A  GENTLEMAN,  Livicd 

Liv.  "Widow,  come,  come,  I  have  a  great  quarrel  to  you ; 
Faith  I  must  chide  you  that  you  must  be  sent  for ; 
You  make  yourself  so  strange,  never  come  at  us, 
And  yet  so  near  a  neighbour,  and  so  unkind ; 

patience  is  overwhelmed,  our  honour  is  consumed,  our  lives  are  ended, 
and  our  souls  are  utterly  lost  and  cast  away  for  ever.  The  poor  man  is  a 
kind  of  money  that  is  not  current ;  the  subject  of  every  idle  housewife's 
chat ;  the  ofFscum  of  the  people  ;  the  dust  of  the  street,  first  trampled 
under  foot  and  then  thrown  on  the  dunghill ;  in  conclusion,  the  poor 
man  is  the  rich  man's  ass.  He  dineth  with  the  last,  fareth  of  the  worst, 
and  payeth  dearest :  his  sixpence  will  not  go  so  far  as  a  rich  man's  three 
pence  ;  his  opinion  is  ignorance ;  his  discretion,  foolishness  ;  his  suffrage, 
scorn ;  his  stock  upon  the  common,  abused  by  many  and  abhorred  of  all. 
If  he  come  in  company,  he  is  not  heard ;  if  any  chance  to  meet  him,  they 
seek  to  shun  him ;  if  he  advise,  though  never  so  wisely,  they  grudge  and 
murmur  at  him  ;  if  he  work  miracles,  they  say  he  is  a  witch ;  if  virtuous, 
that  he  goetli  about  to  deceive  ;  his  venial  sin  is  a  blasphemy  ;  his  thought 
is  made  treason ;  his  oause,  be  it  never  so  just,  it  is  not  regarded ;  and, 
to  have  his  wrongs  righted,  he  must  appeal  to  that  other  life.  All  men 
crush  him  ;  no  man  favoureth  him ;  there  is  no  man  that  will  relieve  his 
wants  ;  no  man  that  will  comfort  him  in  his  miseries  ;  nor  no  man  that 
will  bear  him  company,  when  he  is  all  alone,  and  oppressed  with  grief. 
None  help  him  ;  all  hinder  him  ;  none  give  him,  all  take  from  him  ;  he 
is  debtor  to  none,  and  yet  must  make  payment  to  all.  O,  the  unfortunate 
and  poor  condition  of  him  that  is  poor,  to  whom  even  the  very  hours  are 
sold,  which  the  clock  striketh,  and  pays  custom  for  the  sunshine  in 
August ! " 


WOMEN  BEWABE  WOMEN.  135 

Troth,  you  're  to  blame  ;  you  cannot  be  more  welcome 
To  any  house  in  Florence,  that  I  '11  tell  you. 

Wid.  My  thanks  must  needs  acknowledge  so  much,  madam. 

Liv.  How  can  you  be  so  strange  then  ?    I  sit  here 

Sometimes  whole  days  together  without  company, 
"When  business  draws  this  gentleman  from  home, 
And  should  be  happy  in  society 
Which  I  so  well  affect  as  that  of  yours. 
I  know  you  're  alone  too ;  why  should  not  we 
Like  two  kind  neighbours  then  supply  the  wants 
Of  one  another,  having  tongue-discourse, 
Experience  in  the  world,  and  such  kind  helps, 
To  laugh  down  time  and  meet  age  merrily  ? 

Wid.  Age,  madam  !  you  speak  mirth :  'tis  at  my  door, 
But  a  long  journey  from  your  ladyship  yet. 

Liv.  My  faith,  I  'm  nine  and  thirty,  every  stroke,  wench : 
And  'tis  a  general  observation 

'Mongst  knights ;  wives,  or  widows,  we  account  ourselves 
Then  old,  when  young  men's  eyes  leave  looking  at  us. 
Come,  now  I  have  thy  company,  I  '11  not  part  with  it 
Till  after  supper. 

Wid.  Yes,  I  must  crave  pardon,  madam. 

Liv.  I  swear  you  shall  stay  supper ;  we  have  no  strangers, 

woman, 

JSToue"  but  my  sojourners  and  I,  this  gentleman 
And  the  young  heir  his  ward ;  you  know  your  company. 

Wid.  Some  other  time  I  will  make  bold  with  you,  madam. 

Liv.  Faith  she  shall  not  go. 

Do  you  think  I  '11  be  forsworn  ? 

Wid.  'Tis  a  great  while 

Till  supper-time ;  I  '11  take  my  leave  then  now,  madam, 
And  come  again  in  the  evening,  since  your  ladyship 
Will  have  it  so. 

Liv.  In  the  evening !  by  my  troth,  wench, 

I  '11  keep  you  while  I  have  you :  you  've  great  business 

sure, 

To  sit  alone  at  home  :  I  wonder  strangely 
What  pleasure  you  take  in 't.     Were  't  to  me  now, 
I  should  be  ever  at  one  neighbour's  house 
Or  other  all  day  long ;  having  no  charge, 
Or  none  to  chide  you,  if  you  go,  or  stay, 


136  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

"Who  may  live  merrier,  ay,  or  more  at  heart's  ease  ? 
Come,  we  '11  to  chess  or  draughts  ;  there  are  a  hundred 

tricks 
To  drive  out  time  till  supper,  never  fear  't,  wench. 

[A.  chess-board  is  set. 

Wid.  I  '11  but  make  one  step  home,  and  return  straight, 
madam. 

Liv.  Come,  I  '11  not  trust  you,  you  make  more  excuses 
To  your  kind  friends  than  ever  I  knew  any. 
What  business  can  you  have,  if  you  be  sure 
You  've  lock'd  the  doors  ?  and,  that  being  all  you  have, 
I  know  you  're  careful  on 't :  one  afternoon 
So  much  to  spend  here !  say  I  should  entreat  you  now" 
To  lie  a  night  or  two,  or  a  week,  with  me, 
Or  leave  your  own  house  for  a  month  together ; 
It  were  a  kindness  that  long  neighbourhood 
And  friendship  might  well  hope  to  prevail  in : 
Would  you  deny  such  a  request  ?  i'  faith 
Speak  truth  and  freely. 

Wid.  I  were  then  uncivil,  madam. 

Liv.  Go  to  then,  set  your  men :  we  '11  have  whole  nights 
Of  mirth  together,  ere  we  be  much  older,  wench, 

Wid.  As  good  now  tell  her  then,  for  she  will  know  it ; 

I  've  always  found  her  a  most  friendly  lady.         [Aside. 

Liv.  Why,  widow,  where  's  your  mind  ? 

Wid.  Troth,  even  at  home,  madam. 

To  tell  you  truth,  I  left  a  gentlewoman 
Even  sitting  all  alone,  which  is  uncomfortable, 
Especially  to  young  bloods. 

Liv.  Another  excuse. 

Wid.  No,  as  I  hope  for  health,  madam,  that 's  a  truth ; 
Please  you  to  send  and  see. 

Liv.  What  gentlewoman  ?  pish. 

Wid.  Wife  to  my  son  indeed. 

Liv.  Now  I  beshrew  you. 

Could  you  be  so  unkind  to  her  and  me, 

To  come  and  not  bring  her  ?  faith,  'tis  not  friendly. 

Wid.  I  fear'd  to  be  too  bold. 

Liv.  Too  bold !  O,  what 's  become 

Of  the  true  hearty  love  was  wont  to  be 
'Mongst  neighbours  in  old  time  ? 


WOMEN  BEWABE  WOMEN.  137 

Wid.  And  she  's  a  stranger,  madam 

Liv.  The  more  should  be  her  welcome :  when  is  courtesy 

In  better  practice,  than  when  'tis  employ 'd 

In  entertaining  strangers  ?    I  could  chide  ye  in  faith. 

Leave  her  behind,  poor  gentlewoman — alone  too ! 

Make  some  amends,  and  send  for  her  betimes — go. 
Wid.  Please  you  command  one  of  your  servants,  madam, 
Liv.  Within  there. — 

Attend  the  gentlewoman1. 

£rancha  resists  the  Duke's  attempt. 

Bran.  O  treachery  to  honour ! 

Duke.  Prithee  tremble  not. 

I  feel  thy  breast  shake  like  a  turtle  panting 
Under  a  loving  hand  that  makes  much  on 't. 
"Why  art  so  fearful  ? 

Bran.  0  my  extremity  ! 

My  lord,  what  seek  you  ? 

Duke.  Love. 

Bran.  'Tis  gone  already : 
I  have  a  husband. 

Duke.  That 's  a  single  comfort ; 
Take  a  friend  to  him. 

Bran.  That 's  a  double  mischief; 
Or  else  there  's  no  religion. 

Duke.  Do  not  tremble 

At  fears  of  thy  own  making. 

Bran.  Nor,  great  lord, 

Make  me  not  bold  with  death  and  deeds  of  ruin, 
Because  they  fear  not  you ;  me  they  must  fright ; 
Then  am  I  best  in  health :  should  thunder  speak 
And  none  regard  it,  it  had  lost  the  name, 
And  were  as  good  be  still.     I  'm  not  like  those 
That  take  their  soundest  sleeps  in  greatest  tempests : 
Then  wake  I  most,  the  weather  fearfullest, 

And  call  for  strength  to  virtue. 

Winding  Sheet. 
to  have  a  being,  and  to  live  'mongst  men, 

1  This  is  one  of  those  scenes  which  has  the  air  of  being  an  immediate 
transcript  from  life.  Livia  the  "  good  neighbour  "  is  as  real  a  creature  as 
one  of  Chaucer's  characters.  She  is  such  another  jolly  housewife  as  the 
Wife  of  Bath. 


138  THOMAS  MIDDLETOtf. 

Is  a  fearful  living  and  a  poor  one ;  let  a  man  truly  think 

on't. 

To  have  the  toil  and  griefs  of  fourscore  years 
Put  up  in  a  white  sheet,  tied  with  two  knots  -, 
Methinks  it  should  strike  earthquakes  in  adulterers, 
When  even  the  very  sheets  they  commit  sin  in 
May  prove  for  aught  they  know  all  their  last  garments. 

Great  Men's  Looks. 
Did  not  the  duke  look  up  ?  methought  he  saw  us. — 

That 's  every  one's  conceit  that  sees  a  duke. 

If  he  look  steadfastly,  he  looks  straight  at  them : 
"When  he  perhaps,  good  careful  gentleman, 
Never  minds  any,  but  the  look  he  casts 
Is  at  his  own  intentions,  and  his  object 
Only  the  public  good.  — 

Weeping  in  Love. 

"Why  should  those  tears  be  fetch' d  forth  ?  cannot  love 
Be  even  as  well  express' d  in  a  good  look, 
But  it  must  see  her  face  still  in  a  fountain  ? 
It  shows  like  a  country  maid  dressing  her  head 
By  a  dish  of  water :  come,  'tis  an  old  custom 
To  weep  for  love. 

Lover's  Chidings. 

—  prithee  forgive  me, 

I  did  but  chide  in  jest :  the  best  loves  use  it 
Sometimes ;  it  sets  an  edge  upon  affection  . 
"When  we  invite  our  best  friends  to  a  feast, 
'Tis  not  all  sweetmeats  that  we  set  before  'em ; 
There's  something  sharp  and  salt,  both  to  whet  appetite, 
And  make  'em  taste  their  wine  well :  so  methinks, 
After  a  friendly  sharp  and  savory  chiding, 
A  kiss  tastes  wondrous  well,  and  full  o'  the  grape. 

WedlocJc. 

O  thou,  the  ripe  time  of  man's  misery,  wedlock ! 
"When  all  his  thoughts  like  over-laden  trees 
Crack  with  the  fruits  they  bear,  in  cares,  in  jealousies. 
O,  that 's  a  fruit  that  ripens  hastily, 
After  'tis  knit  to  marriage  ;  it  begins, 
As  soon  as  the  sun  shines  upon  the  bride, 
A  little  to  show  colour. — 

Marrying  the  Adulteress,  the  Husband  dead. 

Is  not  sin  sure  enough  to  wretched  man,     . 


MORE  DISSEMBLERS  BESIDES  WOMEN.  139 

But  he  must  bind  himself  in  chains  to 't  ?  worse  ! 
Must  marriage,  that  immaculate  robe  of  honour, 
That  renders  virtue  glorious,  fair,  and  fruitful, 
To  her  great  master,  be  now  made  the  garment 
Of  leprosy  and  foulness  ?  is  this  penitence, 
To  sanctify  hot  lust  ?  what  is  it  otherways 
Than  worship  done  to  devils  ?  is  this  the  best 
Amends  that  sin  can  make  after  her  riots  ? 
As  if  a  drunkard,  to  appease  Heaven's  wrath, 
Should  offer  up  his  surfeit  for  a  sacrifice : 
If  that  be  comely,  then  lust's  offerings  are 
On  wedlock's  sacred  altar. 


MOEE  DISSEMBLEES  BESIDES  WOMEN :   A  COMEDY,  BY 

THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

Death. 

when  the  heart 's  above,  the  body  walks  here 

But  like  an  idle  serving-man  below, 
G-aping  and  waiting  for  his  master's  coming. 
He  that  lives  fourscore  years,  is  but  like  one 
That  stays  here  for  a  friend :  when  death  comes,  then 
Away  he  goes,  and  is  ne'er  seen  again. 
Loving  a  Woman. 

of  all  the  frenzies 

That  follow  flesh  and  blood, 

The  most  ridiculous  is  to  fawn  on  women ; 

There  's  no  excuse  for  that :  'tis  such  a  madness, 

There  is  no  cure  set  down  for 't ;  no  physician 

Ever  spent  hour  about  it,  for  they  guess' d 

'Twas  all  in  vain,  when  they  first  loved,  themselves, 

And  never  since  durst  practise  :  cry  ~heu  mihi ; 

That 's  all  the  help  they  have  for 't.     1  'd  rather  meet 

A  witch  far  north  than  a  fine  fool  in  love  ; 

The  sight  would  less  afflict  me.     But  for  modesty, 

I  should  fall  foul  in  words  upon  fond  man, 

That  can  forget  his  excellence  and  honour, 

His  serious  meditations,  being  the  end 

Of  his  creation,  to  learn  well  to  die ; 

And  live  a  prisoner  to  a  woman's  eye. 

Widow's  Vow. 

Lord  Cardinal.  Increase  of  health  and  a  redoubled  courage 
To  chastity's  great  soldier :  what,  so  sad,  madam  ? 


140  THOMAS  MIPDLETON. 

The  memory  of  her  seven  years  deceased  lord 

Springs  yet  into  her  eyes,  as  fresh  and  full 

As  at  the  seventh  hour  after  his  departure. 

What  a  perpetual  fountain  is  her  virtue  ! 

Too  much  to  afflict  yourself  with  ancient  sorrow 

Is  not  so  strictly  for  your  strength  required : 

Tour  vow  is  charge  enough,  believe  me  'tis,  madam ; 

You  need  no  weightier  task. 

Duck.  Religious  sir, 

You  heard  the  last  words  of  my  dying  lord. 

Lord  Card.  Which  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 

Duck.  May  I  entreat 

Your  goodness  but  to  speak  'em  over  to  me, 
As  near  as  memory  can  befriend  your  utterance  : 
That  I  may  think  awhile  I  stand  in  presence 
Of  my  departing  husband. 

Lord  Card.  What 's  your  meaning 
In  this,  most  virtuous  madam  ? 

Duck.  'Tis  a  courtesy     • 

I  stand  in  need  of,  sir,  at  this  time  especially  ; 
Urge  it  no  farther  yet :  as  it  proves  to  me, 
You  shall  hear  from  me ;  only  I  desire  it 
Effectually  from  you,  sir ;  that 's  my  request. 

Lord  Card.  I  wonder;  yet  I  '11  spare  to  question  farther: 
You  shall  have  your  desire. 

Duck.  I  thank  you,  sir : 

A  blessing  come  along  with  it. 

Lord  Card,  [repeats]  "  You  see,  my  lords,  what  all  earth's 

glory  is, 

Eightly  denned  in  me,  uncertain  breath ; 
A  dream  of  threescore  years  to  the  long  sleeper, 
To  most  not  half  the  time.     Beware  ambition ; 
Heaven  is  not  reach' d  with  pride,  but  with  submission. 
And  you,  Lord  Cardinal,  labour  to  perfect 
Grood  purposes  begun ;  be  what  you  seem, 
Steadfast  and  uncorrupt,  your  actions  noble, 
Your  goodness  simple,  without  gain  or  art ; 
And  not  in  vesture  holier  than  in  heart. 
But  'tis  a  pain  more  than  the  pangs  of  death 
To  think  that  we  must  part,  fellows  of  life. — 
Thou  richness  of  my  joys,  kind  and  dear  princess, 
Death  had  no  sting,  but  for  our  separation ; 


141 

'Twould  come  more  calm  than  an  evening's  peace, 

That  brings  on  rest  to  labours  :  Thou  art  so  precious, 

I  should  depart  in  everlasting  envy 

Unto  the  man,  that  ever  should  enjoy  thee. 

O,  a  new  torment  strikes  his  force  into  me ! 

When  I  but  think  on 't,  I  am  rack'd  and  torn 

(Pity  me)  in  thy  virtues." 

Duch.  "  My  loved  lord, 

Let  your  confirm' d  opinion  of  my  life, 
My  love,  my  faithful  love,  seal  an  assurance 
Oi  quiet  to  your  spirit,  that  no  forgetfulness 
Can  cast  a  sleep  so  deadly  on  my  senses, 
To  draw  my  affections  to  a  second  liking." 

Lord  Card.  "  It  has  ever  been  the  promise,  and  the  spring 
Of  my  great  love  to  thee.     For,  once  to  marry 
Is  honourable  in  woman,  and  her  ignorance 
Stands  for  a  virtue,  coming  new  and  fresh ; 
But  second  marriage  shows  desires  in  flesh ; 
Thence  lust,  and  heat,  and  common  custom  grows : 
But  she  's  part  virgin,  who  but  one  man  knows. 
I  here  expect  a  work  of  thy  great  faith  : 
At  my  last  parting  I  can  crave  no  more  ; 
And  with  thy  vow,  I  rest  myself  for  ever ; 
My  soul  and  it  shall  fly  to  heaven  together : 
Seal  to  my  spirit  that  quiet  satisfaction, 
And  I  go  hence  in  peace." 

DucJi.  "  Then  here  I  vow,  never " 

Lord  Card.  Why,  madam 

Duch.  I  can  go  no  further. 

Lord  Card.  What,  have  you  forgot  your  vow  ? 

Duch.  I  have,  too  certainly. 

Lord  Card.  Your  vow  ?  that  cannot  be ;  it  follows  now, 
Just  where  I  left. 

Duch.  My  frailty  gets  before  it ; 
Nothing  prevails  but  ill. 

Lord  Card.  What  ail  you,  madam  ? 

Duch.  Sir,  I  'w  in  love. 

NO  WITT  LIKE  A  WOMAN'S:    A  COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS 
HELP/  MIDDLETON. 

Virtuous  Poverty. 
'Life,  had  he  not  his  answer  F  what  strange  impudence 


142  THOMAS  MIDDLETOIS'. 

Governs  in  man,  when  lust  is  lord  of  him  ! 
Thinks  he  me  mad  ?  'cause  I  have  no  moneys  on  earth, 
That  I  '11  go  forfeit  my  estate  in  heaven, 
And  live  eternal  beggar  ?  he  shall  pardon  me : 
That 's  my  soul's  jointure ;  I  '11  starve  ere  I  sell  that. 
Comfort. 

husband, 

Wake,  wake,  and  let  not  patience  keep  thee  poor ; 
Rouse  up  thy  spirit  from  this  falling  slumber : 
Make  thy  distress  seem  but  a  weeping  dream, 
And  this  the  opening  morning  of  thy  comforts 
"Wipe  the  salt  dew  from  off  thy  careful  eyes, 
And  drink  a  draught  of  gladness  next  thy  heart 
To  expel  the  infection  of  all  poisonous  sorrows. 
Good  and  HI  Fortune. 

O  my  blessing ! 

I  feel  a  hand  of  mercy  lift  me  up 
Out  of  a  world  of  waters,  and  now  sets  me 
Upon  a  mountain,  where  the  sun  plays  most, 
To  cheer  my  heart  even  as  it  dries  my  limbs. 
What  deeps  I  see  beneath  me  !  in  whose  falls 
Many  a  nimble  mortal  toils, 

And  scarce  can  feed  himself:  the  streams  of  fortune, 
'Grainst  which  he  tugs  in  vain,  still  beat  him  down, 
And  will  not  suffer  him  (past  hand  to  mouth) 
To  lift  his  arm  to  his  posterities'  blessing. 
I  see  a  careful  sweat  run  in  a  ring 
About  his  temples,  but  all  will  not  do : 
For  till  some  happy  means  relieve  his  state, 
There  he  must  stick  and  bide  the  wrath  of  fate. 
Parting  in  Amity. 

Let  our  parting 

Be  full  as  charitable  as  our  meeting  was  ; 
That  the  pale  envious  world,  glad  of  the  food 
Of  others  miseries,  civil  dissensions, 
And  nuptial  strifes,  may  not  feed  fat  with  ours. 
Meeting  toith  a  Wife  supposed  dead. 

0  my  reviving  joy !  thy  quickening  presence 
Makes  the  sad  night  of  threescore  and  ten  years 
Sit  like  a  youthful  spring  upon  my  blood. 

1  cannot  make  thy  welcome  rich  enough 
"With  all  the  wealth  of  words. 


THE  WITCH.  •  143 

• 
Mother's  Forgiveness. 

Mother.  Why  do  your  words  start  back  ?  are  they  afraid 
Of  her  that  ever  loved  them  ? 

Philip.  I  have  a  suit  to  you,  madam. 

Mother.  You  have  told  me  that  already ;  pray,  what  is 't  ? 
If 't  be  so  great,  my  present  state  refuse  it, 
I  shall  be  abler,  then  command  and  use  it. 
"Whatever  't  be,  let  me  have  warning  to  provide  for  't. 

Philip.  Provide  forgiveness  then,  for  that 's  the  want 
My  conscience  feels.     0,  my  wild  youth  has  led  me 
Into  unnatural  wrongs  against  your  freedom  once. 
I  spent  the  ransom  which  my  father  sent, 
To  set  my  pleasures  free  ;  while  you  lay  captive. 

Mother.  And  is  this  all  now  ? 

You  use  me  like  a  stranger :  pray,  stand  up. 

Philip.  Bather  fall  flat :  I  shall  deserve  yet  worse. 

Mother.  Whate'er  your  faults  are,  esteem  me  still  a  friend ; 
'    Or  else  you  wrong  me  more  in  asking  pardon 
Than  when  you  did  the  wrong  you  ask'd  it  for : 
And  since  you  have  prepared  me  to  forgive  you, 
Pray  let  me  know  for  what ;  the  first  fault 's  nothing. 

Philip.  Here  comes  the  wrong  then  that  drives  home  the  rest. 
I  saw  a  face  at  Antwerp,  that  quite  drew  me 
Prom  conscience  and  obedience :  in  that  fray 
I  lost  my  heart,  I  must  needs  lose  my  way. 
There  went  the  ransom,  to  redeem  my  mind ; 
'Stead  of  the  money,  I  brought  over  her ; 
And  to  cast  mists  before  my  father's  eyes, 
Told  him  it  was  my  sister  (lost  so  long) 
And  that  yourself  was  dead. — You  see  the  wrong. 

Mother.  This  is  but  youthful  still — 
I  forgive  thee 

As  freely  as  thou  didst  it.     For,  alas ! 
This  may  be  call'd  good  dealing,  to  some  parts 
That  love  and  youth  plays  daily  among  sons. 


THE  WITCH :  A  TRAGICOMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

HECATE,  and  the  other  Witches^  at  their  Charms. 
Hec.  Titty  and  Tiffin,  Suckin 

And  Pidgen,  Liard,  and  Robin ! 


144  'THOMAS  MIBDLETON. 

• 

White  spirits,  black  spirits,  grey  spirits,  red  spirits, 

Devil-toad,  devil-ram,  devil-cat,  and  devil-dam, 

Why  Hoppo  and  Stadlin,  Hellwain  and  Puckle ! 
Stad.  Here,  sweating  at  the  vessel. 
See.  Boil  it  well. 
Hop.  It  gallops  now. 
Hec.  Are  the  flames  blue  enough, 

Or  shall  I  use  a  little  seeten1  more  ? 
Stad.  The  nips  of  fairies  upon  maids'  white  hips 

Are  not  more  perfect  azure. 
Hec.  Tend  it  carefully. 

Send  Stadlin  to  me  with  a  brazen  dish, 

That  I  may  fall  to  work  upon  these  serpents, 

And  squeeze  'em  ready  for  the  second  hour. 

"Why,  when  ? 

Stad.  Here 's  Stadlin  and  the  dish. 
Hec.  Here  take  this  unbaptized  brat : 

Boil  it  well — preserve  the  fat : 

You  know  'tis  precious  to  transfer 

Our  'nointed  flesh  into  the  air, 

In  moonlight  nights,  o'er  steeple  tops, 

Mountains,  and  pine  trees,  that  like  pricks,  or  stops, 

Seem  to  our  height :  high  towers,  and  roofs  of  princes, 

Like  wrinkles  in  the  earth :  whole  provinces 

Appear  to  our  sight  then  even  like 

A  russet-mole  upon  some  lady's  cheek. 

When  hundred  leagues  in  air,  we  feast  and  sing, 

Dance,  kiss,  and  coll,  use  everything : 

What  young  man  can  we  wish  to  pleasure  us, 

But  we  enjoy  him  in  an  incubus  ? 

Thou  know'st  it,  Stadlin  ? 
Stad.  Usually  that 's  done. 
Hec.  Away,  in. 

Gro  feed  the  vessel  for  the  second  hour. 
Stad.  Where  be  the  magical  herbs  ? 
Hec.  They  're  down  his  throat2, 

His  mouth  cramm'd  full ;  his  ears  and  nostrils  stuft. 

I  thrust  in  Eleaselinum,  lately 

Aconitum,  frondes  populeas,  and  soot. 

You  may  see  that,  he  looks  so  black  i'  th'  mouth. 

Then  Sium,  Acharum,  Vulgaro  too, 

1  Seething.  2  The  dead  child's. 


THE  WITCH.  145 

Dentaphillon,  the  blood  of  a  flitter-mouse, 
Solanum  somnificum  et  oleum. 

Stad.  Then  there 's  all,  Hecate. 

Hec.  Is  the  heart  of  wax 

Stuck  full  of  magic  needles  ? 

JStad.  'Tis  done,  Hecate. 

Hec.  And  is  the  farmer's  picture,  and  his  wife's, 
Laid  down  to  the  fire  yet  ? 

Stad.  They  are  a-roasting  both  too. 

Hec.  Good; 

Then  their  marrows  are  a-melting  subtilly, 
And  three  months'  sickness  sucks  up  life  in  'em. 
They  denied  me  often  flour,  barm,  and  milk, 
Goose-grease  and  tar,  when  I  ne'er  hurt  their  churnings, 
Their  brew-locks  nor  their  batches,  nor  forespoke 
Any  of  their  breedings.     Now  I  '11  be  meet  with  'em. 
Seven  of  their  young  pigs  I  have  bewitch' d  already 
Of  the  last  litter,  nine  ducklings,  thirteen  goslings,  and 

a  hog 

Fell  lame  last  Sunday,  after  even-song  too. 
And  mark  how  their  sheep  prosper ;  or  what  soup 
Each  milch-kine  gives  to  the  pail :  I  '11  send  these  snakes 
Shall  milk 'em  all  beforehand:  the  dew'd-skirted  dairy 

wenches 

Shall  stroke  dry  dugs  for  this,  and  go  home  cursing : 
I  '11  mar  their  sillabubs,  and  swarthy  feastings 
Under  cows'  bellies,  with  the  parish  youths. 

SEBASTIAN  consults  the  Witch  for  a  Charm  to  be  revenged  on  his 

successful  Rival. 
Hec.  Urchins,  elves,  hags,  satires,  pans,  fawns,  silence. 

Kit  with  the  candlestick ;  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfs,  imps. 
The  spoon,  the  mare,  the  man  i'  th'  oak,  the  hellwain,  the 

fire-drake,  the  puckle.     A.  ab  hur.  hus. 
Seb.  Heaven  knows  with  what  unwillingness  and  hate 
I  enter  this  damn'd  place :  but  such  extremes 
Of  wrongs  in  love  fight  'gainst  religion's  knowledge, 
That  were  I  led  by  this  disease  to  deaths 
As  numberless  as  creatures  that  must  die, 
I  could  not  shun  the  way. — I  know  what  'tis 
To  pity  mad  men  now :  they  're  wretched  things 
That  ever  were  created,  if  they  be        ^  J.  ' 
Of  woman's  making  and  her  faithless  vows. 

L 


146  THOMAS  HIDDLETOtf. 

I  fear  they  're  now  a  kissing :  what 's  o'clock  ? 
'Tis  now  but  supper-time :  but  night  will  come, 
And  all  new-married  couples  make  short  suppers. 
Whate'er  thou  art,  I  have  no  spare  time  to  fear  thee ; 
My  horrors  are  so  strong  and  great  already 
That  thou  seem'st  nothing.    Tip  and  laze  not : 
Hadst  thou  my  business,  thou  couldst  ne'er  sit  so ; 
'Twould  firk  thee  into  air  a  thousand  mile, 
Beyond  thy  ointments :  I  would  I  were  read 
So  much  in  thy  black  power,  as  mine  own  griefs. 
I  'm  in  great  need  of  help  :  wilt  give  me  any  ? 

Hec.  Thy  boldness  takes  me  bravely ;  we  are  all  sworn 
To  sweat  for  such  a  spirit :  see  ;  I  regard  thee, 
I  rise,  and  bid  thee  welcome.     What 's  thy  wish  now  ? 

Seb.  0,  my  heart  swells  with  't.     I  must  take  breath  first. 

Hec.  Is  't  to  confound  some  enemy  on  the  seas  ? 
It  may  be  done  to-night.     Stadlin  's  within ; 
She  raises  all  your  sudden  ruinous  storms 
That  shipwreck  barks ;  and  tears  up  growing  oaks  ; 
Flies  over  houses,  and  takes  Anno  Domini 
Out  of  a  rich  man's  chimney  (a  sweet  place  for 't, 
He  would  be  hang'd  ere  he  would  set  his  own  years  there ; 
They  must  be  chamber' d  in  a  five  pound  picture, 
A  green  silk  curtain  drawn  before  the  eyes  on  't, 
His  rotten  diseased  years)  !     Or  dost  thou  envy 
The  fat  prosperity  of  any  neighbour  ? 
I  '11  call  forth  Hoppo,  and  her  incantation 
Can  straight  destroy  the  young  of  all  his  cattle : 
Blast  vineyards,  orchards,  meadows  ;  or  in  one  night 
Transport  his  dung,  hay,  corn,  by  reeks,  whole  stacks, 
Into  thine  own  ground. 

Seb.  This  would  come  most  richly  now 

To  many  a  country  grazier :  But  my  envy 
Lies  not  so  low  as  cattle,  corn,  or  wines : 
'Twill  trouble  your  best  powers  to  give  me  ease. 

Hec.  Is  it  to  starve  up  generation  ? 

To  strike  a  barrenness  in  man  or  woman  ? 

Seb.  Hah! 

Hec.  Hah !   Did  you  feel  me  there  ?    I  knew  your  grief. 

Seb.  Can  there  be  such  things  done  ? 

Hec.  Are  these  the  skins 

Of  serpents  ?  these  of  snakes  ? 


THE  WITCH.  147 

Seb.  I  see  they  are. 

Sec.  So  sure  into  what  house  these  are  convey 'd 
Knit  with  these  charms,  and  retentive  knots, 
Neither  the  man  begets,  nor  woman  breeds, 
No,  nor  performs  the  least  desire  of  wedlock, 
Being  then  a  mutual  duty ;  I  could  give  thee 
Chiroconita,  Adincantida, 
Archimadon,  Marmaritin,  Calicia, 
Which  I  could  sort  to  villanous  barren  ends  ; 
But  this  leads  the  same  way :  More  I  could  instance : 
As  the  same  needles  thrust  into  their  pillows 
That  sow  and  sock  up  dead  men  in  their  sheets : 
A  privy  grissel  of  a  man  that  hangs 
After  sunset.     Good,  excellent :  yet  all 's  there,  sir. 

Seb.  You  could  not  do  a  man  that  special  kindness 
To  part  them  utterly,  now  ?     Could  you  do  that  ? 

Sec.  No :  time  must  do  't :  we  cannot  disjoin  wedlock ; 
'Tis  of  Heaven's  fastening :  well  may  we  raise  jars, 
Jealousies,  strifes,  and  heart-burning  disagreements, 
Like  a  thick  scurf  o'er  life,  as  did  our  master 
Upon  that  patient  miracle1 ;  but  the  work  itself 
Our  power  cannot  disjoin. 

jSeb.  I  depart  happy 

In  what  I  have  then,  being  constrain' d  to  this : 
And  grant,  you  greater  powers  that  dispose  men, 
That  I  may  never  need  this  hag  again.  [Exit, 

Sec.  I  know  he  loves  me  not,  nor  there 's  no  hope  on 't ; 
'Tis  for  the  love  of  mischief  I  do  this : 
And  that  we  are  sworn  to  the  first  oath  we  take. 

HECATE,  STADLIN,  HOPPO,  vMh  ihe  other  Witches,  preparing  for  their 

midnight  journey  through  the  air.     FIBESTONE,  HECATE'S  son. 
Sec.  The  moon 's  a  gallant :  see  how  brisk  she  rides. 
Stad.  Here  's  a  rich  evening,  Hecate. 
Sec.  Ay,  is 't  not,  wenches, 

To  take  a  journey  of  five  thousand  mile  ?          4! 
Hop.  Ours  will  be  more  to-night. 
Sec.  O,  'twill  be  precious. 

Heard  you  the  owl  yet  ? 
Btad.  Briefly  in  the  copse, 

As  we  came  through  now. 
Kec.  'Tis  high  time  for  us  then. 
*  Job. 

12 


148  THOMAS  MIDDLETOtf. 

Stad.  There  was  a  bat  hung  at  my  lips  three  times 

As  we  came  through  the  woods,  and  drank  her  fill. 
Old  Piickle  saw  her. 
Hec.  You  are  fortunate  still : 

The  very  screech-owl  lights  upon  your  shoulder, 
And  woos  you  like  a  pigeon.     Are  you  furnish' d  ? 
Have  you  your  ointments  ? 
Stad.  All. 
Hec.  Prepare  to  flight  then : 

I  '11  overtake  you  swiftly, 
Stad.  Hie  tfiee,  Hecate : 

We  shall  be  up  betimes. 

Sec.  I  '11  reach  you  quickly.  [TJie  other  "Witches  mount. 
Fire.  They  are  all  going  a-birding  to-night.  They  talk  of 
fowls  in  the  air,  that  fly  by  day :  I  am  sure,  they  '11 
be  a  company  of  foul  sluts  there  to-night.  If  we 
have  not  mortality  offer'd1, 1  '11  be  hanged ;  for  they 
are  able  to  putrefy  it,  to  infect  a  whole  region.  She 
.spies  me  now. 

Hec.  "What,  Firestone,  our  sweet  son  ? 
Fire.  A  little  sweeter  than  some  of  you ;  or  a  dunghill  were 

too  good  for  me. 
Ilec.  How  much  hast  here  ? 
Fire.  Nineteen,  and  all  brave  plump  ones  ;  besides  six  lizards, 

and  three  serpentine  eggs. 

Hec.  Dear  and  sweet  boy :  what  herbs  hast  thou  ? 
Fire.  I  have  some  Marmartin  and  Mandragon. 
Hec.  Marmaritin  and  Mandragora  thou  wouldst  say. 
Fire.  Here 's  Pannax  too :  I  thank  thee,  my  pan  aches  I  am 
With  kneeling  down  to  cut  'em.  [sure 

Hec.  And  Selago, 

Hedge  hyssop  too :  how  near  he  goes  my  cuttings ! 
Were  they  all  cropt  by  moonlight  ? 
Fire.  Every  blade  of  'em,  or  I  am  a  moon-calf,  mother. 
Hec.  Hie  thee  home  with  'em. 

Look  well  to  the  house  to-night :  I  am  for  aloft. 
Fire.  Aloft,  quoth  you  ?  I  would  you  would  break  your  neck 
once,  that  I  might  have  all  quickly.     Hark,  hark, 
mother ;  they  are  above  the  steeple  already,  flying 
over  your  head  with  a  noise  of  musicians. 
Hec.  They  are  indeed.   Help  me,  help  me ;  I  'm  too  late  else. 
1  Probably  the  true  reading  is  after 't. 


THE  WITCH.  149 

Song  in  the  Air. 
Come  away,  come  away ; 
Hecate,  Hecate,  come  away. 
Sec.  I  come,  I  come,  I  come,  I  come, 
With  all  tlie  speed  I  may, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may. 
Where 's  Stadlin  ? 
\_Above.~]  Here. 
Hec.  Where 's  Puckle  ? 

[Above.~\ Here : 

And  Hoppo  too,  and  Hellwain  too : 
We  lack  but  you ;  we  lack  but  you : 
Come  away,  make  up  the  count. 
Sec.  I  will  but  'noint,  and  then  I  mount. 

[A  Spirit  like  a  Cat  descends. 

[Above.'] There 's  one  come  down  to  fetch  his  dues  ; 

A  kiss,  a  coll,  a  sip  of  blood : 
And  why  thou  stay'st  so  long,  I  muse,  I  muse, 
Since  the  air's  so  sweet  and  good. 
Sec.  O,  art  thou  come  ? 

What  news,  what  news  ? 
Spirit.  All  goes  still  to  our  delight : 
Either  come,  or  else 
Refuse,  refuse. 

Sec.  Now  I  am  furnish' d  for  the  flight. 
Fire.  Hark,  hark,  the  Cat  sings  a  brave  treble  in  her  own 
Sec.  [  Going  up.']  Now  I  go,  now  I  fly,  [language. 

Malkin  my  sweet  Spirit  and  I. 
0,  what  a  dainty  pleasure  'tis 
To  ride  in  the  air 
When  the  moon  shines  fair, 
And  sing,  and  dance,  and  toy,  and  kiss ! 
Over  woods,  high  rocks,  and  mountains, 
Over  seas  (our  mistress'  fountains), 
Over  steep  towers  and  turrets, 
We  fly  by  night  'mongst  troops  of  Spirits. 
No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounas, 
No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelps  of  hounds : 
No,  not  the  noise  of  water's  breach, 
Or  cannon's  throat,  our  height  can  reach. 

\_Above.~] No  ring  of  bells,  &c. 

Fire.  Well,  mother,  I  thank  your  kindness  ;  you  must  be 


150  THOMAS  MIDDLlTOtf. 

Gamboling  in  the  air,  and  leave  me  to  walk  hero  like  a 

fool  and  a  mortal  * 

A  Duchess  consults  the  Witch  about  inflicting  a  sudden  Death. 

DUCHESS.     HECATE.     EIRESTOKE. 
Sec.  What  death  is 't  you  desire  for  Almachildes  P 
Duch.  A  sudden  and  a  subtle. 
Hec.  Then  I  've  fitted  you. 

Here  lie  the  gifts  of  both ;  sudden  and  subtle : 
His  picture  made  in  wax,  and  gently  molten 
By  a  blue  fire,  kindled  with  dead  men's  eyes, 
"Will  waste  him  by  degrees. 
Duch.  In  what  time  prithee  ? 
Hec.  Perhaps  in  a  moon's  progress. 
Duch.  What,  a  month  ? 

Out  upon  pictures,  if  they  be  so  tedious ! 
Give  me  things  with  some  life. 
Sec.  Then  seek  no  farther. 
Duch.  This  must  be  done  with  speed,  despatch' d  this  night, 

If  it  be  possible. 
Hec.  I  have  it  for  you : 

Here  's  that  will  do 't :  stay  but  perfection's  time, 
And  that 's  not  five  hours  hence. 
Duch.  Canst  thou  do  this  ? 
Hec.  Can  I  ? 

Duch.  I  mean,  so  closely  ? 
Hec.  So  closely  do  you  mean  too  ? 
Duch.  So  artfully,  so  cunningly  ? 
Hec.  "Worse  and  worse.     Doubts  and  incredulities, 

They  make  me  mad.     Let  scrupulous  creatures  know : 
Cum  volui,  ripis  ipsis  mirantibus,  amnes 
In  fontes  rediere  suos  ;  concussaque  sisto, 
Stantia  concutio  cantu  freta ;  nubila  pello, 
Nubilaque  induce  :  ventos  abigoque,  vocoque. 
Yipereas  rumpo  verbis  et  carmine  fauces ; 
Et  sylvas  moveo,  jubeoque  tremiscere  montes, 
Et  mugire  solum,  manesque  exire  sepulcris. 
Te  quoque,  Luna,  traho. 
Can  you  doubt  me  then,  daughter ; 
That  can  make  mountains  tremble,  miles  of  woods  walk, 
Whole  earth's  foundation  bellow,  and  the  spirits 
Of  the  entomb' d  to  burst  out  from  their  marbles ; 
Nay,  draw  yon  moon  to  my  involved  designs  ? 


THE  WITCH.  151 

Fire.  I  know  as  well  as  can  be  when  my  mother 's  mad,  and 
our 

Great  cat  angry;  for  one  spits  Trench  then,  and  the 

other  spits  Latin. 

Duck.  I  did  not  doubt  you,  mother, 
Hec.  No  !  what,  did  you  ? 

My  power 's  so  firm,  it  is  not  to  be  question' d. 
Duck.  Forgive  what 's  past ;  and  now  I  know  the  offensive- 

That  vexes  art,  I  '11  shun  the  occasion  ever.  [ness 

Hec.  Leave  all  to  me  and  my  five  sisters,  daughter. 

It  shall  be  convey 'd  in  at  howlet-time. 

Take  you  no  care.     My  spirits  know  their  moments  : 

Raven  or  screech-owl  never  fly  by  the  door 

But  they  call  in  (I  thank  'em)  and  they  lose  not  by 't. 

I  give  'em  barley  soak'd  in  infant's  blood : 

They  shall  have  semina  cum  sanguine, 

Their  gorge  cramm'd  full,  if  they  come  once  to  our  house : 

We  are  no  niggard. — 

Fire.  They  fare  but  too  well  when  they  come  hither :  they 
ate  up  as  much  the  other  night  as  would  have 
made  me  a  good  conscionable  pudding. 
Hec.  Give  me  some  lizard's  brain,  quickly,  Firestone. 

Where 's  grannam  Stadlin,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  sisters  ? 
Fire.  All  at  hand,  forsooth.          [The  other  Witches  appear. 
Hec.  Give  me  Marmaritin ;  some  Bear-breech :  when  ? 
Fire.  Here 's  Bear-breech  and  lizard' s-brain,  forsooth,, 
Hec.  Into  the  vessel ; 

And  fetch  three  ounces  of  the  red-hair' d  girl 

I  kill'd  last  midnight. 
Fire.  Whereabout,  sweet  mother  ? 
Hec.  Hip  ;  hip,  or  flank.     Where  's  the  Acopus  ? 
Fire.  You  shall  have  Acopus,  forsooth. 
Hec.  Stir,  stir,  about ;  whilst  I  begin  the  charm. 

A.  Charm  Song  about  a  Vessel. 
Hec.  Black  spirits  and  white,  red  spirits  and  grey  ; 

Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  you  that  mingle  may. 

Titty,  Tiffin,  keep  it  stiff  in ; 

Fire-drake,  Puckey,  make  it  lucky ; 

Liard,  Robin,  you  must  bob  in. 

Round,  around,  around,  about,  about,  about ; 

All  111  come  running  in,  all  Good  keep  out, 
First  Witch.  Here  's  the  blood  of  a  bat. 


152  THOMAS  MIDDLETOtf. 

Hec.  Put  in  that,  0,  put  in  that. 

Sec.  Witch.  Here 's  libbard's-bane. 

Hec.  Put  in  again. 

First  Witch.  The  juice  of  toad ;  the  oil  of  adder. 

Sec.  Witch.  Those  will  make  the  younker  madder. 

Hec.  Put  in,  there 's  all,  and  rid  the  stench. 

Fire.  Nay,  here 's  three  ounces  of  the  red-hair' d  wench. 

All.  Eound,  around,  around,  &c. 

Hec.  So,  so,  enough :  into  the  vessel  with  it. 

There ;  't  hath  the  true  perfection :  I  am  so  light1 

At  any  mischief,  there  's  110  villany 

But  is  a  tune  methiiiks. 
Fire.  A  tune  !  'tis  to  the  tune  of  damnation  then,  I  warrant 

And  that  song  hath  a  villanous  burthen.  [y°u> 

Hec.  Come,  my  sweet  sisters,  let  the  air  strike  our  tune ; 

"Whilst  we  show  reverence  to  yon  peeping  moon. 

[The  Witches  dance,  et  Exeunt. 

[Though  some  resemblance  may  be  traced  between  the  Charms  in  Mac 
beth  and  the  Incantations  in  this  Play,  which  is  supposed  to  have  preceded 
it,  this  coincidence  will  not  detract  much  from  the  originality  of  Shak-  . 
speare.  His  witches  are  distinguished  from  the  witches  of  Middleton  by 
essential  differences.  These  are  creatures  to  whom  man  or  woman  plot 
ting  some  dire  mischief  might  resort  for  occasional  consultation.  Those 
originate  deeds  of  blood,  and  begin  bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  mo 
ment  that  their  eyes  first  meet  with  Macbeth' s,  he  is  spell-bound.  That 
meeting  sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break  the  fascination.  These 
witches  can  hurt  the  body :  those  have  power  over  the  soul. — Hecate  in 
Middleton  has  a  Son,  a  low  buffoon  :  the  hags  of  Shakspeare  have  neither 
child  of  their  own,  nor  seem  to  be  descended  from  any  parent.  They  are 
foul  Anomalies,  of  whom  we  know  not  whence  they  are  sprung,  nor  whe 
ther  they  have  beginning  or  ending.  As  they  are  without  human  passions, 
so  they  seem  to  be  without  human  relations.  They  come  with  thunder 
and  lightning,  and  vanish  to  airy  music.  This  is  all  we  know  of  them. — 
Except  Hecate,  they  have  no  names ;  which  heightens  their  mysterious- 
ness.  Their  names,  and  some  of  the  properties,  which  Middleton  has 
given  to  his  hags,  excite  smiles.  The  Weird  Sisters  are  serious  things. 
Their  presence  cannot  co-exist  with  mirth.  But  in  a  lesser  degree,  the 
Witches  of  Middleton  are  fine  creations.  Their  power  too  is,  in  some 
measure,  over  the  mind.  They  raise  jars,  jealousies,  strifes,  like  a  thick 
scurf  o'er  life.'] 

1  Light-hearted. 


THE  WITCH  OF  EDMONTON.  153 

THE  WITCH  OF  EDMONTON :  A  TKAGI-COMEDY,  BY 
WILLIAM  EOWLEY,  THOMAS  DECKEE,  JOHN  EOED,  &c. 

MOTHER  SAWYER  (before  she  turns  Witch)  alone. 

Satv.  And  why  on  me  ?  why  should  the  envious  world 
Throw  all  their  scandalous  malice  upon  me  ? 
'Cause  I'am  poor,  deform' d,  and  ignorant, 
And  like  a  bow  buckled  and  bent  together 
By  some  more, strong  in  mischiefs  than  myself; 
Must  I  for  that  be  made  a  common  sink 
For  all  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  men's  tongues 
To  fall  and  run  into  ?     Some  call  me  Witch 
And  being  ignorant,  of  myself,  they  go 
About  to  teach  me  how  to  be  one :  urging 
That  my  bad  tongue  (by  their  bad  usage  made  so) 
Forespeaks  their  cattle,  doth  bewitch  their  corn, 
Themselves,  their  servants,  and  their  babes  at  nurse : 
This  they  enforce  upon  me ;  and  in  part 
Make  me  to  credit  it1. 

BANKS,  a  Farmer,  enters. 

Banks.  Out,  out  upon  thee,  Witch. 

Saw.  Dost  call  me  Witch  ? 

Banks.  I  do,  Witch,  I  do : 

And  worse  I  would,  knew  I  a  name  more  hateful. 
What  makest  thou  upon  my  ground  ? 

Saw.  Gather  a  few  rotten  sticks  to  warm  me. 

Banks.  Down  with  them  when  I  bid  thee,  quickly ; 
I  '11  make  thy  bones  rattle  in  thy  skin  else. 

Saw.  You  won't  ?  churl,  cut-throat,  miser :  there  they  be. 
Would  they  stuck  cross  thy  throat,  thy  bowels,  thy 
maw,  thy  midriff 

Banks.  Say'st  thou  me  so  ?     Hag,  out  of  my  ground. 

Saw.  Dost  strike  me,  slave,  curmudgeon  ?   Now  thy  bones 

aches,  thy  joints  cramps, 
And  convulsions  stretch  and  crack  thy  sinews. 

Banks.  Cursing,  thou  hag  ?  take  that,  and  that.  \JExit. 

Saw.  Strike,  do  :  and  wither' d  may  that  hand  and  arm 

Whose  blows  have  lamed  me,  drop  from  the  rotten  trunk. 
Abuse  me !  beat  me !  call  me  hag  and  witch ! 
What  is  the  name,  where,  and  by  what  art  learn' d  ? 

1  This  soliloquy  anticipates  all  that  Addison  has  said  in  the  conclusion 
of  the  117th  Spectator. 


154    WILLIAM  EOWLEY,  THOMAS  DECKER,  JOHN"  FORD,  ETC, 

"What  spells,  or  charms,  or  invocations, 
May  the  thing  call'd  Familiar  be  purchased  P 

1  am  shunn'd 

And  hated  like  a  sickness :  made  a  scorn 
To  all  degrees  and  sexes.     I  have  heard  old  beldams 
Talk  of  Familiars  in  the  shape  of  mice, 
Hats,  ferrets,  weasels,  and  I  wot  not  what, 
That  have  appear' d ;.  and  suck'd,  some  say,  their  blood. 
But  by  what  means  they  came  acquainted  with  them, 
I  'm  now  ignorant.    "Would  some  power,  good  or  bad, 
Instruct  me  which  way  I  might  be  revenged 
Upon  this  churl,  I  'd  go  out  of  myself, 
And  give  this  fury  leave  to  dwell  within 
This  ruin'd  cottage,  ready  to  fall  with  age : 
Abjure  all  goodness,  be  at  hate  with  prayer, 
And  study  curses,  imprecations, 
Blasphemous  speeches,  oaths,  detested  oaths, 
Or  anything  that 's  ill ;  so  I  might  work 
[Revenge  upon  this  miser,  this  black  cur, 
That  barks,  and  bites,  and  sucks  the  very  blood 
Of  me,  and  of  my  credit.     'Tis  all  one 
To  be  a  witch  as  to  be  counted  one. 

Site  gets  a  Familiar  which  serves  her  in  the  likeness  of  a  BlacJc  Dog* 
MOTHER  SAWYER.     Familiar. 

Saw.  I  am  dried  up 

With  cursing  and  with  madness  ;  and  have  yet 

No  blood  to  moisten  these  sweet  lips  of  thine. 

Stand  on  thy  hind-legs  up.     Kiss  me,  my  Tommy ; 

And  rub  away  some  wrinkles  on  my  brow, 

By  making  my  old  ribs  to  shrug  for  joy 

Of  thy  fine  tricks.  What  hast  thou  done  ?  Let 's  tickle. 

Hast  thou  struck  the  horse  lame  as  I  bid  thee  ? 

Famil.  Yes,  and  nipt  the  sucking  child. 

Saw.  Ho,  ho,  my  dainty, 

My  little  pearl !     No  lady  loves  her  hound, 
Monkey,  or  parakeet,  as  I  do  thee. 

Famil.  The  maid  has  been  churning  butter  nine  hours,  but 
it  shall  not  come. 

Saw.  Let  'm  eat  cheese  and  choke. 

Famil.  I  had  rare  sport 

Among  the  clowns  in  the  morrice. 

Saw.  I  could  dance 


THE  WITCH  OF  EDMOXTOtf.  155 

Out  of  my  skin  to  hear  thee.     But,  my  curl-pate, 

That  jade,  that  foul-tongued Nan  Ratcliff, 

Who,  for  a  little  soap  lick'd  by  my  sow, 
Struck,  and  had  almost  lamed  it :  did  not  I  charge  thee 
To  pinch  that  quean  to  the  heart  ?       *       *       *       * 
Her  Familiar  absents  himself:  she  invokes  Mm. 

Saw.  — Not  see  me  in  three  days  ? 

I  'm  lost  without  my  Tomalin ;  prithee  come ; 
Revenge  to  me  is  sweeter  far  than  life : 
Thou  art  my  raven,  on  whose  coal-black  wings 
Revenge  comes  flying  to  me :  0,  my  best  love, 
I  am  on  fire  (even  in  the  midst  of  ice) 
Raking  my  blood  up,  till  my  shrunk  knees  feel 
Thy  curl'd  head  leaning  on  them.    Come  then,  my  dar- 
If  in  the  air  thou  hover' st,  fall  upon  me  [ling* 

In  some  dark  cloud ;  and,  as  I  oft  have  seen 
Dragons  and  serpents  in  the  elements, 
Appear  thou  now  so  to  me.     Art  thou  i'  the  sea  ? 
Muster  up  all  the  monsters  from  the  deep, 
And  be  the  ugliest  of  them :  so  that  my  bulch 
Show  but  his  swarth  cheek  to  me,  let  earth  cleave, 
And  break  from  hell,  I  care  not :  could  I  run 
Like  a  swift  powder-mine  beneath  the  world, 
Up  would  I  blow  it,  all  to  find  out  thee, 
Though  I  lay  ruin'd  in  it. — Not  yet  come  ? 
I  must  then  fall  to  my  old  prayer :  sanctibiceter  nomen 
tuum. 

He  comes  in  white. 

Saw.  Why  dost  thou  thus  appear  to  me  in  white, 
As  if  thou  wert  the  ghost  of  iny  dear  love  ? 

Famil.  I  am  dogged,  list  not  to  tell  thee,  yet  to  torment  thee, 
My  whiteness  puts  thee  in  mind  of  thy  winding-sheet. 

Saw.  Am  I  near  death  ? 

Famil.  Be  blasted  with  the  news. 

Whiteness  is  day's  footboy,  a  fore-runner  to  light,  which 
shows  thy  old  rivel'd  face :  villanies  are  stript 
naked,  the  witch  must  be  beaten  out  of  her  cockpit. 

Saw.  Why  to  mine  eyes  art  thou  .a  flag  of  truce  ? 
I  am  at  peace  with  none ;  'tis  the  black  colour, 
Or  none,  which  I  fight  under :  I  do  not  like 

Thy  puritan-paleness.^ 

[Mother  Sawyer  differs  from  the  hags  of  Middleton  or  Shakspeare.  She 


156  CTEIL  TOTJEKEUB. 

is  the  plain  traditional  old  woman  witch  of  our  ancestors ;  poor,  de 
formed,  and  ignorant ;  the  terror  of  villages,  herself  amenable  to  a  justice. 
That  should  be  a  hardy  sheriff,  with  the  power  of  a  county  at  his  heels, 
that  would  lay  hands  on  the  Weird  Sisters.  They  are  of  another  juris 
diction.  But  upon  the  common  and  received  opinion  the  author  (or 
authors)  have  engrafted  strong  fancy.  There  is  something  frightfully 
earnest  in  her  invocations  to  the  Familiar.] 


THE  ATHEIST'S  TRAGEDY;  OR,  THE  HONEST  MAN'S 
REVENGE.  BY  CYRIL  TOURNEUR. 

D'AnviLLE  (the  Atheist),  with  the  aid  of  Ms  wicked  instrument,  BOEA- 

CHIO,  murders  liis  brother,  MONTFEEBEES,  for  his  estate.     After  the 

deed  is  done,  BOEACHIO  and  he  talk  together  of  the  circumstance^ 

which  attend  the  murder. 

I? Am.  Here  's  a  sweet  comedy,  begins  with  O  dolentis,  and 

concludes  with  ha,  ha,  he. 
Bor.  Ha,  ha,  he. 

If  Am.  0  my  echo !  I  could  stand  reverberating  this  sweet 
musical  air  of  joy,  till  I  had  perished  my  sound 
lungs  with  violent  laughter.  Lovely  night-raven, 
thou  hast  seized  a  carcase  ? 

JBor.  Put  him  out  on  's  pain.  I  lay  so  fitly  underneath  the 
bank  from  whence  he  fell,  that  ere  his  faltering 
tongue  could  utter  double  O,  I  knocked  out  his 
brains  with  this  fair  ruby  ;  and  had  another  stone 
just  of  this  form  and  bigness  ready,  that  I  laid  in 
the  broken  skull  upon  the  ground  for  his  pillow, 
against  "the  which  they  thought  he  fell  and  perished. 
If  Am.  Upon  this  ground  I  '11  build  my  manor  house, 

And  this  shall  be  chiefest  corner-stone. 
J3or.  This  crown' d  the  most  judicious  murder,  that 

The  brain  of  man  was  e'er  delivered  of. 
If  Am.  Ay,  mark  the  plot.     Not  any  circumstance 
That  stood  within  the  reach  of  the  design, 
Of  persons,  dispositions,  matter,  time, 
Or  place,  but  by  this  brain  of  mine  was  made 
An  instrumental  help  ;  yet  nothing  from 
The  induction  to  the  accomplishment  seem'd  forced, 
Or  done  o'  purpose,  but  by  accident. 

[Here  they  reckon  up  the  several  circumstances* 
Bor.  Then  darkness  did 

Protect  the  execution  of  the  work 
Both  from  prevention  and  discovery 


THE  ATHEIST'S  TBAGEDY.  157 

D'Am.  Here  was  a  murder  bravely  carried  through 

The  eye  of  observation,  unobserved. 
J3or.  And  those  that  saw  the  passage  of  it,  made 

The  instruments  ;  yet  knew  not  what  they  did. 
jyAm.  That  power  of  rule,  philosophers  ascribe 
To  him  they  call  the  Supreme  of  the  Stars, 
Making  their  influences  governors 
Of  sublunary  creatures,  when  theirselves 
Are  senseless  of  their  operations. 

[Thunder  and  lightning. 

"What !  dost  start  at  thunder  ?  Credit  my  belief,  'tis  a 
mere  effect  of  nature,  an  exhalation  hot  and  dry, 
involved  within  a  watery  vapour  in  the  middle  re 
gion  of  the  air,  whose  coldness  congealing  that  thick 
moisture  to  a  cloud,  the  angry  exhalation  shut  within 
a  prison  of  contrary  quality,  strives  to  be  free  ;  and 
with  the  violent  eruption  through  the  grossness  of 
that  cloud,  makes  this  noise  we  hear. 
JBor.  'Tis  a  fearful  noise. 

D'Am.  'Tis  a  brave  noise ;  and,  methinks,  graces  our  ac 
complished  project,  as  a  peal  of  ordnance  does  a 
triumph.  It  speaks  encouragement.  Now  nature 
shows  thee  how  it  favoured  our  performance-  to 
forbear  this  noise  when  we  set  forth,  because  it 
should  not  terrify  my  brother's  going  home,  whicli 
would  have  dashed  our  purpose :  to  forbear  this 
lightning  in  our  passage,  lest  it  should  have  warned 
him  of  the  pitfall.  Then  propitious  nature  winked 
at  our  proceedings ;  now,  it  doth  express  how  that 
forbearance  favoured  our  success.  *  t  *  *  * 
Drowned  Soldier. 

walking  upon  the  fatal  shore, 

Among  the  slaughter 'd  bodies  of  their  men, 
"Which  the  full-stomach' d  sea  had  cast  upon 
The  sands,  it  was  my  unhappy  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  face,  whose  favour  when  it  lived 
My  astonish' d  mind  inform' d  me  I  had  seen. 
He  lay  in  his  armour,  as  if  that  had  been 
His  coffin ;  and  the  weeping  sea  (like  one 
Whose  milder  temper  doth  lament  the  death 
Of  him  whom  in  his  rage  he  slew)  runs  up 
The  shore,  embraces  him,  kisses  his  cheek ; 


158  CYRIL  TOT7ENEUE. 

Q-oes  back  again,  and  forces  up  the  sands 

To  bury  him ;  and  every  time  it  parts, 

Sheds  tears  upon  him ;  till  at  last  (as  if 

It  could  no  longer  endure  to  see  the  man 

Whom,  it  had  slain,  yet  loath  to  leave  him)  with 

A  kind  of  unresolved  unwilling  pace, 

Winding  her  waves  one  in  another  (like 

A  man  that  folds  his  arms,  or  wrings  his  hands, 

Tor  grief)  ebb'd  from  the  body,  and  descends ; 

As  if  it  would  sink  down  into  the  earth, 

And  hide  itself  for  shame  of  such  a  deed1. 

Match  Refused. 

I  entertain  the  oifer  of  this  match, 
"With  purpose  to  confirm  it  presently. 
I  have  already  moved  it  to  my  daughter ; 
Her  soft  excuses  savour 'd  at  the  first 
Methought  but  of  a  modest  innocence 
Of  blood,  whose  unmoved  stream  was  never  drawn 
Into  the  current  of  affection.     But  when  I 
Replied  with  more  familiar  arguments, 
Thinking  to  make  her  apprehension  bold ; 
Her  modest  blush  fell  to  a  pale  dislike, 
And  she  refused  it  with  such  confidence, 
As  if  she  had  been  prompted  by  a  love 
Inclining  firmly  to  some  other  man ; 
And  in  that  obstinacy  she  remains. 

Love  and  Courage. 

0,  do  not  wrong  him.     'Tis  a  generous  mind 
That  led  his  disposition  to  the  war ; 
For  gentle  love  and  noble  courage  are 
So  near  allied,  that  one  begets  another : 
Or  love  is  sister,  and  courage  is  the  brother. 
Could  I  affect  him  better  than  before, 
His  soldier's  heart  would  make  me  love  him  more. 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  BY  CYRIL  TOURNETJR. 

VINDICI  addresses  the  Skull  of  his  dead  Lady. 
Thou  sallow  picture  of  my  poison' d  love, 
My  study's  ornament,  thou  shell  of  death, 
1  This  way  of  description,  which  seems  unwilling  ever  to  leave  off, 
weaving  parenthesis  within  parenthesis,  was  brought  to  its  height  by  Sir 


THE  EEYENGEB'S  TBAGEDY.        159 

Once  the  bright  face  of  my  betrothed  lady, 
When  life  and  beauty  naturally  £01' d  out 
These  ragged  imperfections ; 
"When  two  heaven-pointed  diamonds  were  set 

In  those  unsightly  rings then  'twas  a  face 

So  far  beyond  the  artificial  shine 

Of  any  woman's  bought  complexion, 

That  the  uprightest  man  (if  such  there  be 

That  sin  but  seven  times  a  day)  broke  custom, 

And  made  up  eight  with  looking  after  her. 

0,  she  was  able  to  have  made  a  usurer's  son 

Melt  all  his  patrimony  in  a  kiss ; 

And  what  his  father  fifty  years  told, 

To  have  consumed,  and  yet  his  suit  been  cold. 


Here 's  an  eye 

Able  to  tempt  a  great  man — to  serve  Grod ; 
A  pretty  hanging  lip,  that  has  forgot  now  to  dissemble. 
Methinks  this  mouth  should  make  a  swearer  tremble ; 
A  drunkard  clasp  his  teeth,  and  not  undo  'em, 
To  suffer  wet  damnation  to  run  through  'em. 
Here  's  a  cheek  keeps  her  colour  let  the  wind  go  whistle : 
Spout  rain,  we  fear  thee  not :  be  hot  or  cold, 
All 's  one  with  us  :  and  is  not  he  absurd, 
Whose  fortunes  are  upon  their  faces  set, 
That  fear  no  other  Grod  but  wind  and  wet  ? 
Does  the  silk-worm  expend  her  yellow  labours 
For  thee  ?  for  thee  does  she  undo  herself? 
Are  lordships  sold  to  maintain  ladyships, 
For  the  poor  benefit  of  a  bewitching  minute  ?. 
Why  does  yon  fellow  falsify  highways, 
And  put  his  life  between  the  judge's  lips, 
To  refine  such  a  thing  ?  keep  his  horse  and  men, 
To  beat  their  valours  for  her  ? 
Surely  we  're  all  mad  people,  and  they 
Whom  we  think  are,  are  not. 
Does  every  proud  and  self-affecting  dame 
Camphire  her  face  for  this  ?  and  grieve  her  Maker 
In  sinful  baths  of  milk,  when  many  an  infant  starves, 

Philip  Sidney.  He  seems  to  have  set  the  example  to  Shakspeare.  Many 
beautiful  instances  may  be  found  all  over  the  Arcadia.  These  bountiful 
wits  always  give  full  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over. 


160  CYEIL  TOUENBUS. 

For  her  superfluous  outside,  for  all  this  ? 

Who  now  bids  twenty  pound  a  night  ?  prepares 

Music,  perfumes,  and  sweetmeats  ?  all  are  hush'd. 

Thou  mayst  lie  chaste  now  !  it  were  fine,  methinks, 

To  have  thee  seen  at  revels,  forgetful  feasts, 

And  unclean  brothels  :  sure  'twould  fright  the  sinner, 

And  make  him  a  good  coward  :  put  a  reveller 

Out  of  his  antiqk  amble, 

And  cloy  an  epicure  with  empty  dishes. 

Here  might  a  scornful  and  ambitious  woman 

Look  through  and  through  herself.  —  See,  ladies,  with 

false  forms 
You  deceive  men,  but  cannot  deceive  worms1. 


having  disguised  himself,  makes  trial  of  his  sister  CASTIZA'S 
virtue  ;   and  afterwards  of  his  mother's. 

VIKDICI.     CASTIZA. 
Vin.  Lady,  the  best  of  wishes  to  your  sex, 

Fair  skins  and  new  gowns.  [Offers  lier  a  letter. 

Cast.  O,  they  shall  thank  you,  sir. 

Whence  this  ? 

Vin.  O,  from  a  dear  and  worthy  friend. 
Cast.  From  whom  ? 
Vin.  The  duke's  son. 
Cast.  Receive  that.  [A  box  0'  the  ear  to  her  brother. 

I  swore  I  would  put  anger  in  my  hand, 

And  pass  the  virgin  limits  of  myself, 

To  him  that  next  appear'  d  in  that  base  office, 

To  be  his  sin's  attorney.     Bear  to  him 

That  figure  of  my  hate  upon  thy  cheek, 

"Whilst  'tis  yet  hot,  and  I  '11  reward  thee  for  't  ; 

Tell  him  my  honour  shall  have  a  rich  name, 

Yfhen  several  harlots  shall  share  his  with  shame. 

Farewell  ;  commend  me  to  him  in  my  hate.  [Exit. 

Vin.  It  is  the  sweetest  box 

1  The  male  and  female  skeleton  in  G-ondibort  is  the  finest  lecture  of 
•mortification  which  has  been  read  from  bones. 

This  dismal  gallery,  lofty,  long  and  wide, 

Was  hung  with  skeletons  of  every  kind  ; 
Human,  and  all  that  learned  human  pride 

Thinks  made  to  obey  man's  high  immortal  mind. 
Yet  on  thafr  wall  hangs  He,  too,  who  so  thought  : 
And  She,  dried  by  Him,  whom  that  He  obey'd. 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  161 

That  e'er  my  nose  came  night; 

The  finest  draw-work  cuff  that  e'er  was  worn  ; 

I  '11  love  this  blow  for  ever,  and  this  cheek 

Shall  still  henceforward  take  the  wall  of  this. 

0,  I  'in  above  my  tongue :  most  constant  sister, 

In  this  thou  hast  right  honourable  shown ; 

Many  are  call'd  by  their  honour,  that  have  none. 

Thou  art  approved  for  ever  in  my  thoughts. 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  words  to  taint  thee. 

And  yet  for  the  salvation  of  my  oath, 

As  my  resolve  in  that  point,  I  will  lay 

Hard  siege  unto  my  mother,  though  I  know, 

A  siren's  tongue  could  not  bewitch  her  so. 

Mass,  fitly  here  she  comes  !  thanks,  my  disguise — 
The  MOTHER  enters. 

Madam,  good  afternoon. 
Moth.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 
Tin.  The  next  of  Italy  commends  him  to  you, 

Our  mighty  expectation,  the  duke's  son. 
Moth.  I  think  myself  much  honour' d,  that  he  pleases 

To  rank  me  in  his  thoughts. 
Yin.  So  may  you,  lady : 

One  that  is  like  to  be  our  sudden  duke  ; 

The  crown  gapes  for  him  every  tide ;  and  then 

Commander  o'er  us  all,  do  but  think  on  him, 

How  blest  were  they  now  that  could  pleasure  him 

Ev'n  with  anything  almost ! 
Moth.  Ay,  save  their  honour. 
Vin.  Tut,  one  would  let  a  little  of  that  go  too, 

And  ne'er  be  seen  in  't,  ne'er  be  seen  in 't ;  mark  you, 

I  'd  wink  and  let  it  go. 
Moth.  Marry  but  I  would  not. 
Vin.  Marry  but  I  would,  I  hope ;  I  know  you  would  too. 

If  you  'd  that  blood  now  which  you  gave  your  daughter. 

To  her  indeed  'tis,  this  wheel  comes  about ; 

That  man  that  must  be  all  this,  perhaps  ere  morning, 

(For  his  white  father  does  but  mould  away) 

Has  long  desired  your  daughter. 
Moth.  Desired? 
Vin.  Nay,  but  hear  me, 

He  desires  now,  that  will  command  hereafter ; 

Therefore  be  wise,  I  speak  as  more  a  friend 

ii 


1G2  CTEIL  TOTJBKETTB. 

To  you  than  him ;  madam,  I  know  you  're  poor. 

And  (lack  the  day!)  there  are  too  many  poor  ladies 

already ; 

Why  should  you  wax  the  number  ?  'tis  despised. 
Live  wealthy,  rightly  understand  the  world, 
And  chide  away  that  foolish  country  girl 
Keeps  company  with  your  daughter,  Chastity. 

Moth.  0  fie,  fie!   the  riches  of  the  world  cannot  hire   a 

mother 
To  such  a  most  unnatural  task. 

Tin.  No,  but  a  thousand  angels  can ; 

Men  have  no  power,  angels  must  work  you  to 't : 
The  world  descends  into  such  base-born  evils, 
That  forty  angels  can  make  fourscore  devils. 
There  will  be  fools  still  I  perceive — still  fool  ? 
"Would  I  be  poor,  dejected,  scorn'd  of  greatness, 
Swept  from  the  palace,  and  see  others'  daughters 
Spring  with  the  dew  of  the  court,  having  mine  own 
So  much  desired  and  loved — by  the  duke's  son  ? 
No,  I  would  raise  my  state  upon  her  breast, 
And  call  her  eyes  my  tenants ;  I  would  count 
My  yearly  maintenance  upon  her  cheeks  ; 
Take  coach  upon  her  lip  ;  and  all  her  parts 
Should  keep  men  after  men ;  and  I  would  ride 
In  pleasure  upon  pleasure. 
You  took  great  pains  for  her,  once  when  it  was, 
Let  her  requite  it  now,  though  it  be  but  some ; 
You  brought  her  forth,  she  may  well  bring  you  home. 

Moth.  0  heavens,  this  o'ercomes  me ! 

Vin.  Not  I  hope  already  ?  [Aside. 

Moth.  It  is  too  strong  for  me  ;  men  know  that  know  us, 
We  are  so  weak  their  words  can  overthrow  us : 
He  touch' d  me  nearly,  made  my  virtues  bate, 
When  his  tongue  struck  upon  my  poor  estate.    [Aside. 

Vin.  I  even  quake  to  proceed,  my  spirit  turns  edge. 

I  fear  me  she 's  unmother'd,  yet  I  '11  venture.      [Aside. 

What  think  you  now,  lady  ?  speak,  are  you  wiser  ? 

What  said  advancement  to  you  ?  thus  it  said, 

The  daughter's  fall  lifts  up  the  mother's  head; 

Did  it  not,  madam  ?  but  I  '11  swear  it  does 

In  many  places  ;  but  this  age  fears  no  man, 

'Tig  no  shame  to  be  bad,  because  'tis  common. 


THE  EEYENaEB's  TRAGEDY.  163 

Moth.  Ay,  that 's  the  comfort  on  't. 
Tin.  The  comfort  on  't ! — 

I  keep  the  best  for  last.     Can  these  persuade  you 

To  forget  heaven — and—  [Offers  her  money. 

Moth.  Ay,  these  are  they — 
Vin.  0! 
Moth.  That  enchant  our  sex  ; 

These  are  the  means  that  govern  our  affections, — 

That  woman 

Will  not  be  troubled  with  the  mother  long, 

That  sees  the  comfortable  shine  of  you : 

I  blush  to  think  what  for  your  sakes  I  '11  do. 
Vin.  0  suffering  heaven !  with  thy  invisible  finger, 

Ev'n  at  this  instant  turn  the  precious  side 

Of  both  mine  eye-balls  inward,  not  to  see  myself.  [Aside. 
Moth.  Look  you,  sir. 
Vin.  Hollo. 

J^oth.  Let  us  thank  your  pains. 
Vin.  0,  you  are  a  kind  madam, 
Moth.  I  '11  see  how  I  can  move. 
Vin.  Tour  words  will  sting. 

Moth.  If  she  be  still  chaste,  I  '11  ne'er  call  her  mine. 
Vin.  Spoke  truer  than  you  meant  it ! 

Moth.  Daughter  Castiza 

Cast,  [within.']  Madam! 

Vin.  O,  she 's  yonder,  meet  her. 

Troops  of  celestial  soldiers  guard  her  heart. 

Tour  dam  has  devils  enough  to  take  her  part. 

[CASTIZA  returns. 
Cast.  Madam,  what  makes  yon  evil-officed  man 

In  presence  of  you  ? 
Moth.  Why  ? 
Cast.  He  lately  brought 

Immodest  writing  sent  from  the  duke's  son, 

To  tempt  me  to  dishonourable  act. 
Moth.  Dishonourable  act  ? — good  honourable  fool, 

That  wouldst  be  honest,  'cause  thou  wouldst  be  so, 

Producing  no  one  reason  but  thy  will ; 

And  it  has  a  good  report,  prettily  commended, 

But  pray  by  whom  ?  poor  people :  ignorant  people ; 

The  better  sort,  I  'm  sure,  cannot  abide  it. 

And  by  what  rule  should  we  square  out  our  lives, 

M2 


164,  CTEIL  TOUBNEUR, 

But  by  our  betters'  actions  ?  O,  if  thou  knew'st 

What  'twere  to  lose  it,  thou  wouldst  never  keep  it ; 

But  there  's  a  cold  curse  laid  upon  all  maids ; 

Whilst  others  clip  the  sun,  they  clasp  the  shades. 

Deny  advancement !  treasure !  the  duke's  son ! 
Cast.  I  cry  you  mercy,  lady,  I  mistook  you  ; 

Pray  did  you  see  my  mother  ?  which  way  went  you  r 

Pray  God  I  have  not  lost  her. 

Vin.  Prettily  put  by.  [Aside. 

Moth.  Are  you  as  proud  to  me,  as  coy  to  him  ? 

Do  you  not  know  me  now  ? 
Cast.  Why,  are  you  she  ? 

The  world  's  so  changed,  one  shape  into  another, 

It  is  a  wise  child  now  that  knows  her  mother. 
Vin.  Most  right,  i'  faith.  [Aside. 

Moth.  I  owe  your  cheek  my  hand 

For  that  presumption  now,  but  I  '11  forget  it ; 

Come,  you  shall  leave  those  childish  'haviours, 

And  understand  your  time.     Fortunes  flow  to  you. 

What,  will  you  be  a  girl  ? 

If  all  fear'd  drowning  that  spy  waves  ashore, 

Grold  would  grow  rich,  and  all  the  merchants  poor. 
Cast.  It  is  a  pretty  saying  of  a  wicked  one,  but  methinks 
now 

It  does  not  show  so  well  out  of  your  mouth ; 

Better  in  his. 
Vin.  Faith,  bad  enough  in  both, 

Were  I  in  earnest,  as  I  '11  seem  no  less.  [Aside. 

I  wonder,  lady,  your  own  mother's  words 

Cannot  be  taken,  nor  stand  in  full  force. 

'Tis  honesty  you  urge  ;  what 's  honesty  ? 

'Tis  but  heaven's  beggar;  and  what  woman  is  so  foolish 
to  keep  honesty, 

And  be  not  able  to  keep  herself?  no, 

Times  are  grown  wiser,  and  will  keep  less  charge. 

A  maid  that  has  small  portion  now,  intends 

To  break  up  house,  and  live  upon  her  friends. 

How  blest  are  you !  you  have  happiness  alone ; 

Others  must  fall  to  thousands,  you  to  one ; 

Sufficient  in  himself  to  make  your  forehead 

Dazzle  the  world  with  jewels,  and  petitionary  people 

Start  at  your  presence. 


THE  BEVENQEB'S  TEAGEDY.  165 

0  think  upon  the  pleasure  of  the  palace ! 
Secured  ease  and  state !  the  stirring  meats, 

Beady  to  move  out  of  the  dishes,  that  even  now  quicken 

when  they  're  eaten ! 

Banquets  abroad  by  torch-light !  music !  sports! 
Bare-headed  vassals,  that  had  ne'er  the  fortune 
To  keep  on  their  own  hats,  but  let  horns  wear  them ! 
Nine  coaches  waiting — hurry,  hurry,  hurry— 

Oast.  Ay,  to  the  devil — 

Vin.  Ay,  to  the  devil !  to  the  duke,  by  my  faith. 

Moth.  Ay,  to  the  duke.     Daughter,  you  'd  scorn  to  think 
Of  the  devil,  an'  you  were  there  once. 

Vin.  Who  'd  sit  at  home  in  a  neglected  room, 

Dealing  her  short-lived  beauty  to  the  pictures, 
That  are  as  useless  as  old  men,  when  those 
Poorer  in  face  and  fortune  than  herself 
"Walk  with  a  hundred  acres  on  their  backs, 
Fair  meadows  cut  into  green  fore-parts  ?— 
Fair  trees,  those  comely  foretops  of  the  field, 
Are  cut  to  maintain  head-tires  : — much  untold — 
All  thrives  but  chastity,  she  lies  cold. 
Nay,  shall  I  come  nearer  to  you  ?  mark  but  this  : 
"Why  are  there  so  few  honest  women,  but  because  'tis 
the  poorer  profession?  that 's  accounted  best,  that's 
best  follow' d ;  least  in  trade,  least  in  fashion ;  and 
that 's  not  honesty,  believe  it ;  and  do  but  note  the 
low  and  dejected  price  of  it : 
Lose  but  a  pearl,  we  search  and  cannot  brook  it ; 
But  that  once  gone,  who  is  so  mad  to  look  it  ? 

Moth.  Troth,  he  says  true. 

Cast.  False  :  I  defy  you  both. 

1  have  endured  you  with  an  ear  of  fire ! 

Tour  tongues  have  struck  hot  irons  on  my  face. 
Mother,  come  from  that  poisonous  woman  there. 

Moth.  Where  ? 

Cast.  Do  you  not  see  her  ?  she 's  too  inward  then. 
Slave,  perish  in  thy  office.     You  heavens  please, 
Henceforth  to  make  the  mother  a  disease, 
"Which  first  begins  with  me  ;  yet  I  've  outgone  you. 

[Exit. 

Vin.  0  angels,  clap  your  wings  upon  the  skies, 

And  give  this  virgin  crystal  plaudities !  [Aside 

Moth.  Peevish,  coy,  foolish ! — but  return  this  answer, 


166  CYEIL  TOUKN-ETJB. 

My  lord  shall  be  most  welcome,  when  his  pleasure 
Conducts  him  this  way ;  I  will  sway  mine  own  ; 
Women  with  women  can  work  best  alone.  [Exit. 

Vin.  Forgive  me,  Heaven,  to  call  my  mother  wicked ! 

0  lessen  not  my  days  upon  the  earth. 

1  cannot  honour  her. 

The  Brothers,  VINDICI  and  HIPPOLITO,  threaten  their  MOTHER  with 
death  for  consenting  to  the  dishonour  of  their  Sister. 

Vin.  O  thou  for  whom  no  name  is  bad  enough  ! 

Moth.  What  mean  my  sons  ?  what,  will  you  murther  me  ? 

Vin.  Wicked  unnatural  parent ! 

Sip.  Friend  of  women  ! 

Moth.  0  !  are  sons  turn'd  monsters  ?  help  ! 

Vin.  In  vain. 

Moth.  Are  you  so  barbarous  to  set  iron  nipples 

Upon  the  breast  that  gave  you  suck  ? 
Vin.  That  breast 

Is  turn'd  to  quarled  poison. 

Moth.  Cut  not  your  days  for 't.     Am  not  I  your  mother  ? 
Vin.  Thou  dost  usurp  that  title  now  by  fraud, 

For  in  that  shell  of  mother  breeds  a  bawd* 
Moth.  A  bawd !  O  name  far  loathsomer  than  hell ! 
Sip.  It  should  be  so,  knew'st  thou  thy  office  well. 
Mot.i.  I  hate  it. 
Vin.  Ah,  is  it  possible,  you  powers  on  high, 

That  women  should  dissemble  when  they  die  ? 
Moth.  Dissemble! 
Vin.  Did  not  the  duke's  son  direct 

A  fellow  of  the  world's  condition  hither, 

That  did  corrupt  all  that  was  good  in  thee  ? 

Made  thee  uncivilly  forget  thyself, 

And  work  our  sister  to  his  purpose  ? 
Moth.  Who,  I  ? 

That  had  been  monstrous.     I  defy  that  man 

For  any  such  intent.     None  lives  so  pure, 

Eut  shall  be  spil'd  with  slander. 

G-ood  son,  believe  it  not. 
Vin.  O,  I  'm  in  doubt 

Whether  I  am  myself  or  no — 

Stay,  let  me  look  again  upon  this  face. 

Who  shall  be  saved  when  mothers  have  no  grace  ? 

[Resumes  his  disguise, 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  167 

Hip.  'Twould  make  one  half  despair. 
Vin.  I  was  the  man. 

Defy  me  now,  let 's  see,  do 't  modestly. 
Moth.  0,  hell  unto  my  soul ! 
Vin.  In  that  disguise,  I,  sent  from  the  duke's  son, 

Tried  you,  and  found  you  base  metal, 

As  any  villain  might  have  done. 
Moth.  0  no, 

No  tongue  but  yours  could  have  bewitch' d  me  so. 
Vin.  O  nimble  in  damnation,  quick  in  turn ! 

There  is  no  devil  could  strike  fire  so  soon. 

I  am  confuted  in  a  word. 
Moth.  O  sons, 

Forgive  me,  to  myself  I  '11  prove  more  true ; 

You  that  should  honour  me,  I  kneel  to  you. 
Vin.  A  mother  to  give  aim  to  her  own  daughter ! 
Sip.  True,  brother ;  how  far  beyond  nature  'tis, 

Though  many  mothers  do  it ! 
Vin.  Nay,  and  you  draw  tears  once,  go  you  to  bed. 

Wet  will  make  iron  blush  and  change  to  red. 

Brother,  it  rains,  'twill  spoil  your  dagger,  house  it.  • 
Hip.  'Tis  done. 
Vin.  I'  faith  'tis  a  sweet  shower,  it  does  much  good. 

The  fruitful  grounds  and  meadows  of  her  soul 

Have  been  long  dry :  pour  down,  thou  blessed  dew  ! 

Rise,  mother  ;  troth,  this  shower  has  made  you  higher. 
Moth.  0,  you  heavens  ! 

Take  this  infectious  spot  out  of  my  soul ; 

I  '11  rinse  it  in  seven  waters  of  mine  eyes. 

Make  my  tears  salt  enough  to  taste  of  grace. 

To  weep  is  to  our  sex  naturally  given  ; 

But  to  weep  truly,  that 's  a  gi'ft  from  Heaven. 
Vin.  Nay,  I  '11  kiss  you  now.     Kiss  her,  brother  : 

Let 's  marry  her  to  our  souls,  wherein  's  no  lust, 

And  honourably  love  her. 
Hip.  Let  it  be. 
Vin.  For  honest  women  are  so  seld  and  rare, 

'Tis  good  to  cherish  those  poor  few  that  are. 

0  you  of  easy  wax !  do  but  imagine, 

Now  the  disease  has  left  you,  how  leprously 

That  office  would  have  cling' d  unto  your  forehead! 
All  mothers  that  had  any  graceful  hue, 


168  CYRIL  TOTJRNEUE. 

Would  have  worn  masks  to  hide  their  face  at  you. 

It  would  have  grown  to  this,  at  your  foul  name 

Green-colour 'd  maids  would  have  turn'd  red  with  shame. 
Hip.  And  then  our  sister,  full  of  hire  and  baseness — 
Vin.  There  had  been  boiling  lead  again  ! 

The  duke's  son's  great  concubine  ! 

A  drab  of  state,  a  cloth-o' -silver  slut, 

To  have  her  train  borne  up,  and  her  soul  trail  in  the  dirt ! 
Hip.  To  be  great,  miserable ;  to  be  rich,  eternally  wretched. 
Vin.  0  common  madness  ! 

Ask  but  the  thriving' st  harlot  in  cold  blood, 

She  'd  give  the  world  to  make  her  honour  good. 

Perhaps  you'll  say,  but  only  to  the  duke's  son 

In  private ;  why,  she  first  begins  with  one 

Who  afterwards  to  thousands  proves  a  whore  : 

Break  ice  in  one  place,  it  will  crack  in  more. 
Moth.  Most  certainly  applied. 
Hip.  0  brother,  you  forget  our  business. 
Vin.  And  well  rem  ember 'd ;  joy 's  a  subtile  elf; 

I  think  man  's  happiest  when  he  forgets  himself. 

Farewell,  once  dry,  now  holy-water 'd  mead ; 

Our  hearts  wear  feathers,  that  before  wore  lead. 
Moth.  I  '11  give  you  this,  that  one  I  never  knew 

Plead  better  for,  and  'gainst  the  devil  than  you. 
Vin.  You  make  me  proud  on  't. 
Hip.  Commend  us  in  all  virtue  to  GUI  sister. 
Vin.  Ay,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  to  that  true  maid. 
Moth.  With  my  best  words. 
Vin.  Why,  that  was  motherly  said1. 

CASTIZA  seems  to  consent  to  Tier  MOTHEE'S  wicked  motion. 

CASTIZA.    MOTHER. 

Cast.  Now,  mother,  you  have  wrought  with  me  so  strongly, 
That,  what  for  my  advancement,  as  to  calm 
The  trouble  of  your  tongue,  I  am  content. 

1  The  reality  and  life  of  this  dialogue  passes  any  scenical  illusion  I  ever 
felt.  I  never  read  it  but  my  ears  tingle,  and  I  feel  a  hot  blush  spread 
my  cheeks,  as  if  I  were  presently  about  to  "proclaim"  some  such  "male- 
factions  "  of  myself,  as  the  brothers  here  rebuke  in  their  unnatural  parent ; 
in  words  more  keen  and  dagger-like  than  those  which  Hamlet  speaks  to 
his  mother.  Such  power  has  the  passion  of  shame  truly  personated,  not 
only  to  "strike  guilty  creatures  unto  the  soul,"  but  to  "appal"  even 
those  that  are  "  free." 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  169 

Moth.  Content,  to  what  ? 

Cast.  To  do  as  you  have  wish'd  me  ; 

To  prostitute  my  breast  to  the  duke's  son, 

And  put  myself  to  common  usury. 
Moth.  I  hope  you  will  not  so. 
Cast.  Hope  you  I  will  not  ? 

That 's  not  the  hope  you  look  to  be  saved  in. 
Moth.  Truth,  but  it  is. 
Cast.  Do  not  deceive  yourself. 

I  am  as  you,  ev'n  out  of  marble  wrought. 

What  would  you  now  ?  are  ye  not  pleased  yet  with  me  ? 

You  shall  not  wish  me  to  be  more  lascivious, 

Than  I  intend  to  be. 
Moth.  Strike  not  me  cold. 
Cast.  How  often  have  you  charged  me  on  your  blessing 

To  be  a  cursed  woman !  when  you  knew 

Tour  blessing  had  no  force  to  make  me  lewd, 

You  laid  your  curse  upon  me  ;  that  did  more  ; 

The  mother's  curse  is  heavy ;  where  that  fights, 

Sons  set  in  storm  and  daughters  lose  their  lights. 
Moth.  G-ood  child,  dear  maid,  if  there  be  any  spark 

Of  heavenly  intellectual  light  within  thee, 

0  let  my  breath  revive  it  to  a  flame. 

Put  not  all  out  with  woman's  wilful  follies. 

1  am  recover 'd  of  that  foul  disease 

That  haunts  too  many  mothers  ;  kind,  forgive  me, 
Make  me  not  sick  in  health !  if  then 
My  words  prevail' d,  when  they  were  wickedness, 
How  much  more  now,  when  they  are  just  and  good ! 

Cast.  I  wonder  what  you  mean :  are  not  you  she, 
For  whose  infect  persuasions,  I  could  scarce 
Kneel  out  my  prayers ;  and  had  much  ado, 
In  three  hours'  reading,  to  untwist  so  much 
Of  the  black  serpent,  as  you  wound  about  me  ? 

Moth.  'Tis  unfruitful  held,  tedious,* to  repeat  what 's  past. 
I  'm  now  your  present  mother. 

Cast.  Pish,  now  'tis  too  late. 

Moth.  Bethink  again,  thou  know'st  not  what  thou  say'st. 

Cast.  No !  deny  advancement.!  treasure !  the  duke's  son ! 

Moth.  O  see,  I  spoke  those  words,  and  now  they  poison  me. 
What  will  the  deed  do  then  ? 
Advancement !  true ;  as  high  as  shame  can  pitch ! 


170  CTEIL  TOTJBKEUR. 

,For  treasure :  who  e'er  knew  a  harlot  rich  ? 
Or  could  build  by  the  purchase  of  her  sin 
An  hospital  to  keep  her  bastards  in  ? 
The  duke's  son !  0  ;  when  women  are  young  courtiers, 
They  are  sure  to  be  old  beggars. 
To  know  the  miseries  most  harlots  taste, 
Thou  'dst  wish  thyself  unborn  when  thou  'rt  unchaste. 

Cast.  O  mother,  let  me  twine  about  your  neck, 
And  kiss  you  till  my  soul  melt  on  your  lips : 
I  did  but  this  to  try  you. 

Moth.  O,  speak  truth. 

Cast.  Indeed  I  did  not ;  for  no  tongue  hath  force 
To  alter  me  from  honest : 

If  maidens  would,  men's  words  could  have  no  power ; 
A  virgin's  honour  is  a  crystal  tower, 
Which  being  weak  is  guarded  with  good  spirits ; 
Until  she  basely  yields,  no  ill  inherits. 

Moth.  0  happy  child !  faith,  and  thy  birth,  hath  saved  me, 
'Mongst  thousand  daughters,  happiest  of  all  others; 
Buy  thou  a  glass  for  maids,  and  I  for  mothers. 
Evil  Report  after  Death. 
"What  is  it  to  have 

A  nattering  false  insculption  on  a  tomb, 
And  in  men's  hearts  reproach  ?  the  'bowel' d  corpse 
May  be  sear'd  in,  but  (with  free  tongue  I  speak) 
The  faults  of  great  men  through  their  sear-clothes  break. 

Bastards. 

0  what  a  grief  'tis  that  a  man  should  live 
But  once  in  the  world,  and  then  to  live  a  bastard ! 
The  curse  of  the  womb,  the  thief  of  nature, 
Begot  against  the  seventh  commandment, 
Half  damn'd  in  the  conception  by  the  justice 
Of  that  unbribed  everlasting  law ! 

Too  nice  respects  in  Courtship. 
Ceremony  has  made  many  fools. 
It  is  as  easy  way  unto  a  duchess 
As  to  a  hatted  dame,  if  her  love  answer : 
But  that  by  timorous  honours,  pale  respects, 
Idle  degrees  ot  fear,  men  make  their  ways 
Hard  of  themselves. 


THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE.  171 

THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE  ;  OE,  WHEN  WOMEN  GO  TO  LAW, 
THE  DEVIL  IS  FULL  OF  BUSINESS.  A  TEAGI-COMEDY, 
BY  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

CONTABINO  challenges  EECOLE  to  fight  with  him  for  the  possession  of 
JOLENTA,  wham,  they  both  love. 

Con.  Sir ;  my  love  to  you  has  proclaim' d  you  one, 
"Whose  word  was  still  led  by  a  noble  thought, 
And  that  thought  follow' d  by  as  fair  a  deed : 
Deceive  not  that  opinion :  we  were  students 
At  Padua  together,  and  have  long 
To  the  world's  eye  shown  like  friends. 
Was  it  hearty  on  your  part  to  me  ? 

Ere.  Unfeigned. 

Con.  You  are  false 

To  the  good  thought  I  held  of  you ;  and  now, 
Join  the  worst  part  of  man  to  you,  your  malice, 
To  uphold  that  falsehood.     Sacred  innocence 
Is  fled  your  bosom.     Signior,  I  must  tell  you ; 
To  draw  the  picture  of  unkindness  truly, 
Is  to  express  two  that  have  dearly  loved, 
And  fallen  at  variance.     'Tis  a  wonder  to  me, 
Knowing  my  interest  in  the  fair  Jolenta, 
That  you  should  love  her. 

Ere.  Compare  her  beauty  and  my  youth  together, 
And  you  will  find  the  fair  effects  of  love 
No  miracle  at  all. 

Con.  Yes,  it  will  prove 

Prodigious  to  you :  I  must  stay  your  voyage. 

Ere.  Your  warrant  must  be  mighty. 

Con.  'Tis  a  seal 

Prom  heaven  to  do  it,  since  you  'd  ravish  from  me 

"What 's  there  entitled  mine ;  and  yet  I  vow, 

By  the  essential  front  of  spotless  virtue, 

I  have  compassion  of  both  our  youths : 

To  approve  which,  I  have  not  taken  the  way 

Like  an  Italian,  to  cut  your  throat 

By  practice  that  had  given  you  now  for  dead 

Aid  never  frown' d  upon  you. 

You  must  fight  with  me. 

Ere.  I  will,  sir; 

Con,  And  instantly. 

Ere.  I  will  haste  before  you.     Point  whither. 


172  JOHN  WEBSTEB; 

Con.  Why,  you  speak  nobly ;  and,  for  this  fair  dealing, 
"Were  the  rich  jewel  (which  we  vary  for) 
A  thing  to  be  divided,  by  my  life, 
I  would  be  well  content  to  give  you  half: 
But  since  'tis  vain  to  think  we  can  be  friends, 
'Tis  needful  one  of  us  be  taken  away 
Prom  being  the  other's  enemy. 

Ere.  Yet,  methinks, 

This  looks  not  like  a  quarrel. 

Con.  Not  a  quarrel ! 

Ere.  You  have  not  apparelled  your  fury  well ; 
It  goes  too  plain,  like  a  scholar. 

Con.  It  is  an  ornament, 

Makes  it  more  terrible  ;  and  you  shall  find  it, 
A  weighty  injury,  and  attended  on 
By  discreet  valour ;  because  I  do  not  strike  you, 
Or  give  you  the  lie,  (such  foul  preparatives 
Would  show  like  the  stale  injury  of  wine,) 
I  reserve  my  rage  to  sit  on  my  sword's  point ; 
Which  a  great  quantity  of  your  best  blood 
Can't  satisfy. 

Ere.  You  promise  well  to  yourself. 
Shall 's  have  no  seconds  ? 

Con.  None,  for  fear  of  prevention. 

Ere.  The  length  of  our  weapons 

Con.  We  '11  fit  them  by  the  way : 

So  whether  our  time  calls  us  to  live  or  die, 
Let  us  do  both  like  noble  gentlemen, 
And  true  Italians. 

Ere.  For  that,  let  me  embrace  you. 

Con.  Methinks,  being  an  Italian,  I  trust  you 
To  come  somewhat  too  near  me : 
But  your  jealousy  gave  that  embrace,  to  try 
If  I  were  arm'd — did  it  not  ? 

Ere.  No,  believe  me. 

I  take  your  heart  to  be  sufficient  proof 
Without  a  privy  coat :  and,  for  my  part, 
A  taffety  is  all  the  shirt  of  mail 
I  am  arm'd  with. 

Con.  You  deal  equally1. 

1  I  have  selected  this  scene  as  the  model  of  a  well-managed  and 
tlemanlike  "difference. 


THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE.  173 

Sitting  for  a  Picture. 
Must  you  have  my  picture  ? 
You  will  enjoin  me  to  a  strange  punishment. 
"With  what  a  compel!' d  face  a  woman  sits 
"While  she  is  drawing !     I  have  noted  divers 
Either  to  feign  smiles,  or  suck  in  the  lips, 
To  have  a  little  mouth ;  ruffle  the  cheeks, 
To  have  the  dimple  seen ;  and  so  disorder 
The  face  with  affectation,  at  next  sitting 
It  has  not  been  the  same :  I  have  known  others 
Have  lost  the  entire  fashion  of  their  face 
In  half  an  hour's  sitting — in  hot  weather — 
The  painting  on  their  face  has  been  so  mellow, 
They  have  left  the  poor  man  harder  work  by  half 
To  mend  the  copy  he  wrought  by.     But  indeed, 
If  ever  I  would  have  mine  drawn  to  the  life, 
I  would  have  a  painter  steal  it  at  such  a  time 
I  were  devoutly  kneeling  at  my  prayers  ; 
There  is  then  a  heavenly  beauty  in 't,  the  soul 
Moves  in  the  superficies. 

Honourable  Employment. 
0,  my  lord,  lie  not  idle : 
The  chiefest  action  for  a  man  of  great  spirit 
Is  never  to  be  out  of  action.     "We  should  think ; 
The  soul  was  never  put  into  the  body, 
"Which  has  so  many  rare  and  curious  pieces 
Of  mathematical  motion,  to  stand  still. 
Virtue  is  ever  sowing  of  her  seeds : 
In  the  trenches  for  the  soldier ;  in  the  wakeful  study 
For  the  scholar ;  in  the  furrows  of  the  sea 
For  men  of  our  profession :  of  all  which 
Arise  and  spring  up  honour. 

Selling  of  Land. 
I  could  wish 

That  noblemen  would  ever  live  in  the  country, 
[Rather  than  make  their  visits  up  to  the  city 
About  such  business.     Noble  houses 
Have  no  such  goodly  prospects  any  way 
As  into  their  own  land :  the  decay  of  that 
(Next  to  their  begging  church-land)  is  a  ruin 
"Worth  all  men's  pity. 


174  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

Dirge  in  a  Funeral  Pageant* 
All  the  flowers  of  the  spring 
Meet  to  perfume  our  burying : 
These  have  but  their  growing  prime, 
And  man  does  flourish  but  his  time. 
Survey  our  progress  from  our  birth ; 
"We  are  set,  we  grow,  we  turn  to  earth. 
Courts  adieu,  and  all  delights, 
All  bewitching  appetites. 
Sweetest  breath  and  clearest  eye 
(Like  perfumes)  go  out  and  die ; 
And  consequently  this  is  done, 
As  shadows  wait  upon  the  sun. 
Yain  the  ambition  of  kings, 
"Who  seek  by  trophies  and  dead  things 
To  leave  a  living  name  behind, 
And  weave  but  nets  to  catch  the  wind. 


APPIUS  AND  YIEGIINIA :  A  TBAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  WEBSTER. 

APPIUS,  the  Roman  Decemvir,  not  being  able  to  corrupt  the  innocence  of 
VIKGINTA,  daughter  to  VIRGINIUS  the  Roman  general,  and  newly  mar 
ried  to  ICILIUS  a  young  and  noble  gentleman ;  to  get  possession  of  her 
person,  suborns  one  CLODITTS  to  claim  her  as  the  daughter  of  a  deceased 
bond-woman  of  his,  on  the  testimony  of  certain  forged  writings,  pre 
tended  to  be  the  deposition  of  that  woman,  on  her  deathbed,  confessing 
that  the  child  had  been  spuriously  passed  upon  ViRGiNiUsybr  his  own : 
the  cause  is  tried  at  Some  before  APPIUS. 

APPITTS.    VIRGINIA.    VIRGLNTUS,  her  father.    ICILITJS,  her 

husband.  Senators  of  Some.  Nurse,  and  other  Witnesses. 
Virginius.  My  lords,  believe  not  this  spruce  orator1. 

Had  1  but  fee'd  him  first,  he  would  have  told 

As  smooth  a  tale  on  our  side. 
Appius.  Give  us  leave. 
Virginius.  He  deals  in  formal  glosses,  cunning  shows, 

And  cares  not  greatly  which  way  the  case  goes. 

Examine,  I  beseech  you,  this  old  woman, 

Who  is  the  truest  witness  of  her  birth. 
Appius.  Soft  you,  is  she  your  only  witness  ? 
Virginius.  She  is,  my  lord. 

1  Counsel  for  Clodius. 


APPIUS  AND  VIRGIim..  175 


Appius.  "Why,  is  it  possible, 

Such  a  great  lady,  in  her  time  of  child-birth, 
Should  have  no  other  witness  but  a  nurse  ? 

Virginius.  For  aught  I  know,  the  rest  are  dead,  my  lord. 

Appius.  Dead  ?  no,  my  lord,  belike  they  were  of  counsel 
"With  your  deceased  lady,  and  so  shamed 
Twice  to  give  colour  to  so  vile  an  act. 
Thou  nurse,  observe  me,  thy  offence  already 
Doth  merit  punishment  above  our  censure  ; 
Pull  not  more  whips  upon  thee. 

Nurse.  I  defy  your  whips,  my  lord. 

Appius.  Command  her  silence,  lictors. 

Virginius.  0  injustice  !  you  frown  away  my  witness. 
Is  this  law,  is  this  uprightness  ? 

Appius.  Have  you  view'd  the  writings  ? 

This  is  a  trick  to  make  our  slaves  our  heirs 
Beyond  prevention. 

Virginius.  Appius,  wilt  thou  hear  me  ? 

You  have  slander  'd  a  sweet  lady  that  now  sleeps 
In  a  most  noble  monument.     Observe  me  ; 
I  would  have  taken  her  simple  word  to  gage 
Before  his  soul  or  thine. 

Appius.  That  makes  thee  wretched. 

Old  man,  I  am  sorry  for  thee  ;  that  thy  love 
By  custom  is  grown  natural,  which  by  nature 
Should  be  an  absolute  loathing.     Note  the  sparrow  ; 
That  having  hatch'  d  a  cuckoo,  when  it  sees 
Her  brood  a  monster  to  her  proper  kind, 
Forsakes  it,  and  with  more  fear  shuns  the  nest 
Than  she  had  care  in  the  spring  to  have  it  drest 
Here  's  witness,  most  sufficient  witness. 
Think  you,  my  lord,  our  laws  are  writ  in  snow, 
And  that  your  breath  can  melt  them  ? 
Virginius.  No,  my  lord, 

We  have  not  such  hot  livers  :  mark  you  that  ? 
Virginia,  Remember  yet  the  gods,  O  Appius  ; 
Who  have  no  part  in  this.     Thy  violent  lust 
Shall,  like  the  biting  of  the  envenom'  d  aspick, 
Steal  thee  to  hell.     So  subtle  are  thy  evils  ; 
In  life  they  '11  seem  good  angels,  in  death  devils. 

Appius.  Observe  you  not  this  scandal  ? 

Icilius.  Sir,  'tis  none. 


176  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

I  '11  show  thy  letters  full  of  violent  lust 

Sent  to  this  lady. 
Appius.  My  lords,  these  are  but  dilatory  shifts. 

Sirrah,  I  know  you  to  the  very  heart, 

And  I  '11  observe  you. 
Icilius.  Do,  but  do  it  with  justice. 

Clear  thyself  first,  O  Appius,  ere  thou  judge 

Our  imperfections  rashly,  for  we  wot 

The  office  of  a  justice  is  perverted  quite 

"When  one  thief  hangs  another. 
1  Senator.  You  are  too  bold. 
Appius.  Lictors,  take  charge  of  him. 
Icilius.  'Tis  very  good. 

"Will  no  man  view  these  papers1  ?  what,  not  one  ? 

Jove,  thou  hast  found  a  rival  upon  earth : 

His  nod  strikes  all  men  dumb. 

My  duty  to  you. 

The  ass  that  carried  Isis  on  his  back, 

Thought  that  the  superstitious  people  kneel' d 

To  give  his  dulness  humble  reverence. 

If  thou  think'st  so,  proud  judge,  I  let  thee  see 

I  bend  low  to  thy  gown,  but  not  to  thee. 
Virginius.  There 's  one  in  hold  already.     Noble  youth ; 

Fetters  grace  one,  being  worn  for  speaking  truth. 

I  '11  lie  with  thee,  I  swear,  though  in  a  dungeon. 

The  injuries  you  do  us  we  shall  pardon ; 

But  it  is  just,  the  wrongs  which  we  forgive 

The  gods  are  charged  therewith  to  see  revenged. 
Appius.  Your  madness  wrongs  you :  by  my  soul,  I  love  you. 
Virginius.  Thy  soul ! 

O,  thy  opinion,  old  Pythagoras : 

"Whither,  O  whither  should  thy  black  soul  fly  ? 

Into  what  ravenous  bird,  or  beast  most  vile  ? 

Only  into  a  weeping  crocodile. 

Love  me ! 

Thou  lovest  me,  Appius,  as  the  earth  loves  rain, 

Only  to  swallow  it. 

Appius.  Know  you  the  place  you  stand  in  ? 
Virginius.  I  '11  speak  freely. 

G-ood  men,  too  much  trusting  their  innocence, 

Do  not  betake  them  to  that  just  defence 
1  The  forgery. 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  177 

"Which  gods  and  nature  gave  them ;  but  even  wink 

In  the  black  tempest,  and  so  fondly  sink. 
Appius.  Let  us  proceed  to  sentence. 
Virginius.  Ere  you  speak, 

One  parting  farewell  let  me  borrow  of  you 

To  take  of  my  Virginia. 
Appius.  Pray,  take  your  course. 
Virginius.  Farewell,  my  sweet  Virginia :  never,  never 

Shall  I  taste  fruit  of  the  most  blessed  hope 

I  had  in  thee.     Let  me  forget  the  thought 

Of  thy  most  pretty  infancy :  when  first, 

Returning  from  the  wars,  I  took  delight 

To  rock  thee  in  my  target ;  when  my  girl 

"Would  kiss  her  father  in  his  burganet 

Of  glittering  steel  hung  'bout  his  armed  neck, 

And,  viewing  the  bright  metal,  smile  to  see 

Another  fair  Virginia  smile  on  thee ; 

"When  I  first  taught  thee  how  to  go,  to  speak ; 

And  (when  my  wounds  have  smarted)  I  have  sung, 

"With  an  unskilful  yet  a  willing  voice, 

To  bring  my  girl  asleep.     O  my  Virginia ; 

When  we  begun  to  be,  begun  our  woes ; 

Increasing  still,  as  dying  life  still  grows. 

Thus  I  surrender  her  into  the  court 

Of  all  the  gods.  [Kills  her. 

And  see,  proud  Appius,  see ; 

Although  not  justly,  I  have  made  her  free. 

And  if  thy  lust  with  this  act  be  not  fed, 

Bury  her  in  thy  bowels  now  she 's  dead. 


THE  TKAOEDY  OF  THE  DUCHESS  OF  MALFY. 
BY  JOHN  WEBS  TEE. 

The  DTJCHESS  of  MALFT  marries  ANTONIO,  her  Steward. 

DUCHESS.     CAEIOLA,  her  Maid. 
Duchess.  Is  Antonio  come  ? 
1  Cariola.  He  attends  you. 
Duck.  Good  dear  soul, 

Leave  me :  but  place  thyself  behind  the  arras, 

»       "Where  thou  may^st  overhear  us :  wish  me  good  speed, 
For  I  am  going  into  a  wilderness, 


1/8  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

Where  I  shall  find  nor  path  nor  friendly  clue 

To  be  my  guide.  [CABIOLA  withdraws. 

ANTONIO  enters. 

I  sent  for  you,  sit  down. 

Take  pen  and  ink  and  write.     Are  you  ready  ? 
Ant.  Yes. 

Duck.  What  did  I  say  ? 
Ant.  That  I  should  write  somewhat. 
Duck.  0,  I  remember. 

After  these  triumphs  and  this  large  expense, 

It 's  fit,  like  thrifty  husbands,  we  inquire 

What 's  laid  up  for  to-morrow. 
Ant.  So  please  your  beauteous  excellence. 
Duch.  Beauteous  indeed !  I  thank  you ;  I  look  young 

For  your  sake.     You  have  taken  my  cares  upon  you. 
Ant.  I  '11  fetch  your  grace  the  particulars  of  your  revenue 

and  expense. 
Duck.  O,  you  're  an  upright  treasurer :  but  you  mistook, 

For  when  I  said  I  meant  to  make  inquiry 

What 's  laid  up  for  to-morrow,  I  did  mean 

What 's  laid  up  yonder  for  me. 
Ant.  Where? 
Duck.  In  heaven. 

I  'm  making  my  will  (as  'tis  fit  princes  should), 

In  perfect  memory ;  and  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me, 

Were  not  one  better  make  it  smiling,  thus, 

Than  in  deep  groans  and  terrible  ghastly  looks, 

As  if  the  gifts  we  parted  with  procured 

That  violent  distraction  ? 
Ant.  O,  much  better. 
Duck.  If  I  had  a  husband  now,  this  care  were  quit. 

But  I  intend  to  make  you  overseer : 

What  good  deed  shall  we  first  remember,  say  ? 
Ant.  Begin  with  that  first  good  deed,  began  in  the  world 

After  man's  creation,  the  sacrament  of  marriage. 

I  'd  have  you  first  provide  for  a  good  husband ; 

Give  him  all. 
Duck.  All! 

Ant.  Yes,  your  excellent  self. 
Duck.  In  a  winding  sheet  ? 
Ant.  In  a  couple. 
Duck.  St.  Winifred,  that  were  a  strange  will ! 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  179 

Ant.  'Twere  stranger  if  there  were  no  will  in  you 

To  marry  again. 

Ditch.  "What  do  you  think  of  marriage  ? 
Ant.  I  take  it,  as  those  that  deny  purgatory ; 

It  locally  contains  or  heaven  or  hell, — 

There 's  no  third  place  in  't. 
Ditch.  How  do  you  affect  it  ? 
Ant.  My  banishment,  feeding  my  melancholy, 

Would  often  reason  thus. 
Duch.  Pray  let  us  hear  it. 
Ant.  Say  a  man  never  marry,  nor  have  children, 

What  takes  that  from  him  ?  only  the  bare  name 

Of  being  a  father,  or  the  weak  delight 

To  see  the  little  wanton  ride  a  cock-horse 

Upon  a  painted  stick,  or  hear  him  chatter 

Like  a  taught  starling. 
Duel.  Tie,  fie,  what 's  all  this  ? 

One  of  your  eyes  is  bloodshot ;  use  my  ring  to 't : 

They  say  'tis  very  sovran :  'twas  my  wedding  ring, 

And  I  did  vow  never  to  part  with  it 

But  to  my  second  husband. 
Ant.  You  have  parted  with  it  now. 
Duch.  Yes,  to  help  your  eyesight. 
Ant.  You  have  made  me  stark  blind. 
Duch.  How? 
Ant.  There  is  a  saucy  and  ambitious  devil, 

Is  dancing  in  this  circle. 
Duch.  Remove  him. 
Ant.  How? 
Duch.  There  needs  small  conjuration,  when  your  finger 

May  do  it ;  thus :  is  it  fit  ? 

[She  puts  the  ring  on  his  finger. 

Ant.  What  said  you  ?  [He  kneels. 

Duch.  Sir! 

This  goodly  roof  of  yours  is  too  low  built ; 

I  cannot  stand  upright  in 't  nor  discourse, 

Without  I  raise  it  higher :  raise  yourself; 

Or,  if  you  please  my  hand  to  help  you :  so. 
Ant.  Ambition,  madam,  is  a  great  man's  madness, 

That  is  not  kept  in  chains  and  close-pent  rooms, 

But  in  fair  lightsome  lodgings,  and  is  girt 

With  the  wild  noise  of  prattling  visitants, 


180  JOH3T  WEBSTER. 

Which  makes  it  lunatic  beyond  all  cure. 
Conceive  not  I  'm  so  stupid,  but  I  aim 
"Whereto  your  favours  tend :  but  he 's  a  fool 
That,  being  a-cold,  would  thrust  his  hands  in  the  fire 
To  warm  them. 

DucJi.  So,  now  the  ground 's  broke, 

You  may  discover  what  a  wealthy  mine 
I  make  you  lord  of. 

Ant.  O,  my  unworthiness ! 

Duch.  You  were  ill  to  sell  yourself. 

This  darkening  of  your  worth  is  not  like  that 
"Which  tradesmen  use  in  the  city ;  their  false  lights 
Are  to  rid  bad  wares  off:  and  I  must  tell  you, 
If  you  will  know  where  breathes  a  complete  man, 
(I  speak  it  without  flattery,)  turn  your  eyes, 
And  progress  through  yourself. 

Ant.  "Were  there  nor  heaven  nor  hell, 

I  should  be  honest :  I  have  long  served  virtue, 
And  never  taken  wages  of  her. — 

DucJi.  Now  she  pays  it. — 

The  misery  of  us  that  are  born  great ! 

"We  are  forced  to  woo,  because  none  dare  woo  us : 

And  as  a  tyrant  doubles  with  his  words, 

And  fearfully  equivocates ;  so  we 

Are  forced  to  express  our  violent  passions 

In  riddles,  and  in  dreams,  and  leave  the  path 

Of  simple  virtue,  which  was  never  made 

To  seem  the  thing  it  is  not.     Go,  go,  brag 

You  have  left  me  heartless ;  mine  is  in  your  bosom ; 

I  hope  'twill  multiply  love  there :  you  do  tremble : 

Make  not  your  heart  so  dead  a  piece  of  flesh, 

To  fear  more  than  to  love  me ;  sir,  be  confident. 

"What  is  it  distracts  you  ?    This  is  flesh  and  blood,  sir ; 

'Tis  not  the  figure  cut  in  alabaster 

Kneels  at  my  husband's  tomb.    Awake,  awake,  man. 

I  do  here  put  off  all  vain  ceremony, 

And  only  do  appear  to  you  a  young  widow : 

I  use  but  half  a  blush  in 't. 

Ant.  Truth  speak  for  me ; 

I  will  remain  the  constant  sanctuary 
Of  your  good  name. 

Duck.  I  thank  you,  gentle  love ; 


THE  DUCHESS  OE  MALEY.  181 

And  'cause  you  shall  not  come  to  me  in  debt 

(Being  now  my  steward),  here  upon  your  lips 

I  sign  your  quietus  est :  this  you  should  have  begg'd  now. 

I  have  seen  children  oft  eat  sweetmeats  thus, 

As  fearful  to  devour  them  too  soon. 
Ant.  But,  for  your  brothers — 
Duch.  Do  not  think  of  them. 

All  discord,  without  this  circumference, 

Is  only  to  be  pitied,  and  not  fear'd : 

Yet,  should  they  know  it,  time  will  easily 

Scatter  the  tempest. 
Ant.  These  words  should  be  mine, 

And  all  the  parts  you  have  spoke ;  if  some  part  of  it 

"Would  not  have  savour' d  flattery. 

[CABIOLA  comes  forward. 
Duch.  Kneel. 
Ant.  Ha! 
Duch.  Be  not  amazed ;  this  woman  's  of  my  council. 

I  have  heard  lawyers  say,  a  contract  in  a  chamber 

Per  verba  prcesenti  is  absolute  marriage ; 

Bless,  heaven,  this  sacred  Gordian,  which  let  violence 

Never  untwine. 
Ant.  And  may  our  sweet  affections,  like  the  spheres, 

Be  still  in  motion. 
Duch.  Quickening,  and  make 

The  like  soft  music. 
Car.  Whether  the  spirit  of  greatness,  or  of  woman, 

Reign  most  in  her,  I  know  not ;  but  it  shows 

A  fearful  madness :  I  owe  her  much  of  pity. 

The  DUCHESS'S  marriage  with  ANTONIO  being  discovered,  Tier  brother 
FERDINAND  shuts  her  up  in  a  prison,  and  torments  her  with  various 
trials  of  studied  cruelty.  By  his  command,  BOSOLA,  the  instrument  of 

.  his  devices,  shows  her  the  bodies  of  her  husband  and  children  counter- 
f  cited  in  wax,  as  dead. 

Bos.  He  doth  present  you  this  sad  spectacle, 
That  now  you  know  directly  they  are  dead, 
Hereafter  you  may  wisely  cease  to  grieve 
For  that  which  cannot  be  recovered. 

Duck.  There  is  not  between  heaven  and  earth  one  wish 
I  stay  for  after  this :  it  wastes  me  more 
Than  were 't  my  picture  fashion' d  out  of  wax, 
Stuck  with  a  magical  needle,  and  then  buried 


182  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

In  some  foul  dunghill ;  and  'yond  's  an  excellent  property 

For  a  tyrant,  which  I  would  account  mercy. 
Bos.  What 's  that  ? 
DucTi.  If  they  would  bind  me  to  that  lifeless  trunk, 

And  let  me  freeze  to  death. 
Bos.  Come,  you  must  live. 

Leave  this  vain  sorrow. 

Things  being  at  the  worst  begin  to  mend. 

The  bee, 

When  he  hath  shot  his  sting  into  your  hand, 

May  then  play  with  your  eyelid. 
"Ducli.  Q-ood  comfortable  fellow, 

Persuade  a  wretch  that 's  broke  upon  the  wheel 

To  have  all  his  bones  new  set ;  entreat  him  live 

To  be  executed  again.    Who  must  despatch  me  P 

I  account  this  world  a  tedious  theatre, 

For  I  do  play  a  part  in 't  'gainst  my  will. 
Bos.  Come,  be  of  comfort ;  I  will  save  your  life. 
DucTi.  Indeed  I  have  not  leisure  to  attend  » 

So  small  a  business. 

I  will  go  pray. — No :  I  '11  go  curse. 
Bos.  0  fie ! 

Duck.  I  could  curse  the  stars ! 
Bos.  0  fearful. 
Duch.  And  those  three  smiling  seasons  of  the  year 

Into  a  Eussian  winter :  nay,  the  world 

To  its  first  chaos. 

Plagues  (that  make  lanes  through  largest  families) 

Consume  them1 ! 

Let  them  like  tyrants 

Ne'er  be  remember 'd  but  for  the  ill  they  've  done ! 

Let  all  the  zealous  prayers  of  mortified 

Churchmen  forget  them ! 

Let  heaven  a  little  while  cease  crowning  martyrs, 

To  punish  them !  go,  howl  them  this ;  and  say,  I  long 
to  bleed : 

It  is  some  mercy  when  men  kill  with  speed.         \JExit. 

FEBDINAND  enters. 
Ferd.  Excellent,  as  I  would  wish :  she 's  plagued  in  art. 

These  presentations  are  but  framed  in  wax, 

By  the  curious  master  in  that  quality 
1  Her  brothers. 


THE  DTTCHESS  OF  MALFY.  183 

Vincentio  JJauriola,  and  she  takes  them 
For  true  substantial  bodies. 

Bos.  "Why  do  you  do  this  ? 

Ferd.  To  bring  her  to  despair. 

Bos.  Faith,  end  here ; 

And  go  no  further  in  your  cruelty. 
Send  her  a  penitential  garment  to  put  on 
Next  to  her  delicate  skin,  and  furnish  her 
With  beads  and  prayer-books. 

Ferd.  Damn  her ;  that  body  of  hers, 

While  that  my  blood  ran  pure  in 't,  was  more  worth 
Than  that,  which  thou  wouldst  comfort,  call'd  a  soul. 
I  '11  send  her  masques  of  common*  courtezans, 
Have  her  meat  served  up  by  bawds  and  ruffians, 
And  ('cause  she  '11  need  be  mad)  I  am  resolved 
To  remove  forth  the  common  hospital 
All  the  mad  folk,  and  place  them  near  her  lodging : 
There  let  them  practise  together,  sing,  and  dance, 
And  act  their  gambols  to  the  full  of  the  moon. 

She  is  Jcept  waking  with  noises  of  Madmen :  and,  at  last,  is  strangled  by 

common  Executioners. 
DUCHESS.     CABIOLA. 
Duch.  What  hideous  noise  was  that  ? 
Car.  'Tis  the  wild  consort 

Of  madmen,  lady ;  which  your  tyrant  brother 

Hath  placed  about  your  lodging :  this  tyranny 

I  think  was  never  practised  till  this  hour. 
Duch.  Indeed  I  thank  him ;  nothing  but  noise  and  folly 

Can  keep  me  in  my  right  wits,  whereas  reason 

And  silence  make  me  stark  mad ;  sit  down, 

Discourse  to  me  some  dismal  tragedy. 
Car.  0,  'twill  increase  your  melancholy. 
Duch.  Thou  art  deceived. 

To  hear  of  greater  grief  would  lessen  mine. 

This  is  a  prison  ? 
Car.  Yes :  but  thou  shalt  live 

To  shake  this  -durance  off. 
Duch.  Thou  art  a  fool. 

The  robin-redbreast  and  the  nightingale 

Never  live  long  in  cages. 
Car.  Pray,  dry  your  eyes. 

What  think  you  of,  madam  ? 


184  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

Duck.  Of  nothing: 

When  I  muse  thus,  I  sleep. 

Car.  Like  a  madman,  with  jour  eyes  open  ? 

Duch.  Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  another 
In  the  other  world  ? 

Car.  Yes,  out  of  question. 

Duch.  0  that  it  were  possible  we  might 

But  hold  some  two  days'  conference  with  the  dead  ! 

From  them  I  should  learn  somewhat  I  am  sure 

I  never  shall  know  here.     I  '11  tell  thee  a  miracle  ; 

I  am  not  mad  yet,  to  my  cause  of  sorrow. 

The  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten  brass, 

The  earth  of  naming  sulphur,  yet  I  am  not  mad ; 

I  am  acquainted  with  sad  misery, 

As  the  tann'd  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar ; 

Necessity  makes  me  suffer  constantly, 

And  custom  makes  it  easy.     Who  do  I  look  like  now  ? 

Car.  Like  to  your  picture  in  the  gallery : 

A  deal  o£  life  in  show,  but  none  in  practice : 
Or  rather,  like  some  reverend  monument 
Whose  ruins  are  ev'n  pitied. 

Ducli.  Very  proper : 

And  Fortune  seems  only  to  have  her  eyesight, 
To  behold  my  tragedy :  how  now, 
What  noise  is  that  ? 

A  Servant  enters. 

Serv.  I  am  come  to  tell  you, 

Tour  brother  hath  intended  you  some  sport. 

A  great  physician,  when  the  Pope  was  sick 

Of  a  deep  melancholy,  presented  him 

With  several  sorts  of  madmen,  which  wild  object 

(Being  full  of  change  and  sport)  forced  him  to  laugh, 

And  so  the  imposthume  broke  :  the  selfsame  cure 

The  duke  intends  on  you. 

Duch.  Let  them  come  in. 

Here  follows  a  Dance  of  sundry  sorts  of  Madmen,  with  music  answer 
able  thereto  :  after  which  BQSOLA  (like  an  old  man)  enters. 

Duch.  Is  he  mad  too  ? 

Bos.  I  am  come  to  make  thy  tomb. 

Duch.  Ha !  my  tomb  ? 

Thou  speak' st  as  if  I  lay  upon  my  deathbed, 
Grasping  for  breath :  dost  thou  perceive  me  sick  ? 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  HALFY.  185 

Bos.  Yes,  and  the  more  dangerously,  since  thy  sickness  is 
insensible. 

Ducli.  Thou  art  not  mad  sure  :  dost  know  me  ? 

Bos.  Yes. 

Duck.  Who  am  I  ? 

Bos.  Thou  art  a  box  of  wormseed ;  at  best  but  a  salvator y  of 
green  mummy.  What 's  this  flesh  ?  a  little  crudded 
milk,  fantastical  puff-paste.  Our  bodies  are  weaker 
than  those  paper-prisons  boys  use  to  keep  flies  in, 
more  contemptible ;  since  ours  is  to  preserve  earth 
worms.  Didst  thou  ever  see  a  lark  in  a  cage  ?  Such 
is  the  soul  in  the  body :  this  world  is  like  her  little 
turf  of  grass  ;  and  the  heaven  o'er  our  heads,  like 
her  looking-glass,  only  gives  us  a  miserable  know 
ledge  of  the  small  compass  of  our  prison. 

Ducli.  Am  not  I  thy  duchess  ? 

Bos.  Thou  art  some  great  woman  sure,  for  riot  begins  to  sit 
on  thy  forehead  (clad  in  grey  hairs)  twenty  years 
sooner  than  on  a  merry  milk-maid's.  Thou  sleepest 
worse,  than  if  a  mouse  should  be  forced  to  take  up 
her  lodging  in  a  cat's  ear :  a  little  infant  that  breeds 
its  teeth,  should  it  lie  with  thee,  would  cry  out,  as 
if  thou  wert  the  more  unquiet  bedfellow. 

Ducli.  I  am  Duchess  of  Malfy  still. 

Bos.  That  makes  thy  sleeps  so  broken  : 

Glories,  like  glow-worms,  afar  off  shine  bright ; 
But,  look'd  too  near,  have  neither  heat  nor  light. 

Duch.  Thou  art  very  plain. 

Bos.  My  trade  is  to  flatter  the  dead,  not  the  living. 
I  am  a  tomb-maker. 

Ducli.  And  thou  comest  to  make  my  tomb  ? 

Bos.  Yes. 

Ducli.  Let  me  be  a  little  merry. 

Of  what  stuff"  wilt  thou  make  it  ? 

Bos.  Nay,  resolve  me  first ;  of  what  fashion  ? 

Ditch.   Why,  do  we  grow  fantastical  in  our  death-bed  ? 
Do  we  affect  fashion  in  the  grave  ? 

Bos.  Most  ambitiously.  Princes'  images  on  their  tombs  do 
not  lie  as  they  were  wont,  seeming  to  pray  up  to 
heaven ;  but  with  their  hands  under  their  cheeks 
(as  if  they  died  of  the  tooth-ache)  :  they  are  not 
carved  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stars.;  but,  aa 


186  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

their  minds  were  wholly  bent  upon  the  world,  the 
selfsame  way  they  seem  to  turn  their  faces. 
DucTi.  Let  me  know  fully  therefore  the  effect 

Of  this  thy  dismal  preparation, 

This  talk,  fit  for  a  charnel. 
Bos.  Now  I  shall.  [A  coffin,  cords,  and  a  bell,  produced. 

Here  is  a  present  from  your  princely  brothers  ; 

And  may  it  arrive  welcome,  for  it  brings 

Last  benefit,  last  sorrow. 
DucJi.  Let  me  see  it. 

I  have  so  much  obedience  in  my  blood, 

I  wish  it  in  their  veins  to  do  them  good. 
Bos.  This  is  your  last  presence-chamber. 
Car.  0  my  sweet  lady ! 
Duck.  Peace,  it  affrights  not  me. 
Bos.  I  am  the  common  bellman, 

That  usually  is  sent  to  condemn' d  persons 

The  night  before  they  suffer. 
Dutch.  Even  now  thou  saidst, 

Thou  wast  a  tomb-maker. 
Bos.  'Twas  to  bring  you 

By  degrees  to  mortification.    Listen. 

Dirge. 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still ; 

This  screech-owl,  and  the  whistler  shrill, 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  d'on  her  shroud. 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent ; 

Your  length  in.  clay  's  now  competent. 

A  long  war  disturb 'd  your  mind ; 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  sign'd. 

Of  what  is  't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  ? 

Sin,  their  conception ;  their  birth,  weeping : 

Their  life,  a  general  mist  of  error ; 

Their  death,  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

D'on  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet : 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck. 

'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day : 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  MALFT.  187 

Car.  Hence,  villains,  tyrants,  murderers  :  alas ! 

What  will  you  do  with  my  lady  ?     Call  for  help. 
i)uch.  To  whom ;  to  our  next  neighbours  ?     They  are  mad 

Farewell,  Cariola.  [folks. 

I  pray  thee  look  thou  givest  my  little  boy 

Some  syrup  for  his  cold ;  and  let  the  girl 

Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep. — Now  what  you  please ; 

What  death  ? 

Bos.     Strangling.     Here  are  your  executioners. 
Duch.  I  forgive  them. 

The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  of  the  lungs, 

Would  do  as  much  as  they  do. 
Eos.  Doth  not  death  fright  you  ? 
Duch.  Who  would  be  afraid  on  't, 

Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 

In  the  other  world  ? 
Bos.  Yet  methinks, 

The  manner  of  your  death  should  much  afflict  you  ; 

This  cord  should  terrify  you. 
Duck.  Not  a  whit. 

What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 

With  diamonds  ?  or  to  be  smother' d 

With  cassia  ?  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  ? 

I  know,  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 

For  men  to  take  their  exits  :  and  'tis  found 

They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges, 

You  may  open  them  both  ways ;  any  way :  (for  heaven's 
sake) 

So  I  were  out  cf  your  whispering :  tell  my  brothers, 

That  I  perceive,  death  (now  I  'm  well  awake) 

Best  gift  is,  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 

I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault ; 

I  'd  not  be  tedious  to  you. 

Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 

Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 

Yet  stay,  heaven  gates  are  not  so  highly  arch'd 

As  princes'  palaces ;  they  that  enter  there 

Must  go  upon  their  knees.     Come,  violent  death, 

Serve  for  Mandragora  to  make  me  sleep. 

Go  tell  my  brothers ;  when  I  am  laid  out, 

They  then  may  feed  in  quiet. 

\_They  strangle  Tier,  kneeling. 


188  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

enters. 
Ferd.  Is  she  dead  ? 
Bos.  She  is  what  you  would  have  her. 

Eix  your  eye  here. 
Ferd.  Constantly. 
Bos.  Do  you  not  weep  ? 

Other  sins  only  speak ;  murder  shrieks  out. 

The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth, 

But  blood  flies  upwards  and  bedews  the  heavens. 
Ferd.  Cover  her  face :  mine  eyes  dazzle :  she  died  young. 
JBos.  I  think  not  so :  her  infelicity 

Seem'd  to  have  years  too  many. 
Ferd.  She  and  I  were  twins : 

And  should  I  die.  this  instant,  I  had  lived 

Her  time  to  a  minute1. 

******* 

Single  Life. 

0  fie  upon  this  single  life  !  forego  it. 
"We  read  how  Daphne,  for  her  peevish  flight, 
Became  a  fruitless  bay-tree  :  Syrinx  turn'd 
To  the  pale  empty  reed :  Anaxarate 
Was  frozen  into  marble :  whereas  those 
"Which  married,  or  proved  kind  unto  their  friends, 
"Were,  by  a  gracious  influence,  trans-shaped 
Into  the  olive,  pomegranate,  mulberry ; 
Became  flowers,  precious  stones,  or  eminent  stars. 
1  All  the  several  parts  of  the    dreadful  apparatus  with  which  the 
Duchess's  death  is  ushered  in,  are  not  more  remote  from  the  conceptions 
of -ordinary  vengeance,  than  the  strange  character  of  suffering  which  they 
seem  to  bring  upon  their  victims  is  beyond  the  imagination  of  ordinary 
poets.     As  they  are  not  like  inflictions  of  this  life,  so  her  language  seems 
not  of  this  world.    She  has  lived  among  horrors  till  she  is  become  "  native 
and  endowed  unto  that  element."     She  speaks  the  dialect  of  despair,  her 
tongue  has  a  snatch  of  Tartarus  and  the  souls.inbale. — What  are  "Luke's 
iron  crown,"  the  brazen  bull  of  Perillus,  Procrustes'  bed,  to  the  waxen 
images  which  counterfeit  death,  to  the  wild  masque  of  madmen,  the 
tomb-maker,  the  bellman,  the  living  person's  dirge,  the  mortification  by 
degrees !     To  move  a  horror  skilfully,  to  touch  a  soul  to  the  quick,  to  lay 
upon  fear  as  much  as  it  can  bear,  to  wean  and  weary  a  life  till  it  is  ready 
to  drop,  and  then  step  in  with  mortal  instruments  to  take  its  last  forfeit — 
this  only  a  Webster  can  do.     Writers  of  an  inferior  genius  may  "  upon 
horror's  head  horrors  accumulate,"  but  they  cannot  do  this.   They  mistake 
quantity  for  quality,  they  "-terrify  babes  with  painted  devils,"  but  they 
know  not  how  a  soul  is  capable  of  being  moved ;  their  terrors  want  dig 
nity,  their  afirightments  are  without  decorum. 


THE  WHITE  DEYIL.  189 

Fable. 

Upon  a  time,  Reputation,  Love,  and  Death, 
"Would  travel  o'er  the  world :  and  'twas  concluded 
That  they  should  part,  and  take  three  several  ways. 
Death  told  them,  they  should  find  him  in  great  battles, 
Or  cities  plagued  with  plagues :  Love  gives  them  counsel 
To  inquire  for  him  'mongst  unambitious  shepherds, 
"Where  dowries  were  not  talk'd  of;  and  sometimes, 
'Mongst  quiet  kindred  that  had  nothing  left 
By  their  dead  parents  :  Stay,  quoth  Reputation ; 
Do  not  forsake  me,  for  it  is  my  nature, 
If  once  I  part  from  any  man  I  meet, 
I  am  never  found  again. 

Another. 

A  Salmon,  as  she  swam  unto  the  sea, 
Met  with  a  Dog-fish ;  who  encounters  her 
"With  his  rough  language  :  Why  art  thou  so  bold 
To  mix  thyself  with  our  high  state  of  floods  ? 
Being  no  eminent  courtier,  but  one 
That  for  the  calmest  and  fresh  time  of  the  year 
Dost  live  in  shallow  rivers,  rank'st  thyself 
With  silly  Smelts  and  Shrimps  : — and  clarest  thou 
Pass  by  our  Dog-ship  without  reverence  ? 
0  (quoth  the  Salmon)  sister,  be  at  peace  ; 
Thank  Jupiter  we  both  have  past  the  net. 
Our  value  never  can  be  truly  known, 
Till  in  the  fisher's  basket  we  be  shown : 
In  the  market  then  my  price  may  be  the  higher ; 
Even  when  I  am  nearest  to  the  cook  and  fire. 
So  to  great  men  the  moral  may  be  stretched : 
Men  oft  are  valued  high  when  they  are  most  wretched. 


THE  WHITE    DEVIL:   OE,    YITTOEIA    COEOMBONA,    A 
LADY  OF  YENICE  :  A  TEA&EDY,  BY  JOHN  WEBSTEE1. 

The  arraignment  of  VITTOBIA. — PATJIO  G-IOEDANO  UESINI,  Duke  of 
Brachiano,  for  the  love  of  VITTOKIA  COEOMBONA,  a  Venetian  lady, 
and  at  her  suggestion,  causes  her  husband  CAMILLO  to  be  murdered. 
Suspicion  fatts  ivpon  YITTOEIA,  who  is  tried  at  Some,  on  a  double 

1  The  author's  Dedication  to  this  Play  is  so  modest,  yet  so  conscious  of 
self-merit  withal,  he  speaks  so  frankly  of  the  deservings  of  others,  and  by 
implication  insinuates  his  own  deserts  so  ingenuously,  that  I  cannot  for- 


190  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

charge  of  murder  and  incontinence,  in  the  presence  of  CAEDINAL  MON- 
TICELSO,  cousin  to  the  deceased  CAMILLO  ;  FEANCISCO  DE  MEDICIS, 
brother-in-law  to  BEACHIANO  ;  the  Ambassadors  of  France,  Spain, 
England,  tSfc.  As  the  arraignment  is  beginning,  the  Duke  confidently 
enters  the  court. 

Mon.  Forbear,  my  lord,  here  is  no  place  assign' d  you : 
This  business,  by  his  holiness,  is  left 
To  our  examination. 

bear  inserting  it,  as  a  specimen  how  a  man  may  praise  himself  gracefully 
and  commend  others  without  suspicion  of  envy. 
"  To  the  Eeader. 

"  In  publishing  this  Tragedy,  I  do  but  challenge  to  myself  that  liberty 
which  other  men  have  taken  before  me ;  not  that  I  affect  praise  by  it,  for 
nos  h&c  novimus  csse  nihil ;  only  since  it  was  acted  in  so  open  and  black 
a  theatre,  that  it  wanted  (that  which  is  the  only  grace  and  setting-out  of 
a  tragedy)  a  full  and  understanding  auditory ;  and  that,  since  that  time, 
I  have  noted,  most  of  the  people  that  come  to  that  play-house  resemble 
those  ignorant  asses  (who  visiting  stationers'  shops,  their  use  is  not  to 
inquire  for  good  books,  but  new  books),  I  present  it  to  the  general  view 
with  this  confidence, 

Nee  rhonchos  metues  malignorum 
Nee  scombris  tunicas  dabis  molestas. 

If  it  be  objected  this  is  no  true  dramatic  poem,  I  shall  easily  confess  it, 
non  potes  in  nugas  dicere  plura  meas,  ipse  ego  quam  dixi ;  willingly,  and 
not  ignorantly,  have  I  faulted.  For  should  a  man  present,  to  such  an 
auditory,  the  most  sententious  tragedy  that  ever  was  written,  observing 
all  the  critical  laws,  as  height  of  style,  and  gravity  of  person,  enrich  it 
with  the  sententious  chorus,  and,  as  it  were,  enliven  death,  in  the  pas 
sionate  and  weighty  Nuntius  ;  yet  after  all  this  divine  rapture,  O  dura 
messorum  ilia  \  the  breath  that  comes  from  the  uncapable  multitude  is 
able  to  poison  it ;  and  ere  it  be  acted,  let  the  author  resolve  to  fix  to  every 
scene  this  of  Horace : 

~  SCBC  hodie  porcis  comedenda  relinques. 

"  To  those  who  report  I  was  a  long  time  in  finishing  this  Tragedy,  I 
confess,  I  do  not  write  with  a  goose-quill  winged  with  two  feathers ;  and 
if  they  will  needs  make  it  my  fault,  I  must  answer  them  with  that  of 
Euripides  to  Alcestides,  a  tragic  writer :  Alcestides  objecting  that  Euri 
pides  had  only,  in  three  days,  composed  three  verses,  whereas  himself  had 
written  three  hundred :  Thou  tellest  truth  (quoth  he)  ;  but  here's  the 
difference :  thine  shall  only  be  read  for  three  days,  whereas  mine  shall 
continue  three  ages. 

"  Detraction  is  the  sworn  friend  to  ignorance  :  for  mine  own  part,  I 
have  ever  truly  cherished  my  good  opinion  of  other  men's  worthy  labours, 
especially  of  that  full  and  heightened  style  of  Master  Chapman,  the  la 
boured  and  understanding  works  of  Master  Jonson,  the  no  less  worthy 
composures  of  the  both  worthily  excellent  Master  Beaumont  and  Master 
Fletcher ;  and  lastly  (without  wrong  last  to  be  named),  the  right  happy 
and  copious  industry  of  Master  Shakspeare,  Master  Decker,  and  Master 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  191 

"Bra.  May  it  thrive  with  you ! 
Fra.  A  chair  there  for  his  lordship. 

[Lays  a  rich  gown  under  him. 
jBra.  Forbear  your  kindness ;  an  unbidden  guest 

Should  travel  as  Dutch  women  go  to  church, 

Bear  their  stool  with  them. 
Mon.  At  your  pleasure,  sir. 

Stand  to  the  table,  gentlewoman. — Now,  Signior, 

Fall  to  your  plea. 
Lawyer.  Domine  judex,  converte  oculos  in  hanc  pestem  muli- 

ervm  corrmtissimam. 
Vit.  What 's  he  ? 

Fra.  A  lawyer,  that  pleads  against  you. 
Vit.  Pray,  my  lord,  let  him  speak  his  usual  tongue  ; 

I  '11  make  no  answer  else. 
Fra.  Why,  you  understand  Latin. 
Vit:  I  do,  sir,  but  amongst  this  auditory 

Which  come  to  hear  my  cause,  the  half  or  more 

May  be  ignorant  in 't. 
Mon.  Go  on,  sir. 
Vit.  By  your  favour, 

I  will  not  have  my  accusation  clouded 

In  a  strange  tongue :  all  this  assembly 

Shall  hear  what  you  can  charge  me  with. 
Fra.  Signior,  [guage. 

You  need  not  stand  on 't  much ;  pray,  change  your  Ian- 
Mon.  0,  for  Grod's  sake !  gentlewoman,  your  credit 

jShall  be  more  famous  by  it. 
£aw.  Well  then,  have  at  you. 
Vit.  I  am  the  mark,  sir,  I  '11  give  aim  to  you, 

And  tell  you  how  near  you  shoot. 
Law.  Most  literated  judges,  please  your  lordships 

So  to  connive  your  judgements  to  the  view 

Of  this  debauch' d  and  diversivolent  woman ; 

Who  such  a  concatenation 

Of  mischief  hath  effected,  that  to  extirp 

The  memory  of  it,  must  be  the  consummation 

Of  her,  and  her  projections. 

Heywood,  wishing  what  I  write  may  be  read  by  their  light ;  protesting 
that,  in  the  strength  of  mine  own  judgement,  I  know  them  so  worthy,  that 
though  I  rest  silent  in  my  own  work,  yet  to  most  of  theirs,  I  dare  (without 
flattery)  fix  that  of  Martial :  non  norunt  hcec  mommenta  mori." 


192  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

Tit.  What 's  all  this  ? 
Law.  Hold  your  peace ! 

Exorbitant  sins  must  have  exulceration. 
Tit.  Surely,  my  lords,  this  lawyer  hath  swallow' d 

Some  apothecaries'  bills,  or  proclamations ; 

And  now  the  hard  and  undigestible  words 

Come  up  like  stones  we  use  give  hawks  for  physic. 

"Why,  this  is  Welsh  to  Latin. 
Law.  My  lords,  the  woman 

Knows  not  her  tropes,  nor  is  perfect 

In  the  academic  derivation 

Of  grammatical  elocution. 
Fra,  Sir,  your  pains 

Shall  be  well  spared,  and  your  deep  eloquence 

Be  worthily  applauded  among  those 

Which  understand  you. 
Law.  My  good  lord. 
Fra.  Sir, 

Put  up  your  papers  in  your  fustian  bag ; 

[FRANCISCO  speaks  this  as  in  scorn. 

Cry  mercy,  sir,  'tis  buckram,  and  accept 

My  notion  of  your  learn' d  verbosity. 
Law.  I  most  graduatically  thank  your  lordship  ; 

I  shall  have  use  for  them  elsewhere.  [out 

Mon.  (to  VITTOEIA.)  I  shall  be  plainer  with  you,  and  paint 

Your  follies  in  more  natural  red  and  white, 

Than  that  upon  your  cheek. 
Vit.  0,  you  mistake, 

You  raise  a  blood  as  noble  in  this  cheek 

As  ever  was  your  mother's. 
Mon.  I  must  spare  you,  till  proof  cry  whore  to  that. 

Observe  this  creature  here,  my  honour' d  lords, 

A  woman  of  a  most  prodigious  spirit. 
Vit.  My  honourable  lord, 

It  doth  not  suit  a  reverend  cardinal 

To  play  the  lawyer  thus. 
Mon.  0,  your  trade  instructs  your  language. 

You  see,  my  lords,  what  goodly  fruit  she  seems, 

Yet  like  those  apples  travellers  report 

To  grow  where  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  stood, 

I  will  but  touch  her,  and  you  straight  shall  see 

She  '11  fall  to  soot  and  ashes. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  193 

Tit.  Your  envenom' d  apothecary  should  do 't. 
Mon.  I  am  resolved, 

Were  there  a  second  paradise  to  lose, 
This  devil  would  betray  it.  \ 

Vit.  O,  poor  charity, 

Thou  art  seldom  found  in  scarlet ! 
Mon.  Who  knows  not  how,  when  several  night  by  night 
Her  gates  were  choked  with  coaches,  and  her  rooms 
Outbraved  the  stars  with  several  kinds  of  lights ; 
When  she  did  counterfeit  a  prince's  court 
In  music,  banquets,  and  most  riotous  surfeits ; 
This  whore  forsooth  was  holy  ! 
Vit.  Ha !  whore  ?  what 's  that  ? 
Mon.  Shall  I  expound  whore  to  you  ?  sure  I  shall. 
I  '11  give  their  perfect  character.     They  are  first, 
Sweetmeats  which  rot  the  eater:  in  man's  nostrils 
Poison'd  perfumes.     They  are  cozening  alchymy  ; 
Shipwrecks  in  calmest  weather.     What  are  whores  ? 
Cold  Russian  winters,  that  appear  so  barren, 
As  if  that  nature  had  forgot  the  spring. 
They  are  the  true  material  fire  of  hell. 
Worse  than  those  tributes  i'  the  low  countries  paid, 
Exactions  upon  meat,  drink,  garments,  sleep ; 
Ay,  even  on  man's  perdition,  his  sin. 
They  are  those  brittle  evidences  of  law, 
Which  forfeit  all  a  wretched  man's  estate 
For  leaving  out  one  syllable.     What  are  whores  ? 
They  are  those  nattering  bells  have  all  one  tune, 
At  weddings  and  at  funerals.     Your  rich  whores 
Are  only  treasuries  by  extortion  fill'd, 
And  emptied  by  cursed  riot.     They  are  worse, 
Worse  than  dead  bodies,  which  are  begg'd  at  the  gallows, 
And  wrought  upon  by  surgeons,  to  teach  man 
Wherein  he  is  imperfect.     What 's  a  whore  ? 
She  's  like  the  gilt  counterfeited  coin, 
Which,  whosoe'er  first  stamps  it,  brings  in  trouble 
All  that  receive  it. 
Vit.  This  character  'scapes  me. 
Mbn.  You,  gentlewoman  ? 

Take  from  all  beasts  and  from  all  minerals 
Their  deadly  poison — 
Vit.  Well,  what  then  ? 


194  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

Hon.  I  '11  tell  thee ; 

I  '11  find  in  thee  an  apothecary's  shop. 
To  sample  them  all. 
Fr.  Emb.  She  hath  lived  ill. 
En.  Emb.  True,  but  the  cardinal 's  too  bitter. 
Mon.  You  know  what  whore  is.     Next  the  devil  adultery, 

Enters  the  devil  murder. 
Fra.  Your  unhappy  husband 

Is  dead. 
Tit.  O,  he 's  a  happy  husband, 

Now  he  owes  nature  nothing. 
Fra.  And  by  a  vaulting  engine. 
Mon.  An  active  plot : 

He  jump'd  into  his  grave. 
Fra.  What  a  prodigy  was  't, 

That  from  some  two  yards  high,  a  slender  man 

Should  break  his  neck  ? 
Mon.  I'  the  rushes ! 
Fra.  And  what 's  more, 

Upon  the  instant  lose  all  use  of  speech, 

All  vital  motion,  like  a  man  had  lain 

"Wound  up  three  days.     Now  mark  each  circumstance. 
Mon.  And  look  upon  this  creature  was  his  wife. 

She  comes  not  like  a  widow :  she  comes  arm'd 

"With  scorn  and  impudence :  is  this  a  mourning-habit  ? 
Vit.  Had  I  foreknown  his  death  as  you  suggest, 

I  would  have  bespoke  my  mourning. 
Mon.  O,  you  are  cunning. 
"Fit.  You  shame  your  wit  and  judgement, 

To  call  it  so ;  what,  is  my  just  defence 

By  him  that  is  my  judge  called  impudence  ? 

Let  me  appeal  then  from  this  Christian  court 

To  the  uncivil  Tartar. 
Mon.  See,  my  lords, 

She  scandals  our  proceedings. 
Vit.  Humbly  thus, 

Thus  low,  to  the  most  worthy  and  respected 

Leiger  ambassadors,  my  modesty 

And  womanhood  I  tender ;  but  withal, 

So  entangled  in  a  cursed  accusation, 

That  my  defence,  of  force,  like  Perseus, 

Must  personate  masculine  virtue.    To  the  point. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  195 

Find  me  but  guilty,  sever  head  from  body, 

We  '11  part  good  friends :  I  scorn  to  hold  my  life 

At  yours,  or  any  man's  entreaty,  sir. 
En.  Emb.  She  hath  a  brave  spirit. 
Man.  Well,  well,  such  counterfeit  jewels 

Make  true  ones  oft  suspected. 
Vit.  You  are  deceived ; 

For  know,  that  all  your  strict  combined  heads, 

Which  strike  against  this  mine  of  diamonds, 

Shall  prove  but  glassen  hammers,  they  shall  break. 

These  are  but  feigned  shadows  of  my  evils. 

Terrify  babes,  my  lord,  with  painted  devils ; 

I  am  past  such  needless  palsy.     For  your  names 

Of  whore  and  murderess,  they  proceed  from  you, 

As  if  a  man  should  spit  against  the  wind ; 

The  filth  returns  in  's  face. 
Mon.  Pray  you,  mistress,  satisfy  me  one  question : 

Who  lodged  beneath  your  roof  that  fatal  night* 

Tour  husband  brake  his  neck  ? 
Bra.  That  question 

Enforceth  me  break  silence ;  I  was  there. 
Mon.  Tour  business  ? 
Era.  Why,  I  came  to  comfort  her. 

And  take  some  course  for  settling  her  estate, 

Because  I  heard  her  husband  was  in  debt 

To  you,  my  lord. 
Mon.  He  was. 
Bra.  And  'twas  strangely  fear'd 

That  you  would  cozen  her. 
Mon.  Who  made  you  overseer  ? 
Bra.  Why,  my  charity,  my  charity,  which  should  flow 

From  every  generous  and  noble  spirit, 

To  orphans  and  to  widows. 
Mon.  Tour  lust. 
Bra.  Cowardly  dogs  bark  loudest !  sirrah,  priest, 

I  '11  talk  with  you  hereafter. — —Do  you  hear  ? 

The  sword  you  frame  of  such  an  excellent  temper, 

I  '11  sheath  in  your  own  bowels, 
There  are  a  number  of  thy  coat  resemble 
Tour  common  post-boys. 
Mon.  Ha! 
Bra.  Tour  mercenary  post-boys. 

o2 


196  JOHN  WEB STEB. 

Tour  letters  carry  truth,  but  'tis  your  guise 

To  fill  your  mouths  with  gross  and  impudent  lies. 

Servant.  My  lord,  your  gown. 

Era.  Thou  liest,  'twas  my  stool. 

Bestow 't  upon  thy  master,  that  will  challenge 
The  rest  o'  the  household  stuff,  for  Brachiano 
"Was  ne'er  so  beggarly  to  take  a  stool 
Out  of  another's  lodging :  let  him  make 
Valance  for  his  bed  on  't,  or  demy  foot-cloth 
For  his  most  reverend  moile.     Monticelso,  nemo  me 
impune  lacessit.  [Exit  BEAGHIANO. 

Mon.  Your  champion  's  gone. 

Vit.  The  woll*  may  prey  the  better. 

Fra.  My  lord,  there 's  great  suspicion  of  the  murder, 
But  no  sound  proof  who  did  it.     For  my  part, 
I  do  not  think  she  hath  a  soul  so  black 
To  act  a  deed  so  bloody :  if  she  have, 
As  in  cold  countries  husbandmen  plant  vines, 
And  with  warm  blood  manure  them,  even  so 
One  summer  she  will  bear  unsavoury  fruit, 
And  ere  next  spring  wither  both  branch  and  root. 
The  act  of  blood  let  pass,  only  descend 
To  matter  of  incontinence. 

Vit.  I  discern  poison 

Under  your  gilded  pills. 

Mon.  Now  the  duke 's  gone  I  will  produce  a  letter, 
Wherein  'twas  plotted,  he  and  you  shall  meet, 
At  an  apothecary's  summer-house, 
Down  by  the  river  Tiber.     View 't,  my  lords : 
"Where  after  wanton  bathing  and  the  heat 
Of  a  lascivious  banquet — I  pray  read  it. — 
I  shame  to  speak  the  rest. 

Vit.  Grant  I  was  tempted ; 

Temptation  proves  not  the  act : 

Casta  est  quam  nemo  rogavit. 

You  read  his  hot  love  to  me,  but  you  want 

My  frosty  answer. 

Mon.  Frost  i'  the  dog-days  !  strange ! 

Vit.  Condemn  you  me  for  that  the  duke  did  love  me  ? 
So  may  you  blame  some  fair  and  crystal  river 
For  that  some  melancholic  distracted  man 
Hath  drown' d  himself  in 't. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  197 

Mbn.  Truly  drown' d,  indeed. 

Vit.  Sum  up  my  faults,  I  pray,  and  you  shall  find, 

That  beauty  and  gay  clothes,  a  merry  heart, 

And  a  good  stomach  to  feast,  are  all, 

All  the  poor  crimes  that  you  can  charge  me  with. 

In  faith,  my  lord,  you  might  go  pistol  flies, 

The  sport  would  be  more  noble. 

Man.  Very  good.  [me  first, 

Vit.  But  take  you  your  course ;  it  seems  you  've  begg'd 

And  now  would  fain  undo  me.     I  have  houses, 

Jewels,  and  a  poor  remnant  of  crusadoes ; 

Would  these  would  make  you  charitable ! 
Mon.  If  the  devil 

Did  ever  take  good  shape,  behold  his  picture ! 
Vit.  You  have  one  virtue  left, 

You  will  not  flatter  me. 
Fra.  Who  brought  this  letter  ? 
Vit.  I  am  not  compell'd  to  tell  you. 
Mon.  My  lord  duke  sent  to  you  a  thousand  ducats, 

The  twelfth  of  August. 
Vit.  'Twas  to  keep  your  cousin1 

Prom  prison,  I  paid  use  for  't. 
Mon.  I  rather  think, 

'Twas  interest  for  his  lust. 
Vit.  Who  says  so  but  yourself?  if  you  be  my  accuser, 

Pray  cease  to  be  my  judge :  come  from  the  bench, 

Give  in  your  evidence  against  me,  and  let  these 

Be  moderators.     My  lord  cardinal, 

Were  your  intelligencing  ears  as  loving, 

As  to  my  thoughts,  had  you  an  honest  tongue, 

I  would  not  care  though  you  proclaim' d  them  all. 
Mon.  G-o  to,  go  to. 

After  your  goodly  and  vain-glorious  banquet, 

I  '11  give  you  a  choke-pear. 
Vit.  Of  your  own  grafting  ? 
Mon.  You  were  born  in  Venice,  honourably  descended 

From  the  Vittelli ;  'twas  my  cousin's  fate, 

111  may  I  name  the"  hour,  to  marry  you ; 

He  bought  you  of  your  father. 
Vit.  Ha! 
Mon.  He  spent  there  in  six  months 

Twelve  thousand  ducats,  and  (to  my  knowledge) 
1  Her  husband  Camillo,  who  was  cousin  to  Monticelso. 


198  JOHN  WEBSTEB. 

Received  in  dowry  with  you  not  one  julio. 

'Twas  a  hard  pennyworth,  the  ware  being  so  light. 

I  yet  but  draw  the  curtain,  now  to  your  picture : 

You  came  from  thence  a  most  notorious  strumpet, 

And  so  you  have  continued. 
Vit.  My  lord! 
Mon.  Nay,  hear  me, 

You  shall  have  time  to  prate.    My  lord  Brachiano— 

Alas !  I  make  but  repetition, 

Of  what  is  ordinary  and  Eialto  talk, 

And  ballated,  and  would  be  play'd  o'  the  stage 

But  that  vice  many  times  finds  such  loud  friends, 

That  preachers  are  charm' d  silent. 

Your  public  fault, 

Join'd  to  the  condition  of  the  present  time, 

Takes  from  you  all  the  fruits  of  noble  pity, 

Such  a  corrupted  trial  have  you  made 

Both  of  your  life  and  beauty,  and  been  styled 

No  less  an  ominous  fate,  than  biasing  stars 

To  princes.     Hear  your  sentence*;  you  are  confined 

Unto  a  house  of  converts. 
Vit.  A  house  of  converts !  what 's  that  ? 
Mon.  A  house  of  penitent  whores. 
Vit.  Do  the  noblemen  in  Borne 

Erect  it  for  their  wives,  that  I  am  sent 

To  lodge  there  ? 
Fra.  You  must  have  patience. 
Vit.  I  must  first  have  vengeance. 

I  fain  would  know  if  you  have  your  salvation 

By  patent,  that  you  proceed  thus. 
Mon.  Away  with  her, 

Take  her  hence. 
Vit.  A  rape  !  a  rape  ! 
Mon.  How? 
Vit.  Yes,  you  have  ravish' d  justice; 

Forced  her  to  do  your  pleasure. 
Mon.  Eie,  she 's  mad ! 
Vit.  Die  with  those  pills  in  your  most  cursed  maw, 

Should  bring  you  health !  or  while  you  sit  o'  the  bench, 

Let  your  own  spittle  choke  you ! 
Mon.  She 's  turn'd  fury. 
Vit.  That  the  last  day  of  judgment  may  so  find  you, 

And  leave  you  the  same  deyil  you  were  before ! 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  199 

Instruct  me  some  good  horse-leech  to  speak  treason, 

For  since  you  cannot  take  my  life  for  deeds, 

Take  it  for  words :  O,  woman's  poor  revenge, 

"Which  dwells  but  in  the  tongue !    I  will  not  weep. 

No ;  I  do  scorn  to  call  up  one  poor  tear 

To  fawn  on  your  injustice :  bear  me  hence 

Unto  this  house  of what 's  your  mitigating  title  ? 

Mon.  Of  converts. 

Vit.  It  shall  not  be  a  house  of  converts  ; 
My  mind  shall  make  it  honester  to  me 
Than  the  pope's  palace,  and  more  peaceable 
Than  thy  soul,  though  thou  art  a  cardinal. 
Know  this,  and  let  it  somewhat  raise  your  spite, 
Through  darkness  diamonds  spread  their  richest  light1. 

MAECELLO  and  FLAMINEO,  Sons  to  COENELIA,  having  quarrelled ;  FLA 
MINEO  slays  Ms  Brother  MAECELLO,  their  Mother  being  present. 

CORNELIA.     MAKOELLO. 
Cor.  I  hear  a  whispering  all  about  the  court, 

You  are  to  fight :  who  is  your  opposite  ? 

"What  is  the  quarrel  ? 
Mar.  'Tis  an  idle  rumour. 
Cor.  Will  you  dissemble  ?  sure  you  do  not  well 

To  fright  me  thus :  you  never  look  thus  pale, 

But  when  you  are  most  angry.     I  do  charge  you, 

Upon  my  blessing ;  nay,  I  '11  call  the  duke, 

And  he  shall  school  you. 
Mar.  Publish  not  a  fear, 

Winch  would  convert  to  laughter :  'tis  not  so. 

Was  not  this  crucifix  my  father's  ? 
Cor.  Yes. 

1  This  White  Devil  of  Italy  sets  off  a  bad  cause  so  speciously,  and  pleads 
with  such  an  innocence-resembling  boldness,  that  we  seem  to  see  that 
matchless  beauty  of  her  face  which  inspires  such  gay  confidence  into  her ; 
and  are  ready  to  expect,  when  she  has  done  her  pleadings,  that  her  very 
judges,  her  accusers,  the  grave  ambassadors  who  sit  as  spectators,  and  all 
the  court,  will  rise  and  make  proffer  to  defend  her  in  spite  of  the  utmost 
conviction  of  her  guilt ;  as  the  shepherds  in  Don  Quixote  make  proffer  to 
follow  the  beautiful  shepherdess  Marcela  "  without  reaping  any  profit  out 
of  her  manifest  resolution  made  there  in  their  hearing." — 

So  sweet  and  lovely  does  she  make  the  shame, 
Which,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  rose, 
Does  spot  the  beauty  of  her  budding  name ! 


200  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

Mar.  I  have  heard  you  say,  giving  my  brother  suck, 
He  took  the  crucifix  between  his  hands, 
And  broke  a  limb  off. 
Cor.  Yes ;  but  'tis  mended. 

FLAMLNTEO  enters. 
Fla.  I  have  brought  your  weapon  back. 

[FLAMIKEO  runs  MAECELLO  through. 
Cor.  Ha,  0  my  horror ! 
Mar.  You  have  brought  it  home,  indeed. 
Cor.  Help,  O  he 's  murder' d  ! 
Fla.  Do  you  turn  your  gall  up  ?    I  '11  to  sanctuary, 

And  send  a  surgeon  to  you.  [Exit  FLAM. 

HOETENSIUS  (an  Officer)  enters. 
Hor.  How,  o'  the  ground  ? 
Mar.  0  mother,  now  remember  what  I  told 
Of  breaking  off  the  crucifix.     Farewell. 
There  are  some  sins,  which  Heaven  doth  duly  punish 
In  a  whole  family.     This  it  is  to  rise 
By  all  dishonest  means.     Let  all  men  know, 
That  tree  shall  long  time  keep  a  steady  foot, 
"Whose  branches  spread  no  wider  than  the  root. 
Cor.  0  my  perpetual  sorrow ! 
Ilor.  Virtuous  Marcello ! 

He 's  dead.     Pray  leave  him,  lady :  come,  you  shall. 
Cor.  Alas !  he  is  not  dead ;  he  's  in  a  trance. 

Why,  here  's  no  body  shall  get  anything  by  his  death 
Let  me  call  him  again,  for  God's  sake ! 
Hor.  I  would  you  were  deceived. 
Cor.  0  you  abuse  me,  you  abuse  me,  you  abuse  me ! 

How  many  have  gone  away  thus,  for  lack  of  'tendance ! 
E/ear  up  's  head,  rear  up 's  head ;  his  bleeding  inward 

will  kill  him. 

Hor.  You  see  he  is  departed. 

Cor.  Let  me  come  to  him ;  give  me  him  as  he  is ;  if  he  be 
turn'd  to  earth,  let  me  but  give  him  one  hearty  kiss, 
and  you  shall  put  us  both  into  one  coffin.  Fetch  a 
looking-glass,  see  if  his  breath  will  not  stain  it ;  or 
pull  out  some  feathers  from  my  pillow,  and  lay 
them  to  his  lips :  will  you  lose  him  for  a  little  pains 
taking  ? 

Hor.  Your  kindest  office  is  to  pray  for  him. 
Cor.  Alas !  I  would  not  pray  for  him  yet.     He  may  live  to 


THE  WHITE  DEYIL.  201 

lay  me  i'  the  ground,  and  pray  for  me,  if  you  '11  let 
me  come  to  him. 
The  DUKE  enters  with  FLAMIFEO,  and  PAGE. 

Bra.  "Was  this  your  handy-work  ? 

Fla.  It  was  my  misfortune. 

Cor.  He  lies,  he  lies ;  he  did  not  kill  him :  these  have  kilTd 
him,  that  would  not  let  him  be  better  look'd  to. 

Bra.  Have  comfort,  my  grieved  mother. 

Cor.  0  yon'  screech-owl ! 

HOT.  Forbear,  good  madam. 

Cor.  Let  me  go,  let  me  go.    [She  runs  to  FLAMIITEO  with  her 
knife  drawn,  and  coming  to  him,  lets  it  fall. 
The  Grod  of  heaven  forgive  thee.     Dost  not  wonder 
I  pray  for  thee  ?     I  '11  tell  thee  what 's  the  reason : 
I  have  scarce  breath  to  number  twenty  minutes ; 
I  'd  not  spend  that  in  cursing.     Pare  thee  well : 
Half  of  thyself  lies  there :  and  mayst  thou  live 
To  fill  an  hour-glass  with  his  moulder' d  ashes, 
To  tell  how  thou  shouldst  spend  the  time  to  come 
In  blest  repentance. 

Bra.  Mother,  pray  tell  me 

How  came  he  by  his  death  ?  what  was  the  quarrel  ? 

Cor.  Indeed,  my  younger  boy  presumed  too  much 
Upon  his  manhood,  gave  him  bitter  words, 
Drew  his  sword  first ;  and  so,  I  know  not  how, 
Por  I  was  out  of  my  wits,  he  fell  with 's  head 
Just  in  my  bosom. 

Page.  This  is  not  true,  madam. 

Cor.  I  prithee  peace. 

One  arrow  's  grazed  already :  it  were  vain 
To  lose  this,  for  that  will  ne'er  be  found  again. 


FBANCISCO  describes  to  FLAMINEO  the  grief  of  COBNELIA  at  tJiefmeral 
of  MAECELLO. 

Your  reverend  mother 
Is  grown  a  very  old  woman  in  two  hours. 
I  found  them  winding  of  Marcello's  corse : 
And  there  is  such  a  solemn  melody, 
'Tween  doleful  songs,  tears,  and  sad  elegies ; 
Such  as  old  grandames,  watching  by  the  dead, 
Were  wont  to  outwear  the  nights  with ;  that,  believe  me, 


202  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

I  had  no  eyes  to  guide  me  forth  the  room, 
They  were  so  o'ercharged  with  water. 
Funeral  Dirge  for  MABCELLO. 

[His  MOTHEE  sings  it. 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast,  and  the  wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 
Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 
The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 
To  raise  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 
And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd)  sustain  no  harm  ; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that  's  foe  to  men, 
For  with  his  nails  he  '11  dig  them  up  again1. 

Folded  Thoughts. 

Come,  come,  my  lord,  untie  your  folded  thoughts, 
And  let  them  dangle  loose  as  a  bride's  hair. 
Your  sister  's  poison'  d. 

Dying  Princes. 

To  see  what  solitariness  is  about  dying  princes  !  As  here 
tofore  they  have  unpeopled  towns,  divorced  friends, 
and  made  great  houses  unhospitable  !  so  now,  O 
justice  !  where  are  their  flatterers  now  ?  flatterers 
are  but  the  shadows  of  princes'  bodies;  the  least 
thick  cloud  makes  them  invisible. 

Natural  Death. 

0,  thou  sofb  natural  death  !  that  art  joint  twin 
To  sweetest  slumber  !  —  no  rough-bearded  comet 
Stares  on  thy  mild  departure  ;  the  dull  owl 
Beats  not  against  thy  casement  ;  the  hoarse  wolf 
Scents  not  thy  carrion.     Pity  winds  thy  corse, 
Whilst  horror  waits  on  princes'  - 

Vow  of  Murder  rebuked. 
Miserable  creature, 
If  thou  persist  in  this,  'tis  damnable. 
Dost  thou  imagine  thou  canst  slide  on  blood, 
not  be  tainted  with  a  shameful  fall  ? 


1  I  never  saw  anything  like  this  Dirge,  except  the  Ditty  which  reminds 
Ferdinand  of  his  drowned  father  in  the  Tempest.  As  that  is  of  the  water, 
watery  ;  so  this  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of  feel 
ing,  whic^  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  the  elements  which  it  contemplates. 


THE  LOYEB'S  MELANCHOLY.        203 

Or  like  the  black  and  melancholic  yew-tree, 
Dost  think  to  root  thyself  in  dead  men's  graves 

And  yet  to  prosper  ? 

Dying  Man. 

See,  see  how  firmly  he  doth  fix  his  eye 
TJpon  the  crucifix ! 
O,  hold  it  constant. 

?i  settles  his  wild  spirits :  and  so  his  eyes 
Melt  into  tears. 


O,  the  cursed  devil, 

Which  doth  present  us  with  all  other  sins 
Thrice  candied  o'er ;  despair,  with  gall  and  stibium, 
Tet  we  carouse  it  off! 


THE  LOVEE'S  MELANCHOLY,  BY  JOHN  FOED. 

Contention  of  a  Bird  and  a  Musician. 

Passing  from  Italy  to  Greece,  the  tales 

Which  poets  of  an  elder  time  have  feign' d 

To  glorify  their  Tempe,  bred  in  me 

Desire  of  visiting  that  paradise. 

To  Thessaly  I  came,  and  living  private, 

Without  acquaintance  of  more  sweet  companions 

Than  the  old  inmates  to  my  love,  my  thoughts, 

I  day  by  day  frequented  silent  groves 

And  solitary  walks.     One  morning  early 

This  accident  encounter 'd  me :  I  heard 

The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 

That  art  or  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in. 

A  sound  of  music  touch'd  mine  ears,  or  rather 

Indeed  entranced  my  soul :  as  I  stole  nearer, 

Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 

This  youth,  this  fair-faced  youth,  upon  his  lute 

With  strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony 

Proclaiming  (as  it  seem'd)  so  bold  a  challenge 

To  the  clear  quiristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds, 

That  as  they  nock'd  about  him,  all  stood  silent, 

Wondering  at  what  they  heard.     I.  wonder 'd  too. 

A  nightingale, 

Nature's  best  skill' d  musician,  urdertakes 


204  JOHN  FOED. 

The  challenge ;  and,  for  every  several  strain 

The  well-shaped  youth  could  touch,  she  sung  her  down ; 

He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 

Upon  his  quaking  instrument,  than  she 

The  nightingale  did  with  her  various  notes 

Reply  to. 

Some  time  thus  spent,  the  young  man  grew  at  last 

Into  a  pretty  anger ;  that  a  bird, 

Whom  art  had  never  taught  cliffs,  moods,  or  notes, 

Should  vie  with  him  for  mastery,  whose  study 

Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice  : 

To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture 

Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly, 

So  many  voluntaries,  and  so  quick, 

That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning, 

Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  differing  method 

Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  delight. 

The  bird  (ordain' d  to  be 

Music's  first  martyr)  strove  to  imitate 

These  several  sounds :  which  when  her  warbling  throat 

Fail'd  in,  for  grief  down  dropt  she  on  his  lute 

And  brake  her  heart.     It  was  the  quaintest  sadness, 

To  see  the  conqueror  upon  her  hearse 

To  weep  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears. 

He  looks  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 

Then  sigh'd,  then  wiped  his  eyes,  then  sigh'd,  and  cried, 

"  Alas !  poor  creature,  I  will  soon  revenge 

This  cruelty  upon  the  author  of  it. 

Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 

Shall  never  more  betray  a  harmless  peace 

To  an  untimely  end :"  and  in  that  sorrow, 

As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a  tree, 

I  suddenly  stept  in. 

[This  story,  which  is  originally  to  be  met  with  in  Strada's  Prolusions, 
has  been  paraphrased  in  rhyme  by  Crashaw,  Ambrose  Phillips,  and  others : 
but  none  of  those  versions  can  at  all  compare  for  harmony  and  grace  with 
this  blank  verse  of  Ford's :  it  is  as  fine  as  anything  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher ;  and  almost  equals  the  strife  which  it  celebrates.] 


THE  LADIES'  TEIAL.  205 

THE  LADIES'  TEIAL,  BY  JOHN  FOED. 

AlTBIA,  in  the  possession  of  honours,  preferment,  fame,  can  find  no  peace 
in  his  mind  while  he  thinks  his  Wife  unchaste. 

AURIA.    ATJRELIO. 

Auria.  Count  of  Savona,  Genoa's  admiral, 
Lord  governor  of  Corsica,  enroll' d 
A  worthy  of  my  country,  sought  and  sued  to, 
Praised,  courted,  flatter' d ! — 

My  triumphs 

Are  echoed  under  every  roof,  the  air 

Is  streighten'd  with  the  sound,  there  is  not  room 

Enough  to  brace  them  in ;  but  not  a  thought 

Doth  pierce  into  the  grief  that  cabins  here : 

Here  through  a  creek,  a  little  inlet,  crawls 

A  flake  no  bigger  than  a  sister's  thread, 

"Which  sets  the  region  of  my  heart  a-fire. 

I  had  a  kingdom  once,  but  am  deposed 

From  all  that  royalty  of  blest  content, 

By  a  confederacy  'twixt  love  and  frailty. 

Aurelio.  Glories  in  public  view  but  add  to  misery, 
"Which  travails  in  unrest  at  home. 

Auria.  At  home ! 

That-  home,  Aurelio  speaks  of,  I  have  lost : 

And  which  is  worse,  when  I  have  roll'd  about, 

Toil'd  like  a  pilgrim,  round  this  globe  of  earth, 

"Wearied  with  care,  and  over-worn  with  age, 

Lodged  in  the  grave,  I  am  not  yet  at  home. 

There  rots  but  half  of  me :  the  other  part 

Sleeps,  Heaven  knows  where.  Would  she  and  I,  my  wife 

I  mean ;  but  what,  alas !  talk  I  of  wife  ? 

The  woman,  would  we  had  together  fed 

On  any  outcast  parings  coarse  and  mouldy, 

Not  lived  divided  thus ! 


LOVE'S  SACEIFICE :  A  TEAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  FOED. 

BIANCHA,  Wife  to  CABAFFA,  Duke  of  Pavia,  loves  and  is  loved  by  FEE- 
NANDO  the  Duke's  favourite.  She  long  resists  his  importunate  suit; 
at  length,  she  enters  the  room  where  he  is  sleeping,  and  awakens  him, 
to  hear  her  confession  of  her  love  for  him. 

BIANCHA.     FERDINAND,  sleeping. 

Eian.  Eesolve,  and  do ;  'tis  done.     "What,  are  those  eyes, 
Which  lately  were  so  over-drown' d  in  tears, 


206  JOHN  TOED. 

So  easy  to  take  rest  ?     O  happy  man, 
How  sweetly  sleep  hath  seal' cl  up  sorrows  here ! 
But  I  will  call  him :  what,  my  lord,  my  lord, 
My  lord  Fernando 

Fer.  Who  calls  ? 

£ian.  My  lord : 

Sleeping,  or  waking  ? 

Fer.  Ha,  who  is  't  ? 

Eton.  'Tis  I : 

Have  you  forgot  my  voice  ?  or  is  your  ear 
But  useful  to  your  eye  ? 

Fer.  Madam  the  duchess ! 

JBian.  She,  'tis  she ;  sit  up : 

Sit  up  and  wonder,  whiles  my  sorrows  swell : 
The  nights  are  short,  and  I  have  much  to  say. 

Fer.  Is  't  possible  'tis  you  ? 

J3ian.  'Tis  possible : 

Why  do  you  think  I  come  ? 

Fer.  Why  ?  to  crown  joys, 

And  make  me  master  ef  my  best  desires. 

J3ian.  'Tis  true,  you  guess  aright ;  sit  up  and  listen. 
With  shame  and  passion  now  I  must  confess, 
Since  first  mine  eyes  beheld  you,  in  my  heart 
You  have  been  only  king.     If  there  can  be 
A  violence  in  love,  then  I  have  felt 
That  tyranny :  be  record  to  my  soul 
The  justice  which  I  for  this  folly  fear. 
Fernando,  in  short  words,  howe'er  my  tongue 
Did  often  chide  thy  love,  each  word  thou  spakest 
Was  music  to  my  ear :  was  never  poor 
Poor  wretched  woman  lived,  that  loved  like  me ; 
So  truly,  so  unfeignedly. 

Fer.  O,  madam 

£ian.  To  witness  that  I  speak  is  truth,  look  here ; 
Thus  singly  I  adventure  to  thy  bed, 
And  do  confess  my  weakness :  if  thou  tempt'st 
My  bosom  to  thy  pleasures,  I  will  yield. 

Fer.  Perpetual  happiness ! 

Bian.  Now  hear  me  out : 

When  first  Caraifa,  Pavy's  duke,  my  lord, 
Saw  me,  he  loved  me,  and  (without  respect 
Of  dower)  took  me  to  his  bed  and  bosom, 


LOVE'S  sACEincE.  207 


Advanced  me  to  the  titles  I  possess, 

Not  moved  by  counsel,  or  removed  by  greatness  : 

Which  to  requite,  betwixt  my  soul  and  heaven 

I  vow'd  a  vow  to  live  a  constant  wife. 

I  have  done  so  :  nor  was  there  in  the  world 

A  man  created,  could  have  broke  that  truth, 

Tor  all  the  glories  of  the  earth,  but  thou, 

But  thou,  Fernando.     Do  I  love  thee  now  ? 

Fer.  Beyond  imagination. 

£ian.  True,  I  do, 

Beyond  imagination  :  if  no  pledge 
Of  love  can  instance  what  I  speak  is  true, 
But  loss  of  my  best  joys,  here,  here,  Fernando, 
Be  satisfied  and  ruin  me. 

Fer.  "What  do  you  mean  P 

Bian.  To  give  my  body  up  to  thy  embraces  .; 
A  pleasure  that  I  never  wish'd  to  thrive  in 
Before  this  fatal  minute  :  mark  me  now  ; 
If  thou  dost  spoil  me  of  this  robe  of  shame, 
By  my  best  comforts  here,  I  vow  again, 
To  thee,  to  heaven,  to  the  world,  to  time, 
Ere  yet  the  morning  shall  new  christen  day, 
I  '11  kill  myself. 

Fer.  How,  madam,  how  ! 

JSian.  I  will  : 

Do  what  thou  wilt,  'tis  in  thy  choice  ;  what  say  yo  ? 

Fer.  Pish,  do  you  come  to  try  me  ?  tell  me  first, 
"Will  you  but  grant  a  kiss  ? 

Bian.  Yes,  take  it  ;  that, 

Or  what  thy  heart  can  wish  :  I  am  all  thine. 

Fer.  0  me  -  come,  come,  how  many  women,  pray, 
Were  ever  heard  or  read  of,  granted  love, 
And  did  as  you  protest  you  will  ? 

Bian.  Fernando!  [Kneels, 

Jest  not  at  my  calamity  :  I  kneel  : 
By  these  dishevel'  d  hairs,  these  wretched  tears, 
By  all  that  's  good,  if  what  I  speak,  my  heart 
Yows  not  eternally  ;  then  think,  my  lord, 
Was  never  man  sued  to  me  I  denied, 
Think  me  a  common  and  most  cunning  whore, 
And  let  my  sins  be  written  on  my  grave, 
My  name  rest  in  reproof.    Do  as  you  list. 


208  JOHN  FOBD. 

Fer.  I  must  believe  ye ;  yet  I  hope  anon, 

"When  you  are  parted  from  me,  you  will  say 
I  was  a  good,  cold,  easy-spirited  man, 
Nay,  laugh  at  my  simplicity :  say,  will  ye  ? 

Bian.  No  ;  by  the  faith  I  owe. my  bridal  vows : 
But  ever  hold  thee  much  much  dearer  far 
Than  all  my  joys  on  earth ;  by  this  chaste  kiss. 

Fer.  You  have  prevail'd :  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
Should  by  a  wanton  appetite  profane 
This  sacred  temple.     'Tis  enough  for  me, 
You  '11  please  to  call  me  servant. 

Bian.  Nay,  be  thine : 

Command  my  power,  my  bosom,  and  I  '11  write 
This  love  within  the  tables  of  my  heart. 

Fer.  Enough :  I  '11  master  passion,  and  triumph 
In  being  conquer' d,  adding  to  it  this, 
In  you  my  love  as  it  begun  shall  end. 

JBian.  The  latter  I  new  vow but  day  comes  on : 

What  now  we  leave  unfinish'd  of  content, 
Each  hour  shall  perfect  up.     Sweet,  let  us  part. 

Fer.  Best  life,  good  rest. 


THE  CHEONICLE  HISTOEY  OF  PEEKIN  WAEBECK. 
BY  JOHN  FOED. 

PEEKIN  WAEBECK  and  Ms  Followers  are  by  LOED  DAWBNEY  presented 
to  KING  HENKT  as  Prisoners. 

Dawb.  Life  to  the  king,  and  safety  fix  his  throne ! 
I  here  present  you,  royal  sir,  a  shadow 
Of  majesty,  but  in  effect  a  substance 
Of  pity ;  a  young  man,  in  nothing  grown 
To  ripeness,  but  the  ambition  of  your  mercy : 
Perkin ;  the  Christian  world's  strange  wonder ! 

Kmg  H.  Dawbney, 

We  observe  no  wonder ;  I  behold  ('tis  true) 
An  ornament  of  nature,  fine,  and  polish' d, 
A  handsome  youth  indeed,  but  not  admire  him. 
How  came  be  to  thy  hands  ? 

Dawb.  Erom  sanctuary 

At  Bewley,  near  Southampton ;  register' d, 
"With  these  few  followers,  for  persons  privileged. 

King  H.  I  must  not  thank  you,  sir ;  you  were  to  blame 


PEEKIN  WAEBECK.  209 

To  infringe  the  liberty  of  houses  sacred : 
Dare  we  be  irreligious  ? 

Dawb.  Gracious  lord, 

They  voluntarily  resign' d  themselves, 
"Without  compulsion. 

King  H.  So  ?  'twas  very  well ; 

'Twas  very  .well.     Turn  now  thine  eyes, 
Young  man,  upon  thyself  and  thy  past  actions. 
"What  revels  in  combustion  through  our  kingdom 
A  frenzy  of  aspiring  youth  hath  danced : 
Till  wanting  breath,  thy  feet  of  pride  have  slipt 
To  break  thy  neck  ! 

Warb.  But  not  my  heart :  my  heart 

"Will  mount,  till  every  drop  of  blood  be  frozen 
By  death's  perpetual  winter.     If  the  sun 
Of  majesty  be  darken' d,  let*the  sun 
Of  life  be  hid  from  me,  in  an  eclipse 
Lasting,  and  universal.     Sir ;  remember, 
There  was  a  shooting  in  of  light,  when  Richmond 
(Not  aiming  at  the  crown)  retired,  and  gladly, 
For  comfort  to  the  duke  of  Bretagne's  court. 
[Richard,  who  sway'd  the  sceptre,  was  reputed 
A  tyrant  then ;  yet  then,  a  dawning  glimmer 'd 
To  some  few  wandering  remnants,  promising  day, 
When  first  they  ventured  on  a  frightful  shore, 
At  Milford  Haven. 

Dawb.  "Whither  speeds  his  boldness  ? 
Check  his  rude  tongue,  great  sir. 

King  If.  0,  let  him  range : 

The  player  's  on  the  stage  still ;  'tis  his  part : 
He  does  but  act. "What  follow'd  ? 

Warb.  Bosworth  field : 

Where  at  an  instant,  to  the  world's  amazement, 

A  morn  to  Richmond  and  a  night  to  Richard 

Appear' d  at  once.     The  tale  is  soon  applied : 

Fate  which  crown' d  these  attempts,  when  least  assured, 

Might  have  befriended  others,  like  resolved. 

King  H.  A  pretty  gallant !  thus  your  aunt  of  Burgundy, 
Your  duchess  aunt,  inform' d  her  nephew;  so 
The  lesson  prompted,  and  well  conn'd,  was  moulded 
Into  familiar  dialogue,  oft  rehearsed, 
Till,  learnt  by  heart,  'tis  now  received  for  truth. 

P 


210  JOHN  FOBD. 

Warb,  Truth  in  her  pure  simplicity  wants  art 
To  put  a  feigned  blush  on ;  scorn  wears  only 
Such  fashion,  as  commends  to  gazers'  eyes 
Sad  ulcerated  novelty,  far  beneath 
The  sphere  of  majesty :  in  such  a  court 
"Wisdom  and  gravity  are  proper  robes, 
By  which  the  sovereign  is  best  distinguish' d 
Erom  zanies  to  his  greatness. 
King  H.  Sirrah,  shift 

Tour  antick  pageantry,  and  now  appear 
In  your  own  nature ;  or  you  '11  taste  the  danger 
Of  fooling  out  of  season. 
Warb.  I  expect 

No  less  than  what  severity  calls  justice, 
And  politicians  safety  ;  let  such  beg, 
As  feed  on  alms :  but  if  there  can  be  mercy 
In  a  protested  enemy,  then  may  it 
Descend  to  these  poor  creatures1,  whose  engage 
ments 

To  the  bettering  of  their  fortunes,  have  incurr'd 
A  loss  of  all :  to  them  if  any  charity 
Plow  from  some  noble  orator,  in  death 
I  owe  the  fee  of  thankfulness. 
King  II.  So  brave  ? 

What  a  bold  knave  is  this ! 
"We  trifle  time  with  follies. 

Urswick,  command  the  dukeling,  and  these  fellows, 
To  Digby  the  lieutenant  of  the  Tower : 
With  safety  let  them  be  convey 'd  to  London. 
It  is  our  pleasure,  no  uncivil  outrage, 
Taunts,  or  abuse,  be  suffer' d  to  their  persons : 
They  shall  meet  fairer  law  than  they  deserve. 
Time  may  restore  their  wits,  whom  vain  ambition 
Hath  many  years  distracted. 
Warb.  Noble  thoughts 

Meet  freedom  in  captivity.     The  Tower : 
Our  childhood's  dreadful  nursery ! 
King  H.  Was  ever  so  much  impudence  in  forgery  ? 
The  custom  sure  of  being  styled  a  king, 
Hath  fasten'd  in  his  thought  that  he  is  such. 

1  His  followers. 


'TIS  PITT  SHE  'S  A  WHOBE.  211 

WABBECK  is  led  to  his  death. 

Oxford.  Look  ye,  behold  your  followers,  appointed 
To  wait  on  ye  in  death. 

Warb.  Why,  peers  of  England, 

"We  '11  lead  them  on  courageously.     I  read 

A  triumph  over  tyranny  upon 

Their  several  foreheads.     Eaint  not  in  the  moment 

Of  victory !  our  ends,  and  Warwick's  head, 

Innocent  Warwick's  head,  (for  we  are  prologue 

But  to  his  tragedy,)  conclude  the  wonder 

Of  Henry's  fears  :  and  then  the  glorious  race 

Of  fourteen  kings  Plantagenets,  determines 

In  this  last  issue  male.     Heaven  be  obey'd. 

Impoverish  time  of  its  amazement,  friends ; 

And  we  will  prove  as  trusty  in  our  payments, 

As  prodigal  to  nature  in  our  debts. 

Death !  pish,  'tis  but  a  sound ;  a  name  of  air ; 

A  minute's  storm ;  or  not  so  much :  to  tumble 

From  bed  to  bed,  be  massacred  alive 

By  some  physicians  for  a  month  or  two, 

In  hope  of  freedom  from  a  fever's  torments, 

Might  stagger  manhood ;  here,  the  pain  is  past 

Ere  sensibly  'tis  felt.     Be  men  of  spirit ; 

Spurn  coward  passion :  so  illustrious  mention 

Shall  blaze  our  names,  and  style  us  kings  o'er  death. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE  'S  A  WHORE :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  JOHN 
FORD. 

GIOVANNI,  a  young  gentleman  of  Parma,  entertains  an  illicit  love  for  his 
sister.     He  asks  counsel  o/'BoNAVENTFBA,  a  Friar1. 

ERIAB.    .G-IOYAHTTI. 

Friar.  Dispute  no  more  in  this,  for  know,  young  man, 
These  are  no  school-points :  nice  philosophy 
May  tolerate  unlikely  arguments, 
But  Heaven  admits  no  jests !  wits  that  presumed 
On  wit  too  much,  by  striving  how  to  prove 
There  was  no  God,  with  foolish  grounds  of  art, 
Discover' d  first  the  nearest  way  to  hell ; 

1  The  good  friar  in  this  play  is  evidently  a  copy  of  Friar  Lawrence  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  He  is  the  same  kind  physician  to  the  souls  of  his 
young  charges ;  but  he  has  more  desperate  patients  to  deal  with. 


212  JOHN  FOBD. 

And  fill'd  the  world  with  devilish  atheism. 
Such  questions,  youth,  are  fond :  far  better  'tis 
To  bless  the  sun,  than  reason  why  it  shines ; 
Yet  he  thou  talk'st  of  is  above  the  sun. 
No  more ;  I  may  not  hear  it. 

Gio.  G-entle  father, 

To  you  have  I  unclasp'd  my  burthen' d  soul, 
Emptied  the  storehouse  of  my  thoughts  and  heart, 
Made  myself  poor  of  secrets ;  have  not  left 
Another  word  untold,  which  hath  not  spoke 
All  what  I  ever  durst,  or  think,  or  know  ; 
And  yet  is  here  the  comfort  I  shall  have  ? 
Must  I  not  do  what  all  men  else  may,  love  ? 

Friar.  Yes,  you  may  love,  fair  son. 

Gio.  Must  I  not  praise 

That  beauty,  which,  if  framed  anew,  the  gods 
"Would  make  a  god  of,  if  they  had  it  there  ; 
And  kneel  to  it,  as  I  do  kneel  to  them  ? 

Friar.  Why,  foolish  madman  ! 

Gio.  Shall  a  peevish  sound, 

A  customary  form,  from  man  to  man, 
Of  brother  and  of  sister,  be  a  bar 
'Twixt  my  perpetual  happiness  and  me  ? 

Friar.  Have  done,  unhappy  youth,  for  thou  art  lost. 

Gio.  No,  father :  in  your  eyes  I  see  the  change 
Of  pity  and  compassion :  from  your  age, 
As  from  a  sacred  oracle,  distils 
The  life  of  counsel.     Tell  me,  holy  man, 
"What  cure  shall  give  me  ease  in  these  extremes  ? 

Friar.  Repentance,  son,  and  sorrow  for  this  sin  : 
Eor  thou  hast  moved  a  majesty  above 
"With  thy  unguarded  almost  blasphemy. 

Gio.  O,  do  not  speak  of  that,  dear  confessor. 

Friar.  Art  thou,  my  son,  that  miracle  of  wit, 

Who  once  within  these  three  months  wert  esteem'd 
A  wonder  of  thine  age  throughout  Bononia  ? 
How  did  the  university  applaud 
Thy  government,  behaviour,  learning,  speech, 
Sweetness,  and  all  that  could  make  up  a  man ! 
I  was  proud  of  my  tutelage,  and  chose 
Rather  to  leave  my  books  than  part  with  thee. 
I  did  so ;  but  the  fruits  of  all  my  hopes 


213 

Are  lost  in  thee,  as  thou  art  in  thyself. 

0  Giovanni,  hast  thou  left  the  schools 

Of  knowledge,  to  converse  with  lust  and  death  ? 

For   death  waits  on  thy  lust. Look  through  the 

And  thou  shalt  see  a  thousand  faces  shine  [world, 

More  glorious  than  this  idol  thou  adorest. 
Leave  her,  and  take  thy  choice ;  'tis  much  less  sin : 
Though  in  such  games  as  those  they  lose  that  win. 

Gio.  It  were  more  ease  to  stop  the  ocean 

Prom  flows  and  ebbs,  than  to  dissuade  my  vows. 

Friar.  Then  I  have  done,  and  in  thy  wilful  flames 
Already  see  thy  ruin !  Heaven  is  just. 
Yet  hear  my  counsel ! 

Gio.  As  a  voice  of  life. 

Friar.  Hie  to  thy  father's  house,  there  lock  thee  fast 
Alone  within  thy  chamber,  then  fall  down 
On  both  thy  knees,  and  grovel  on  the  ground ; 
Cry  to  thy  heart,  wash  every  word  thou  utter' st 
In  tears,  and  (if  't  be  possible)  of  blood : 
Beg  Heaven  to  cleanse  the  leprosy  of  lust 
That  rots  thy  soul ;  acknowiedge  what  thou  art, 
A  wretch,  a  worm,  a  nothing :  weep,  sigh,  pray 
Three  times  a  day,  and  three  times  every  night ; 
For  seven  days'  space  do  this  ;  then,  if  thou  findest 
No  change  in  thy  desires,  return  to  me ; 

1  '11  think  on  remedy.     Pray  for  thyself 

At  home,  whilst  I  pray  for  thee  here ;  away 

My  blessing  with  thee we  have  need  to  pray. 

GIOVANNI  discloses  Ms  passion  to  his  sister  ANNABELLA. — They  compare 
their  unhappy  loves. 

Anna.  Do  you  mock  me,  or  flatter  me  ? 

[He  has  been  praising  her  beauty. 

Gio.  If  you  would  see  a  beauty  more  exact 
Than  art  can  counterfeit,  or  nature  frame, 
Look  in  your  glass  and  there  behold  your  own. 

Anna.  0,  you  are  a  trim  youth. 

Gio.  Here.  [Offers  Us  dagger  to  her. 

Anna.  What  to  do  ? 

Gio.  And  here 's  my  breast.     Strike  home, 

Rip  up  my  bosom ;  there  thou  shalt  behold 
A  heart,  in  which  is  writ  the  truth  I  speak. 
Why  stand  you? 


214  JOHN  JOED. 

Aiwa.  Are  you  in  earnest  P 
Oio.  Yes,  most  earnest. 

You  cannot  love. 
Anna.  "Whom  ? 
Gio.  Me. My  tortured  soul 

Hath  felt  affliction  in  the  heat  of  death. 

0  Annabella,  I  am  quite  undone. 

The  love  of  thee,  my  sister,  and  the  view 
Of  thy  immortal  beauty,  have  untuned 
All  harmony  both  of  my  rest  and  life. 
Why  do  you  not  strike  ? 

Anna.  Forbid  it,  my  just  fears. 

If  this  be  true  'twere  fitter  I  were  dead. 

Gio.  True,  Annabella !  'tis  no  time  to  jest ; 

1  have  too  long  suppress' d  my  hidden  flames, 
That  almost  have  consumed  me :  I  have  spent 
Many  a  silent  night  in  sighs  and  groans, 
Ran  over  all  my  thoughts,  despised  my  fate, 
Reason' d  against  the  reasons  of  my  love, 

Done  all  that  smooth-cheek' d  virtue  could  advise, 
But  found  all  bootless  :  'tis  my  destiny 
That  you  must  either  love,  or  I  must  die. 

Inna.  Comes  this  in  sadness  from  you  ? 

&io.  Let  some  michief 

Befall  me  soon,  if  I  dissemble  aught. 

Anna.  You  are  my  brother,  Giovanni. 

Gio.  You 

My  sister,  Annabella,  I  know  this : 

And  could  afford  you  instance  why  to  love 

So  much  the  more  for  this. — 

He  gives  some  sophistical  reasons,  and  resumes. 
Must  I  now  live  or  die  ? 

Anna.  Live  :  thou  hast  won 

The  field,  and  never  fought.     What  thou  ha? 
My  captive  heart  had  long  ago  resolved. 
I  blush  to  tell  thee  (but  I  tell  thee  now) 
For  every  sigh  that  thou  hast  spent  for  me, 
I  have  sigh'd  ten ;  for  every  tear  shed  twenty : 
And  not  so  much  for  that  I  loved,  as  that 
I  durst  not  say  I  loved,  nor  scarcely  think  it. 

Gio.  Let  not  this  music  be  a  dream,  ye  gods, 
For  pity's  sake  I  beg  ye. 


'TIS  PITT  SHE  'S  A  WHOSE.  215 

Anna.  On  my  knees,  [She  Jcneek 

Brother,  ev'n  by  our  mother's  dust,  I  charge  you, 
Do  not  betray  me  to  your  mirth  or  hate ; 
Love  me,  or  kill  me,  brother. 

Gio.  On  my  knees,  [He  kneels. 

Sister,  ev'n  by  my  mother's  dust,  I  charge  you, 
Do  not  betray  me  to  your  mirth  or  hate ; 
Love  me,  or  kill  me,  sister. 
Anna.  You  mean  good  sooth,  then  ? 
Gio.  In  good  truth  I  do  ; 

And  so  do  you,  I  hope  :  say,  I  'm  in  earnest. 
Anna.  I  '11  swear  it ;  and  I. 
Gio.  And  I. 

I  would  not  change  this  minute  for  Elysium. 
ANNABELLA  proves  pregnant  by  her  brother.  SOKANO,  her  husband,  to 
whom  she  is  newly  married,  discovers  that  she  is  pregnant,  but  cannot 
make  her  confess  by  whom.  At  length  by  means  of  VASQTJES,  his  ser 
vant,  he  comes  to  the  truth  of  it.  He  feigns  forgiveness  and  reconcile 
ment  with  his  wife  :  and  makes  a  sumptuous  feast  to  tvhich  are  in 
vited  ANNABELLA' s  old  father,  with  GIOVANNI,  and  all  the  chief  Citi 
zens  in  Parma  /  meaning  to  entrap  GIOVANNI  by  that  bait  to  his  death. 
— ANNABELLA  suspects  his  drift. 

GIOVANNI.     ANNABELLA. 
Gio.  What,  changed  so  soon  ? 

does  the  fit  come  on  you,  to  prove  treacherous 

To  your  past  vows  and  oaths  ? 
Anna.  Why  should  you  jest 

At  my  calamity,  without  all  sense 
Of  the  approaching  dangers  you  are  in  ? 
Gio.  What  danger  's  half  so  great  as  thy  revolt  ? 
Thou  art  a  faithless  sister,  else  thou  know'st, 
Malice  or  any  treachery  beside 
Would  stoop  to  my  bent  brows :  why,  I  hold  fate 
Clasp' d  in  my  fist,  and  could  command  the  course 
Of  time's  eternal  motion,  hadst  thou  been 
One  thought  more  steady  than  an  ebbing  sea. 
Anna.  Brother,  dear  brother,  know  what  I  have  been ; 
And  kno*w  that  now  there 's  but  a  dining  time 
'Twixt  us  and  our  confusion :  let 's  not  waste 
These  precious  hours  in  vain  and  useless  speech. 
Alas  !  these  gay  attires  were  not  put  on 
But  to  some  end  ;  this  sudden  solemn  feast 
Was  not  ordain'd  to  riot  and  expense  : 


216  JOHN  FOED. 

I  that  have  now  been  chamber'd  here  alone, 
Barr'd  of  my  guardian,  or  of  any  else, 
Am  not  for  nothing  at  an  instant  freed 
To  fresh  access.     Be  not  deceived,  my  brother  ; 
This  banquet  is  a  harbinger  of  death 
To  you  and  me ;  resolve  yourself  it  is, 
And  be  prepared  to  welcome  it. 
Qio.  Well  then, 

The  schoolmen  teach  that  all  this  globe  of  earth 
Shall  be  consumed  to  ashes  in  a  minute. 
Anna.  So  I  have  read  too. 
Gio.  But  'twere  somewhat  strange 

To  see  the  waters  burn.     Could  I  believe 
This  might  be  true,  I  could  believe  as  well 
There  might  be  hell  or  heaven. 

Anna.  That 's  most  certain. But, 

Good  brother,  for  the  present,  how  do  you  mean 
To  free  yourself  from  danger  ?  some  way  think 
How  to  escape.     I  'm  sure  the  guests  are  come. 
Gio.  Look  up,  look  here ;  what  see  you  in  my  face  ? 
Anna.  Distraction  and  a  troubled  conscience. 

Gio.  Death  and  a  swift  repining  wrath yet  look, 

"What  see  you  in  mine  eyes  ? 
Anna.  Methinks  you  weep. 
Gio.  I  do  indeed ;  these  are  the  funeral  tears 

Shed  on  your  grave :  these  furrow' d  up  my  cheeks, 

When  first  I  loved  and  knew  not  how  to  woo. 

Pair  Aniiabella,  should  I  here  repeat 

The  story  of  my  life,  we  might  lose  time. 

Be  record  all  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

And  all  things  else  that  are,  that  day  and  night, 

Early  and  late,  the  tribute  which  my  heart 

Hath  paid  to  Annabella's  sacred  love, 

Hath  been  these  tears  which  are  her  mourners  now. 

Never  till  now  did  nature  do  her  best, 

To  show  a  matchless  beauty  to  the  world, 

Which  in  an  instant,  ere  it  scarce  was  seen, 

The  jealous  destinies  required  again. 

Pray,  Annabella,  pray ;  since  we  must  part, 

Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 

Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven. 

Pray,  pray,  my  sister. 


'TIS  PITT  SHE  *S  A  WHOBE.  217 

Anna.  Then  I  see  your  drift. 

Ye  blessed  angels,  guard  me ! 
Qio.  Give  me  your  hand.     How  sweetly  life,  doth  run 

In  these  well-colour' d  veins  !  how  constantly 

This  pulse  doth  promise  health !    But  I  could  chide 

"With  nature  for  this  cunning  flattery ! 

Forgive  me. 
Anna.  With  my  heart. 
Oio.  Farewell. 

Anna.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Qio.  Be  dark,  bright  sun, 

And  make  this  mid-day  night,  that  thy  gilt  rays 

May  not  behold  a  deed,  will  turn  their  splendour 

More  sooty  than  the  poets  feign  their  Styx. 
Anna.  What  means  this  ?  [Stats  her. 

Oio.  To  save  thy  fame. 

Thus  die,  and  die  by  me,  and  by  my  hand  ; 

Revenge  is  mine,  honour  doth  love  command. 
Anna.  Forgive  him,  Heaven,  and  me  my  sins.     Farewell. 

Brother,  unkind,  unkind [Dies. 

[Sir  Thomas  Browne,  in  the  last  chapter  of  his  Enquiries  into  Vulgar 
and  Common  Errors,  rebukes  such  authors  as  have  chosen  to  relate  pro 
digious  and  nameless  sins.  The  chapter  is  entitled,  Of  some  Relations 
whose  Truth  we  fear.  His  reasoning  is  solemn  and  fine. — "  Lastly,  as 
there  are  many  relations  whereto  we  cannot  assent,  and  make  some  doubt 
thereof,  so  there  are  divers  others  whose  verities  we  fear,  and  heartily  wish 
there  were  no  truth  therein.  Many  other  accounts  like  these  we  meet 
sometimes  in  history,  scandalous  unto  Christianity,  and  even  unto  huma 
nity  ;  whose  not  only  verities  but  relations  honest  minds  do  deprecate. 
For  of  sins  heteroclital,  and  such  as  want  either  name  or  precedent,  there 
is  oft-times  a  sin  even  in  their  histories.  We  desire  no  records  of  such 
enormities  ;  sins  should  be  accounted  new,  that  so  they  may  be  esteemed 
monstrous.  They  omit  of  monstrosity,  as  they  fall  from  their  rarity  ;  for 
men  count  it  venial  to  err  with  their  forefathers,  and  foolishly  conceive 
they  divide  a  sin  in  its  society.  The  pens  of  men  may  sufficiently  expa 
tiate  without  these  singularities  of  villainy ;  for,  as  they  increase  the  hatred 
of  vice  hi  some,  so  do  they  enlarge  the  theory  of  wickedness  in  all.  And 
this  is  one  thing  that  may  make  latter  ages  worse  than  were  the  former  : 
for  the  vicious  examples  of  ages  past  poison  the  curiosity  of  these  present, 
affording  a  hint  of  sin  unto  seduceable  spirits,  and  soliciting  those  unto 
the  imitation  of  them,  whose  heads  were  never  so  perversely  principled  as 
to  invent  them.  In  things  of  this  nature  silence  commendeth  history ; 
'tis  the  veniable  part  of  things  lost,  wherein  there  must  never  rise  a  Pan- 
cirollus1  nor  remain  any  register  but  that  of  hell."] 

1  Who  wrote  De  Antiquis  Deperditis,  or  of  the  Lost  Inventions  of 
Antiquity. 


218  JOHN  FOBD. 

THE  BEOKEN  HEAKT :  A  TEAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  FOED. 

ITHOCLBS  loves  CALANTHA,  Princess  of  Sparta ;  and  would  have  Ms  sister 
PENTHEA  plead  for  him  with  the  princess.  She  objects  to  him  her  own 
wretched  condition,  made  miserable  by  a  match,  into  which  he  forced 
her  with  BASSANES,  when  she  was  precontracted  by  her  dead  father's 
ivill,  and  by  inclination,  to  OEGILUS  ;  but  at  last  she  consents. 

ITHOCLES.     PENTHEA. 

Ith.  Sit  nearer,  sister,  to  me,  nearer  yet ; 

We  had  one  father,  in  one  womb  took  life, 
"Were  brought  up  twins  together,  yet  have  lived 
At  distance  like  two  strangers.     I  could  wish, 
That  the  first  pillow  whereon  I  was  cradled 
Had  proved  to  me  a  grave. 

Pen.  You  had  been  happy  : 

Then  had  you  never  known  that  sin  of  life 
"Which  blots  all  following  glories  with  a  vengeance ; 
For  forfeiting  the  last  will  of  the  dead, 
Erom  whom  you  had  your  being. 

Ith.  Sad  Penthea, 

Thou  canst  not  be  too  cruel :  my  rash  spleen 
Hath  with  a  violent  hand  pluck' d  from  thy  bosom 
A  lover-blest  heart,  to  grind  it  into  dust ; 
For  which  mine  's  now  a-breaking. 

Pen.  Not  yet,  Heaven, 

I  do  beseech  thee  :  first  let  some  wild  fires 
Scorch,  not  consume  it ;  may  the  heat  be  cherish' d 
"With  desires  infinite  but  hopes  impossible. 

Ith.  Wrong' d  soul,  thy  prayers  are  heard. 

Pen.  Here,  lo,  I  breathe, 

A  miserable  creature,  led  to  ruin 
By  an  unnatural  brother. 

Ith.  I  consume. 

In  languishing  affections  for  that  trespass, 
Yet  cannot  'die. 

Pen.  The  handmaid  to  the  wages, 

The  untroubled1  of  country  toil,  drinks  streams, 
With  leaping  kids,  and  with  the  bleating  lambs, 
And  so  allays  her  thirst  secure ;  while  I 
Quench  my  hot  sighs  with  fleetings  of  my  tears. 

Ith.  The  labourer  doth  eat  his  coarsest  bread, 

Earn'd  with  his  sweat,  and  lies  him  down  to  sleep ; 
1  A  word  seems  defective  here. 


THE  BBOKEtf  HEAET.  219 

While  every  bit  I  touch  turns  in  digestion 

To  gall,  as  bitter  as  Penthea's  curse. 

Put  me  to  any  penance  for  my  tyranny,     ; 

And  I  will  call  thee  merciful. 
Pen.  Pray  kill  me ; 

Bid  me  from  living  with  a  jealous  husband ; 

Then  we  will  join  in  friendship,  be  again 

Brother  and  sister 

Ith.  After  my  victories  abroad,  at  home 

I  meet  despair ;  ingratitude  of  nature 

Hath  made  my  actions  monstrous.     Thou  shalt  stand 

A  deity,  my  sister,  and  be  worship' d 

For  thy  resolved  martyrdom ;  wrong' d  maids 

And  married  wives  shall  to  thy  hallow' d  shrine 

Offer  their  orisons,  and  sacrifice 

Pure  turtles  crown' d  with  myrtle,  if  thy  pity 

Unto  a  yielding  brother's  pressure  lend 

One  finger  but  to  ease  it. 
Pen.  0,  no  more. 
Ith.  Death  waits  to  waft  me  to  the  Stygian  banks, 

And  free  me  from  this  chaos  of  my  bondage ; 

And  till  thou  wilt  forgive,  I  must  endure. 
Pen.  Who  is  the  saint  you  serve  ? 
Ith.  Friendship,  or  nearness 

Of  birth,  to  any  but  my  sister,  durst  not 

Have  moved  that  question :  as  a  secret,  sister, 

I  dare  not  murmur  to  myself. 
Pen.  Let  me, 

By  ybur  new  protestations  I  conjure  ye, 

Partake  her  name. 

Ith.  Her  name 'tis 'tis — I  dare  not — 

Pen.  All  your  respects  are  forged. 
Ith.  They  are  not — Peace.— 

Calantha  is  the  princess,  the  king's  daughter, 

Sole  heir  of  Sparta.     Me  most  miserable ! 

Do  I  now  love  thee  ?     Eor  my  injuries, 

Bevenge  thyself  with  bravery,  and  gossip 

My  treasons  to  the  king's  ears.     Do ;  Calantha 

Knows  it  not  yet,  nor  Prophilus  my  nearest. 
Pen.  Suppose  you  were  contracted  to  her,  would  it  not 

Split  ev'n  your  very  soul  to  see  her  father 


220  JOHN  FOBD. 

Snatch  her  out  of  your  arms  against  her  will, 

And  force  her  on  the  prince  of  Argos  ? 
lih.  Trouble  not 

The  fountains  of  mine  eyes  with  thine  own  story. 

I  sweat  in  blood  for 't. 
Pen.  "We  are  reconciled. 

Alas !  sir,  being  children,  but  two  branches 

Of  one  stock,  'tis  not  fit  we  should  divide. 

Have  comfort ;  you  may  find  it. 
Ifh.  Yes,  in  thee, 

Only  in  thee,  Penthea  mine. 
Pen.  If  sorrows 

Have  not  too  much  dull'd  my  infected  brain, 

I  '11  cheer  invention  for  an  active  strain. 
PENTHEA  recommends  her  brother  as  a  dying  bequest  to  the  Princess. 

CALANTHA.     PENTHEA. 
Cat.  Being  alone,  Penthea,  you  have  granted 

The  opportunity  you  sought,  and  might 

At  all  times  have  commanded. 
Pen.  'Tis  a  benefit 

Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodness  ev'n  in  death  for. 

My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 

Remaining  to  run  down ;  the  sands  are  spent : 

For  by  an  inward  messenger  I  feel 

The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain. 
Gal.  You  feel  too  much  your  melancholy. 
Pen.  Glories 

Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams, 

And  shadows  soon  decaying :  on  the  stage 

Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 

Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length ; 

By  varied  pleasures  sweeten' d  in  the  mixture, 

But  tragical  in  issue. 
Cal.  Contemn  not  your  condition,  for  the  proof 

Of  bare  opinion  only  :  to  what  end 

Beach  all  these  moral  texts  ? 
Pen.  To  place  before  ye 

A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 

How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  life, 

Who  count  the  best  a  misery. 
Cal.  Indeed 


THE  BBOKEN  HEABT.  221 

You  have  no  little  cause ;  yet  none  so  great, 
As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 
Pen.  That  remedy 

Must  be  a  winding-sheet,  a  fold  of  lead, 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth. 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  princess : 
I  have  a  humble  suit. 
Cal.  Speak,  and  enjoy  it. 
Pen.  Vouchsafe  then  to  be  my  executrix ; 
And  take  that  trouble  on  ye,  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  I  bequeathe  impartially  : 
I  have  not  much  to  give,  the  pains  are  easy ; 
Heaven  will  reward  your  piety  and  thank  it, 
"When  I  am  dead ;  for  sure  I  must  not  live  ; 
I  hope  I  cannot. 
Cal.  Now  beshrew  thy  sadness ; 

Thou  turn'st  me  too  much  woman. 
Pen.  Her  fair  eyes 

Melt  into  passion  :  then  I  have  assurance 
Encouraging  my  boldness.     In  this  paper 
My  will  was  character 'd ;  which  you,  with  pardon, 
Shall  now  know  from  mine  own  mouth. 
Cal.  Talk  on,  prithee  ; 

It  is  a  pretty  earnest. 
Pen.  I  have  left  me 

But  three  poor  jewels  to  bequeathe.     The  first  is 
My  youth ;  for  though  I  am  much  old  in  griefs, 
In  years  I  am  a  child. 
Cal.  To  whom  that  ? 

Pen.  To  virgin  wives  ;  such  as  abuse  not  wedlock 
By  freedom  of  desires,  but  covet  chiefly 
The  pledges  of  chaste  beds,  for  ties  of  love 
Bather  than  ranging  of  their  blood :  and  next, 
To  married  maids ;  such  as  prefer  the  number 
Of  honourable  issue  in  their  virtues, 
Before  the  flattery  of  delights  by  marriage ; 
May  those  be  ever  young ! 
Cal.  A  second  jewel 

You  mean  to  part  with  ? 
Pen.  'Tis  my  fame ;  I  trust, 

By  scandal  yet  untouch'd :  this  I  bequeathe 
To  Memory  and  Time's  old  daughter,  Truth. 


222  JOHN  FOBD. 

If  ever  my  unhappy  name  find  mention, 
When  I  am  fallen  to  dust,  may  it  deserve 
Beseeming  charity  without  dishonour ! 

Gal.  How  handsomely  thou  play'st  with  harmless  sport 
Of  mere  imagination !     Speak  the  last. 
I  strangely  like  thy  will. 

Pen.  This  jewel,  madam, 

Is  dearly  precious  to  me  ;  you  must  use 
The  best  of  your  discretion,  to  employ 
This  gift  as  I  intend  it. 

Cal.  Do  not  doubt  me. 

Pen.  'Tis  long  ago,  since  first  I  lost  my  heart ; 
Long  have  I  lived  without  it :  but  instead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 
By  service  bound,  and  by  affection  vow'd, 
I  do  bequeathe  in  holiest  rites  of  love 
Mine  only  brother  Ithocles. 

Cal.  What  saidst  thou  ? 

Pen.  Impute  not,  heaven-blest  lady,  to  ambition, 
A  faith  as  humbly  perfect  as  the  prayers 
Of  a  devoted  suppliant  can  endow  it : 
Look  on  him,  princess,  with  an  eye  of  pity ; 
How  like  the  ghost  of  what  he  late  appear 'd 
He  moves  before  you  ! 

Cal.  Shall  I  answer  here, 

Or  lend  my  ear  too  grossly  ? 

Pen.  First  his  heart 

Shall  fall  in  cinders,  scorch' d  by  your  disdain, 

Ere  he  will  dare,  poor  man,  to  ope  an  eye 

On  these  divine  looks,  but  with  low-bent  thoughts 

Accusing  such  presumption  :  as  for  words, 

He  dares  not  utter  any  but  of  service ; 

Yet  this  lost  creature  loves  you.     Be  a  princess 

In  sweetness  as  in  blood  ;  give  him  his  doom, 

Or  raise  him  up  to  comfort. 

Cal.  What  new  change 

Appears  in  my  behaviour,  that  thou  darest 
Tempt  my  displeasure  ? 

Pen.  I  must  leave  the  world, 

To  revel  in  Elysium ;  and  'tis  just 

To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here. 

Yet  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithocles  is  ignorant 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  223 

Of  this  pursuit.     But  if  you  please  to  kill  him, 
Lend  him  one  angry  look,  or  one  harsh  word, 
And  you  shall  soon  conclude  how  strong  a  power 
Your  absolute  authority  holds  over 
His  life  and  end. 

Col.  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 
How  still  I  have  a  father. 

Pen.  But  remember 

I  am  sister :  though  to  me  this  brother 

Hath  been,  you  know,  unkind,  0  most  unkind. 

Cal.  Christalla,  Philema,  where  are  ye  ? — Lady, 
Your  check  lies  in  my  silence1. 

While  CALANTHA  (Princess  of  Sparta)  is  celebrating  the  nuptials  of 
PKOPHILTJS  and  EUPHBANEA  at  court  with  music  and  dancing,  one 
enters  to  inform  her  that  the  King  her  father  is  dead ;  a  second  brings 
the  news  that  PENTHEA  (sister  to  ITHOCLES)  is  starved ;  and  a  third 
comes  to  tell  that  ITHOCLES  himself  (to  whom  the  Princess  is  con' 
traded)  is  cruelly  murdered. 

CALANTHA.     PROPHILTJS.     ETTPHRANEA.     NEARCHUS. 

CROTOLOST.    CHRISTALLA.     PHILEMA,  and  others. 
Cal.  "We  miss  our  servant  Ithocles,  and  Orgilus ; 

On  whom  attend  they  ? 
Grot.  My  son,  gracious  princess, 

Whisper' d  some  new  device,  to  which  these  revels 

Should  be  but  usher ;  wherein,  I  conceive, 

Lord  Ithocles  and  he  himself  are  actors. 
Cal.  A  fair  excuse  for  absence :  as  for  Bassanes, 

Delights  to  him  are  troublesome ;  Armostes 

Is  with  the  king. 
Crot.  He  is. 
Cal'.  On  to  the  dance : 

(To  NEARCHTJS.)     Dear  cousin,  hand  you  the  bride; 
the  bridegroom  must  be 

Entrusted  to  my  courtship :  be  not  jealous, 

Euphranea ;  I  shall  scarcely  prove  a  temptress. 

Pall  to  our  dance. 

They  dance  the  first  change,  during  which  ARMOSTES  enters. 
Arm.  The  king  your  father  's  dead. 

1  It  is  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  Scene  which  follows,  to 
know  that  the  princess  is  won  by  these  solicitations  of  Penthea,  and  by 
the  real  deserts  of  Ithocles,  to  requite  his  love,  and  that  they  are  contracted 
with  the  consent  of  the  king  her  father. 


224  JOHN  FOBD. 

Gal.  To  the  other  change. 
Arm.  Is  it  possible  ? 

They  dance  again :  BASSANES  enters. 
Bass.  0  madam, 

Penthea,  poor  Penthea  's  starved. 
Gal.  Beshrew  thee. 

Lead  to  the  next. 
Bass.  Amazement  dulls  my  senses. 

They  dance  again :  ORGILTTS  enters. 
Org.  Brave  Ithocles  is  murder 'd,  murder 'd  cruelly. 
Cat.  How  dull  this  music  sounds !  Strike  up  more  sprightly : 

Our  footings  are  not  active  like  our  hearts 

Which  treads  the  nimhler  measure. 
Org.  I  am  thunderstruck. 

They  dance  the  last  change.     The  music  ceases. 

Gal.  So,  let  us  breathe  awhile :  hath  not  this  motion 

Raised  fresher  colour  on  your  cheeks  ?   [To  NEABCHUS. 

Near.  Sweet  princess, 

A  perfect  purity  of  blood  enamels 
The  beauty  of  your  white. 

Gal.  We  all  look  cheerfully : 

And,  cousin,  'tis  methinks  a  rare  presumption 
In  any,  who  prefers  our  lawful  pleasures 
Before  their  own  sour  censure,  to  interrupt 
The  custom  of  this  ceremony  bluntly. 

Near.  None  dares,  lady. 

Gal.  Yes,  yes  ;  some  hollow  voice  deliver' d  to  me 
How  that  the  king  was  dead. 

Arm.  The  king  is  dead : 

That  fatal  news  was  mine ;  for  in  mine  arms 

He  breathed  his  last,  and  with  his  crown  bequeathed  you 

Your  mother's  wedding-ring,  which  here  I  tender. 

Grot.  Most  strange. 

Gal.  Peace  crown  his  ashes :  we  are  queen  then. 

Near.  Long  live  Calantha,  Sparta's  sovereign  queen. 

All.  Long  live  the  queen. 

Gal.  AVhat  whisper' d  Bassanes  ? 

Bass.  That  my  Penthea1,  miserable  soul, 
Was  starved  to  death. 

1  Wife  to  Bassanes. 


THE  BBOKBtf  HEAET.  225 

Cal.  She  's  happy ;  she  hath  finish' d 

A  long  and  painful  progress. — A  third  murmur 
Pierced  mine  unwilling  ears. 

Org.  That  Ithocles 
Was  murder 'd. 

Gal.  By  whose  hand  ? 

Org.  By  mine :  this  weapon 

"Was  instrument  to  my  revenge.     The  reasons1 
Are  just  and  known.     Quit  him  of  these,  and  then 
Never  lived  gentleman  of  greater  merit, 
Hope,  or  abiliment  to  steer  a  kingdom. 

Cal.  "We  "begin  our  reign 

"With  a  first  act  of  justice :  thy  confession, 

Unhappy  Orgilus,  dooms  thee  a  sentence ; 

But  yet  thy  father's  or  thy  sister's  presence 

Shall  be  excused :  give,  Crotolon2,  a  blessing 

To  thy  lost  son ;  Euphranea3,  take  a  farewell : 

And  both  begone. 

(To  OBGULTJS.)  Bloody  relater  of  thy  stains  in  blood ; 

For  that  thou  hast  reported  him  (whose  fortunes 

And  life  by  thee  are  both  at  once  snatch' d  from  him) 

With  honourable  mention,  make  thy  choice 

Of  what  death  likes  thee  best ;  there 's  all  our  bounty. 

But  to  excuse  delays,  let  me,  dear  cousin, 

Entreat  you  and  these  lords  see  execution 

Instant,  before  ye  part. 

Near.  Tour  will  commands  us. 

Org.  One  suit,  just  queen;  my  last.     Youchsafe  your  ele- 
That  by  no  common  hand  I  be  divided  [mency: 

Prom  this  my  humble  frailty. 

Cal.  To  their  wisdoms, 

Who  are  to  be  spectators  of  thine  end, 

I  make  the  reference.     Those  that  are  dead, 

Are  dead  ;  had  they  not  now  died,  of  necessity 

They  must  have  paid  the  debt  they  owed  to  nature 

One  time  or  other.     Use  despatch,  my  lords. — 

We  '11  suddenly  prepare  our  coronation.  [Exit. 

1  Penthea  (sister  to  Ithocles)  was  betrothed  at  first  to  Orgilus,  but 
pelled  by  her  brother  to  many  Bassanes ;  by  which  forced  match  she 
>ming  miserable,  refused  to  take  food,  and  died. 
His  father.  3  Uis  sister, 

Q 


226  JOHN  FOED. 

Arm.  'Tis  strange  tB^se  tragedies  should  never  touch  on 

Her  female  pity. 
Bass.  She  has  a  masculine  spirit. 

The  Coronation  of  the  Princess  takes  'place  after  the  execution  of  OEGI- 
LTJS. — She  enters  the  Temple,  dressed  in  white,  having  a  crown  on  her 
head.  She  kneels  at  the  altar.  The  dead  body  of  ITHOCLES  (whom 
she  should  have  married)  is  borne  on  a  hearse,  in  rich  robes,  having  a 
crown  on  his  head;  and  placed  by  the  side  of  the  altar ',  where  she 
Icneels.  Her  devotions  ended,  she  rises. — 

CALANTHA.     NEAECHUS.     PEOPHILTJS.    CEOTOLON.     BAS- 
SA^ES.  AEMOSTES,  EUPHEANEA.  AMELTJS.  CHEISTALLA. 
PHILEMA,  and  others. 
Col.  Our  orisons  are  heard,  the  gods  are  merciful. 

Now  tell  me,  you,  whose  loyalties  pay  tribute 

To  us  your  lawful  sovereign,  how  unskilful 

Your  duties,  or  obedience  is,  to  render 

Subjection  to  the  sceptre  of  a  virgin ; 

"Who  have  been  ever  fortunate  in  princes 

Of  masculine  and  stirring  composition. 

A  woman  has  enough  to  govern  wisely 

Her  own  demeanours,  passions,  and  divisions. 

A  nation  warlike,  and  inured  to  practice 

Of  policy  and  labour,  cannot  brook 

A  feminate  authority :  we  therefore 

Command  your  counsel,  how  you  may  advise  us 

In  choosing  of  a  husband,  whose  abilities 

Can  better  guide  this  kingdom, 
Near.  Royal  lady, 

Your  law  is  in  your  will. 
Arm.  We  have  seen  tokens 

Of  constancy  too  lately  to  mistrust  it. 
Crot.  Yet  if  your  highness  settle  on  a  choice 

By  your  own  judgment  both  allow' d  and  liked  of, 

Sparta  may  grow  in  power  and  proceed 

To  an  increasing  height. 
Col.  Cousin  of  Argos. 
Near.  Madam. 
Col.  "Were  I  presently 

x  To  choose  you  for  my  lord,  I  '11  open  freely 

What  articles  I  would  propose  to  treat  on, 

Before  our  marriage. 
Near.  JName  them,  virtuous  lady* 


THE  BEOKEJT  HEAET.  227 

Gal.  I  would  presume  you  would  retain  the  royalty 
Of  Sparta  in  her  own  bounds :  then  in  Argos 
Armostes  might  be  viceroy ;  in  Messene 
Might  Crotolon  bear  sway ;  and  Bassanes 
Be  Sparta's  marshal : 

The  multitudes  of  high  employments  could  not 
But  set  a  peace  to  private  griefs.     These  gentlemen, 
Groneas  and  Lemophil,  with  worthy  pensions, 
Should  wait  upon  your  person  in  your  chamber. 
I  would  bestow  Christalla  on  Amelus ; 
She  '11  prove  a  constant  wife :  and  Philema 
Should  into  Vesta's  temple. 

Eass.  This  is  a  testament ; 

It  sounds  not  like  conditions  on  a  marriage. 

Near.  All  this  should  be  perform' d. 
I  Cal.  Lastly,  for  Prophilus, 

He  should  be  (cousin)  solemnly  invested 
In  all  those  honours,  titles,  and  preferments, 
Which  his  dear  friend  and  my  neglected  husband 
Too  short  a  time  enjoy 'd. 

Proph.  I  am  unworthy 

To  live  in  your  remembrance. 

Euph.  Excellent  lady. 

Near.  Madam,  what  means  that  word,  neglected  husband  ? 

Cal.  Forgive  me.    Now  I  turn  to  thee,  thou  shadow 

[To  the  dead  ~body  oflTHOCLES. 
Of  my  contracted  lord :  bear  witness  all, 
I  put  my  mother's  wedding-rrug  upon 
His  finger  ;  'twas  my  father's  last  bequest : 
Thus  I  new  marry  him,  whose  wife  I  am ; 
Death  shall  not  separate  us.     0  my  lords, 
I  but  deceived  your  eyes  with  antick  gesture, 
When  one  news  straight  came  huddling  on  another, 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death ;  still  I  danced  forward ; 
But  it  struck  home,  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 
Be  such  mere  women,  who  with  shrieks  and  outcries 
Can  vow  a  present  end  to  all  their  sorrows ; 
Yet  live  to  vow  new  pleasures,  and  outlive  them. 
They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heart-strings : 
Let  me  die  smiling. 

Near.  'Tis  a  truth  too  ominous. 

Q2 


228  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Cal.  One  kiss  on  these  cold  lips ;  my  last.     Crack,  crack. 
Argos  now  's  Sparta's  king.  [Dies. 

P  do  not  know  where  to  find  in  any  play  a  catastrophe  so  grand,  so 
solemn,  and  so  surprising  as  this.     This  is  indeed,  according  to  Milton, 
to  "describe  high  passions  and  high  actions."      The  fortitude  of  the 
Spartan  boy  who  let  a  beast  gnaw  out  his  bowels  till  he  died  without  ex 
pressing  a  groan,  is  a  faint  bodily  image  of  this  dilaceration  of  the  spirit 
and  exenteration  of  the  inmost  mind,  which  Calantha  with  a  holy  violence 
against  her  nature  keeps  closely  covered,  till  the  last  duties  of  a  wife  and 
a  queen  are  fulfilled.     Stories  of  martyrdom  are  but  of  chains  and  the 
stake  j  a  little  bodily  suffering ;  these  torments 
On  the  purest  spirits  prey 
As  on  entrails,  joints,  and  limbs, 
With  answerable  pains,  but  more  intense. 

What  a  noble  thing  is  the  soul  in  its  strengths  and  in  its  weaknesses ! 
who  would  be  less  weak  than  Calantha  ?  who  can  be  so  strong  ?  the  ex 
pression  of  this  transcendent  scene  almost  bears  me  in  imagination  to 
Calvary  and  the  Cross ;  and  I  seem  to  perceive  some  analogy  between  the 
scenical  sufferings  which  I  am  here  contemplating,  and  the  real  agonies  of 
that  final  completion  to  which  I  dare  no  more  than  hint  a  reference. 

Ford  was  of  the  first  order  of  poets.  He  sought  for  sublimity,  not  by 
parcels  in  metaphors  or  visible  images,  but  directly  where  she  has  her 
full  residence  in  the  heart  of  man ;  in  the  actions  and  sufferings  of  the 
greatest  minds.  There  is  a  grandeur  of  the  soul  above  mountains,  seas, 
and  the  elements.  Even  in  the  poor  perverted  reason  of  Giovanni  and 
Annabella  (in  the  play  which  precedes  this)  we  discern  traces  of  that  fiery 
particle,  which  in  the  irregular  starting  from  out  of  the  road  of  beaten 
action,  discovers  something  of  a  right  line  even  in  obliquity,  and  shows 
hints  of  an  improveable  greatness  in  the  lowest  descents  and  degradations 
of  our  nature.] 


HYMEN'S  TKIUMPH :  A  PASTOEAL  TBAGI-COMEDY, 
BY  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Love  in  Infancy. 

Ah,  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 
•But  evermore  remember  well  ?)  when  first 
Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what  was 
The  flame  we  felt :  when  as  we  sat  and  sigh'd 
And  look'd  upon  each  other,  and  conceived 
Not  what  we  ail'd,  yet  something  we  did  ail ; 
And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well, 
And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 
Then  would  we  kiss,  then  sigh,  then  look.    And  thus 
In  that  first  garden  of  our  simpleness 


HYMEN'S  TEIUMPH.  23D 

"We  spent  our  childhood.   But  when  years  began 
To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge ;  ah,  how  then 
"Would  she  with  graver  looks,  with  sweet  stern  brow, 
Check  my  presumption  and  my  forwardness ; 
Yet  still  would  give  me  flowers,  still  would  me  show 
"What  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know  ! 
Love  after  Death. 

Palcemon.  Pie,  Thyrsis,  with  what  fond  remembrances 
Dost  thou  these  idle  passions  entertain ! 
Eor  shame  leave  off  to  waste  your  youth  in  vain, 
And  feed  on  shadows :  make  your  choice  anew ; 
You  other  nymphs  shall  find,  no  doubt  will  be 
As  lovely,  and  as  fair,  and  sweet  as  she. 

Thyrsis.  As  fair  and  sweet  as  she !  Palaemon,  peace : 
Ah,  what  can  pictures  be  unto  the  life  ? 
"What  sweetness  can  be  found  in  images  ? 
"Which  all  nymphs  else  besides  her  seem  to  me. 
She  only  was  a  real  creature,  she, 
"Whose  memory  must  take  up  all  of  me. 
Should  I  another  love,  then  must  I  have 
Another  heart,  for  this  is  full  of  her, 
And  evermore  shall  be :  here  is  she  drawn 
At  length,  and  whole :  and  more,  this  table  is 
A  story,  and  is  all  of  her ;  and  all 
"Wrought  in  the  liveliest  colours  of  my  blood : 
And  can  there  be  a  room  for  others  here  ? 
Should  I  disfigure  such  a  piece,  and  blot 
The  perfect'st  workmanship  that  love  e'er  wrought  ? 
Palaemon,  no,  ah,  no,  it  cost  too  dear ; 
It  must  remain  entire  whilst  life  remains, 
The  monument  of  her  and  of  my  pains. 

The  Story  q/'IsuilA. 
There  was  sometimes  a  nymph, 
Isulia  named,  and  an  Arcadian  born, 
"Whose  mother  dying  left  her  very  young 
TJnto  her  father's  charge,  who  carefully 
Did  breed  her  up  until  she  came  to  years 
Of  womanhood,  and  then  provides  a  match 
Both  rich  and  young,  and  fit  enough  for  her. 
But  she,  who  to  another  shepherd  had, 
Call'd  Sirthis,  vow'd  her  love,  as  unto  one 
Her  heart  esteem' d  more  worthy  of  her  love, 


230  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Could  not  by  all  her  father's  means  be  wrought 

To  leave  her  choice,  and  to  forget  her  vow. 

This  nymph  one  day,  surcharged  with  love  and  grief, 

Which  commonly  (the  more  the  pity !)  dwell 

As  inmates  both  together,  walking  forth 

"With  other  maids  to  fish  upon  the  shore ; 

Estrays  apart,  and  leaves  her  company, 

To  entertain  herself  with  her  own  thoughts 

And  wanders  on  so  far,  and  out  of  sight, 

As  she  at  length  was  suddenly  surprised 

.By  pirates,  who  lay  lurking  underneath 

Those  hollow  rocks,  expecting  there  some  prize ; 

And  notwithstanding  all  her  piteous  cries, 

Entreaties,  tears,  and  prayers,  those  fierce  men 

Rent  hair  and  veil,  and  carried  her  by  force 

Into  their  ship,  which  in  a  little  creek 

Hard  by  at  anchor  lay, 

And  presently  hoisted  sail  and  so  away. 

"When  she  was  thus  enshipp'd,  and  woefully 

Had  cast  her  eyes  about  to  view  that  hell 

Of  horror,  whereinto  she  was  so  suddenly  emplunged, 

She  spies  a  woman  sitting  with  a  child 

Sucking  her  breast,  which  was  ih&  captain's  wife. 

To  her  she  creeps,  down  at  her  feet  she  lies ; 

"  0  woman,  if  that  name  of  a  woman  may 

Move  you  to  pity,  pity  a  poor  maid  ; 

The  most  distressed  soul  that  ever  breathed ; 

And  save  me  from  the  hands  of  those  fierce  men ! 

Let  me  not  be  defiled  and  made  unclean, 

Dear  woman,  now,  and  I  will  be  to  you 

The  faithful' st  slave  that  ever  mistress  served ; 

Never  poor  soul  shall  be  more  dutiful, 

To  do  whatever  you  command,  than  I. 

No  toil  will  I  refuse ;  so  that  I  may 

Keep  this  poor  body  clean  and  undeflower'd, 

"Which  is  all  I  will  ever  seek.     For  know, 

It  is  not  fear  of  death  lays  me  thus  low, 

But  of  that  stain  will  make  my  death  to  blush." 

All  this  would  nothing  move  the  woman's  heart, 

"Whom  yet  she  would  not  leave,  but  still  besought 

"  0  woman,  by  that  infant  at  your  breast, 

And  by  the  pains  it  cost  you  in  the  birth, 


HYMEN'S  TEITJMPH.  231 

Save  me,  as  ever  you  desire  to  have 

Your  babe  to  joy  and  prosper  in  the  world : 

Which  will  the  better  prosper  sure,  if  you 

Shall  mercy  show,  which  is  with  mercy  paid!" 

Then  kisses  she  her  feet,  then  kisses  too 

The  infant's  feet ;  and,  "  0,  sweet  babe,"  (said  she,) 

"  Couldst  thou  but  to  thy  mother  speak  for  me, 

And  crave  her  to  have  pity  on  my  case, 

Thou  mightst  perhaps  prevail  with  her  so  much, 

Although  I  cannot ;  child,  ah,  couldst  thou  speak!" 

The  infant,  whether  by  her  touching  it, 

Or  by  instinct  of  nature,  seeing  her  weep, 

Looks  earnestly  upon  her,  and  then  looks 

Upon  the  mother,  then  on  her  again, 

And  then  it  cries,  and  then  on  either  looks : 

Which  she  perceiving ;  "  Blessed  child,"  (said  she,) 

"  Although  thou  canst  not  speak,  yet  dost  thou  cry 

"Unto  thy  mother  for  me.     Hear  thy  child, 

Dear  mother ;  it 's  for  me  it  cries  ; 

It 's  all  the  speech  it  hath.    Accept  those  cries  ; 

Save  me  at  his  request  from  being  denied : 

Let  pity  move  thee,  that  thus  moves  the  child." 

The  woman,  though  by  birth  and  custom  rude, 

Teir  having  veins  of  nature,  could  not  be 

But  pierceable,  did  feel  at  length  the  point 

Of  pity  enter  so,  as  out  gush'd  tears, 

(Not  usual  to  stern  eyes,)  and  she  besought 

Her  husband  to  bestow  on  her  that  prize, 

With  safeguard  of  her  body  at  her  will. 

The  captain,  seeing  his  wife,  the  child,  the  nymph, 

All  crying  to  him  in  this  piteous  sort, 

Pelt  his  rough  nature  shaken  too,  and  grants 

His  wife's  request,  and  seals  his  grant  with  tears ; 

And  so  they  wept  all  four  for  company : 

And  some  beholders  stood  not  with  dry  eyes ; 

Such  passion  wrought  the  passion  of  their  prize. 

Never  was  there  pardon,  that  did  take 

Condemned  from  the  block  more  joyful  than 

This  grant  to  her :  for  all  her  misery 

Seem'd  nothing  to  the  comfort  she  received, 

By  being  thus  saved  from  impurity : 

AJad  from  the  woman's  feet  she  would  not  part, 


232  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Nor  trust  her  hand  to  be  without  some  hold 

Of  her,  or  of  the  child,  so  long  as  she  remain' d 

"Within  the  ship,  which  in  few  days  arrives 

At  Alexandria,  whence  these  pirates  were ; 

And  there  this  woeful  maid  for  two  years'  space 

Did  serve,  and  truly  serve  this  captain's  wile, 

(Who  would  not  lose  the  benefit  of  her 

Attendance,  for  her  profit  otherwise,) 

But  daring  not  in  such  a  place  as  that 

To  trust  herself  in  woman's  habit,  craved 

That  she  might  be  apparel' d  like  a  boy ; 

And  so  she  was,  and  as  a  boy  she  served. 

At  two  years'  end  her  mistress  sends  her  forth 

Unto  the  port  for  some  commodities, 

"Which,  whilst  she  sought  for,  going  up  and  down, 

She  heard  some  merchantmen  of  Corinth  talk, 

"Who  spake  that  language  the  Arcadians  did, 

And  were  next  neighbours  of  one  continent. 

To  them,  all  wrapt  with  passion,  down  she  kneels, 

Tells  them  she  was  a  poor  distressed  boy, 

Born  in  Arcadia,  and  by  pirates  took, 

And  made  a  slave  in  Egypt ;  and  besought 

Them,  as  they  fathers  were  of  children,  or 

Did  hold  their  native  country  dear,  they  would 

Take  pity  on  her,  and  relieve  her  youth 

TVom  that  sad  servitude  wherein  she  lived : 

For  which  she  hoped  that  she  had  friends  alive 

"Would  thank  them  one  day,  and  reward  them  too ; 

If  not,  yet  that  she  knew  the  Heavens  would  do. 

The  merchants,  moved  with  pity  of  her  case, 

Being  ready  to  depart,  took  her  with  them, 

And  landed  her  upon  her  country  coast : 

"Where,  when  she  found  herself,  she  prostrate  falls, 

Kisses  the  ground,  thanks  gives  unto  the  gods, 

Thanks  them  who  had  been  her  deliverers, 

And  on  she  trudges  through  the  desert  woods, 

Climbs  over  craggy  rocks,  and  mountains  steep, 

"Wades  thorough  rivers,  struggles  thorough  bogs, 

Sustained  only  by  the  force  of  love ; 

Until  she  came  unto  the  native  plains, 

Unto  the  fields  where  first  she  drew  her  breath. 

There  she  lifts  up  her  eyes,  salutes  the  air, 


ALAHAif.  233 

Salutes  the  trees,  the  bushes,  flowers  and  all : 
And,  "  O,  dear  Sirthis,  here  I  am,"  said  she, 
"  Here,  notwithstanding  all  my  miseries, 
I  am  the  same  I  was  to  thee ;  a  pure, 
A  chaste,  and  spotless  maid." 


ALAHAM:  A  TEAGEDY, 
BY  FULKE  GKREYILLE,  LOED  BEOOKE. 

ALAHAM,  second  son  to  the  KING  of  OEMUS,  deposes  Ms  father,  whose 
eyes,  and  the  eyes  of  his  elder  brother  ZOPHI,  (acting  upon  a  maxim 
of  oriental  policy?)  he  causes  to  be  put  out.  They,  blind,  and  fearing 
for  their  lives,  wander  about.  In  this  extremity  they  are  separately 
met  by  the  Icing's  daughter  C.ELICA,  who  conducts  them  to  places  of 
refuge  ;  hiding  her  father  amid  the  vaults  of  a  temple,  and  guiding  her 
brother  to  take  sanctuary  at  the  altar. 

KING.     CJBLICA. 

King.  Cselica ;  thou  only  child,  whom  I  repent 
Not  yet  to  have  begot,  thy  work  is  vain : 
Thou  runn'st  against  my  destiny's  intent. 
Pear  not  my  fall ;  the  steep  is  fairest  plain ; 
And  error  safest  guide  unto  his  end, 
"Who  nothing  but  mischance  can  have  to  friend. 
"We  parents  are  but  nature's  nursery ; 
When  our  succession  springs,  then  ripe  to  fall. 
Privation  unto  age  is  natural. 
Age  there  is  also  in  a  prince's  state, 
"Which  is  contempt,  grown  of  misgovernment ; 
"Where  love  of  change  begetteth  princes'  hate : 
For  hopes  must  wither,  or  grow  violent, 
If  fortune  bind  desires  to  one  estate. 
Then  mark !     Blind,  as  a  man ;  scorn' d,  as  a  king ; 
A  father's  kindness  loathed,  and  desolate ; 
Life  without  joy,  or  light :  what  can  it  bring, 
But  inward  horror  unto  outward  hate  ? 
O  safety !  thou  art  then  a  hateful  thing, 
"When  children's  death  assures  the  father's  state. 
No,  safe'  I  am  not,  though  my  son  were  slain, 
My  frailty  would  beget  such  sons  again. 
Besides,  if  fatal  be  the  Heavens'  will, 
Repining  adds  more  force  to  destiny ; 


234  FULKE  GEEYILLE. 

Whose  iron  wheels  stay  not  on  fleshly  wit, 

But  headlong  run  down  steep  necessity. 

And  as  in  danger,  we  do  catch  at  it 

That  eomes  to  help ;  and  unadvisedly 

Oft  do  our  friends  to  our  misfortune  knit : 

So  with  the  harm  of  those  who  would  us  good 

Is  destiny  impossibly  withstood. 

Caelica,  then  cease ;  importune  me  no  more : 

My  son,  my  age,  the  state  where  things  are  now. 

Kequire  my  death.     "Who  would  consent  to  live 

"Where  love  cannot  revenge,  nor  truth  forgive  ? 
Ccelica.  Though  fear  see  nothing  but  extremity, 

Yet  danger  is  no  deep  sea,  but  a  ford, 

Where  they  that  yield  can  only  drowned  be. 

In  wrongs,  and  wounds,  sir,  you  are  too  remiss : 

To  thrones  a  passive  nature  fatal  is. 
King,  Occasion  to  my  son  hath  turn'd  her  face ; 

My  inward  wants  all  outward  strengths  betray ; 

And  so  make  that  impossible  I  may. 
Ccelica.  Yet  live : 

Live  for  the  state. 
King.  Whose  ruins  glasses  are 

Wherein  see  errors  of  myself  I  must, 

And  hold  my  life  of  danger,  shame,  and  care. 
Ccelica.  When  fear  propounds,  with  loss  men  ever  choose. 
King.  Nothing  is  left  me  but  myself  to  lose. 
Ccelica.  And  is  it  nothing  then  to  lose  the  state  ? 
King.  Where  chance  is  ripe,  there  counsel  comes  too  late. 

Ca?lica,  by  all  thou  owest  the  gods  and  me, 

I  do  conjure  thee,  leave  me  to  my  chance. 

What 's  past  was  error's  way ;  the  truth  it  is, 

Wherein  I  wretch  can  only  go  amiss. 

If  nature  saw  no  cause  of  sudden  ends, 

She,  that  but  one  way  made  to  draw  our  breath, 

Would  not  have  left  so  many  doors  to  death. 
Ccelica.  Yet,  sir,  if  weakness  be  not  such  a  sand 

As  neither  wrong  nor  counsel  can  manure ; 

Choose  and  resolve  what  death  you  will  endure. 
King.  This  sword,  thy  hands,  may  offer  up  my  breath, 

And  plague  my  life's  remissness  in  my  death. 
Ccelica.  Unto  that  duty  if  these  hands  be  born, 

I  must  think  Grod,  and  truth,  were  names  of  scorn. 


ALAHAM. 

Again,  this  justice  were  if  life  were  loved, 

Now  merely  grace ;  since  death  doth  but  forgive 

A  life  to  you,  which  is  a  death  to  live. 

Pain  must  displease  that  satisfies  offence. 
King.  Chance  hath  left  death  no  more  to  spoil  but  sense. 
Ccelica.  Then  sword,  do  justice'  office  thorough  me :  [herself. 

I  offer  more  than  that  he  hates  to  thee.    \Offers  to  kill 
King.  Ah  !  stay  thy  hand.     My  state  no  equal  hath, 

And  much  more  matchless  my  strange  vices  be : 

One  kind  of  death  becomes  not  thee  and  me. 

Kings'  plagues  by  chance  or  destiny  should  fall ; 

Headlong  he  perish  must  that  ruins  all. 
Ccelica.  IS"o  cliff  or  rock  is  so  precipitate, 

But  down  it  eyes  can  lead  the  blind  away ; 

"Without  me  live,  or  with  me  die  you  may. 
King.  Cselica,  and  wilt  thou  Alaham  exceed  ? 

His  cruelty  is  death,  you.  torments  use ; 

He  takes  my  crown,  you  take  myself  from  me ; 

A  prince  of  this  fallen  empire  let  me  be. 
Ccelica.  Then  be  a  king,  no  tyrant  of  thyself : 

Be ;  and  be  what  you  will :  what  nature  lent 

Is  still  in  hers,  and  not  our  government. 
King.  If  disobedience,  and  obedience  both, 

Still  do  me  hurt ;  in  what  strange  state  am  I  ? 

But  hold  thy  course :  it  well  becomes  my  blood, 

To  do  their  parents  mischief  with  their  good. 
Ccelica.  Yet,  sir,  hark  to  the  poor  oppressed  tears,. 

The  just  men's  moan,  that  suffer  by  your  fall ; 

A  prince's  charge  is  to  protect  them  all. 

And  shall  it  nothing  be  that  I  am  yours  ? 

The  world  without,  my  heart  within,  doth  know, 

I  never  had  unkind,  unreverent  powers. 

If  thus  you  yield  to  Alaham' s  treachery, 

He  ruins  you :  'tis  you,  sir,  ruin  me. 
King.  Caeliea,  call  up  the  dead ;  awake  the  blind ; 

Turn  back  the  time ;  bid  winds  tell  whence  they  come : 

As  vainly  strength  speaks  to  a  broken  mind. 

Fly  from  me,  Cselica ;  hate  all  I  do : 

Misfortunes  have  in  blood  successions  too. 
Ccelica.  "Will  you  do  that  which  Alaham  cannot  ? 

He  hath  no  good ;  you  have  no  ill,  but  he : 

This  mar-right  yielding 's  honour's  tyranny. 


236  riTLKE  GEEYILLE. 


King.  Have  I  not  done  amiss  ?  am  I  not  ill, 
That  ruin'd  have  a  king's  authority  P 
And  not  one  king  alone  :  since  princes  all 
Feel  part  of  those  scorns,  whereby  one  doth  fall. 
Treason  against  me  cannot  treason  be  : 
All  laws  have  lost  authority  in  me. 

Ctelica.  The  laws  of  power  chain'  d  to  men's  humours  be. 
The  good  have  conscience  ;  the  ill  (like  instruments) 
Are,  in  the  hands  of  wise  authority, 
Moved,  divided,  used,  or  laid  down  ; 
Still,  with  desire,  kept  subject  to  a  crown. 
Stir  up  all  states,  all  spirits  :  hope  and  fear, 
"Wrong  and  revenge,  are  current  everywhere. 

King.  Put  down  my  son  ;  for  that  must  be  the  way  : 
A  father's  shame  ;  a  prince's  tyranny  ; 
The  sceptre  ever  shall  misjudged  be. 

CcBlica.  Let  them  fear  rumour  that  do  work  amiss  ; 
Blood,  torments,  death,  horrors  of  cruelty, 
Have  time,  and  place.    Look  through  these  skins  of  fear,, 
"Which  still  persuade  the  better  side  to  bear. 
And  since  thy  son  thus  traitorously  conspires, 
Let  him  not  prey  on  all  thy  race,  and  thee  : 
Keep  ill  example  from  posterity. 

King.  Danger  is  come,  and  must  I  now  unarm, 
And  let  in  hope  to  weaken  resolution  ? 
Passion  !  be  thou  my  legacy  and  will  ; 
To  thee  I  give  my  life,  crown,  reputation  ; 
My  pomps  to  cloud  ;  and  (as  forlorn  with  men) 
My  strength  to  women  ;  hoping  this  alone, 
Though  fear'd,  sought,  and  a  king,  to  live  unknown. 
Cselica,  all  these  to  thee  ;  do  thou  bestow 
This  living  darkness,  wherein  I  do  go. 

Ccelica.  My  soul  now  joys.     Doing  breathes  horror  out. 
Absence  must  be  our  first  step.     Let  us  fly  : 
A  pause  in  rage  makes  Alaham  to  doubt  ; 
"Which  doubt  may  stir  in  people  hope,  and  fear, 
"With  love,  or  hate,  to  seek  you  everywhere. 
For  princes'  lives  are  fortune's  misery  : 
As  dainty  sparks,  which  till  men  dead  do  know, 
To  kindle  for  himself  each  man  doth  blow. 
But  hark  !  what  's  this  ?  Malice  doth  never  sleep  : 
I  hear  the  spies  of  power  drawing  near. 


ALAHAM.  237 

Sir,  follow  me.   Misfortune's  worst  is  come ; 

Her  strength  is  change :  and  change  yields  better  doom 

Choice  now  is  past.     Hard  by  there  is  a  pile, 

Built  under  colour  of  a  sacrifice ; 

If  God  do  grant,  it  is  a  place  to  save ; 

If  God  denies,  it  is  a  ready  grave. 
ZOPHI  appears. 
Ccelica.  "What  see  I  here  ?  more  spectacles  of  woe ! 

And  are  my  kindred  only  made  to  be 

Agents  and  patients  in  iniquity  ? 

Ah,  forlorn  wretch !  ruin's  example  right ! 

Lost  to  thyself,  not  to  thy  enemy, 

Whose  hand  even  while  thou  fliest  thou  fall'st  into ; 

And  with  thy  fall  thy  father  dost  undo. 

Save  one  I  may :  Nature  would  save  them  both ; 

But  Chance  hath  many  wheels,  Rage  many  eyes. 

"What,  shall  I  then  abandon  innocents1  ? 

Not  help  a  helpless  brother  thrown  on  me  ? 

Is  nature  narrow  to  adversity  ? 

No,  no.     Our  G-od  left  duty  for  a  law ; 

Pity,  at  large ;  love,  in  authority ; 

Despair,  in  bonds ;  fear,  of  itself  in  awe : 

That  rage  of  time,  and  power's  strange  liberty, 

Oppressing  good  men,  might  resistance  find : 

Nor  can  I  to  a  brother  be  less  kind. 

Dost  thou,  that  canst  not  see,  hope  to  escape  ? 

Disgrace  can  have  na  friend ;  contempt  no  guide ; 

Bight  is  thy  guilt ;  thy  judge  iniquity ; 

"Which  desolation  casts  on  them  that  see. 
Zophi.  Make  calm  thy  rage  :  pity  a  ghost  distress'd : 

My  right,  my  liberty,  I  freely  give : 

Give  him,  that  never  harm'd  thee,  leave  to  live. 
C&lica.  Nay,  God,  the  world,  thy  parents  it  deny  ; 

A  brother's  jealous  heart ;  usurped  might 

Grows  friends  with  all  the  world,  except  thy  right. 
Zophi.  Secure  thyself.     Exile  me  from  this  coast : 

My  fault,  suspicion  is ;  my  judge,  is  fear  j 

Occasion,  with  myself,  away  I  bear. 
C&lica.  Fly  unto  God :  for  in  humanity 

Hope  there  is  none.    Reach  me  thy  fearful  hand : 

*  Zophi  is  represented  as  a  prince  of  weak  understanding. 


238  FTJLKE  GEEYILLE. 

I  am  thy  sister ;  neither  fiend,  nor  spy 
Of  tyrant's  rage ;  but  one  that  feels  despair 
Of  thy  estate,  which  thou  dost  only  fear. 
Kneel  down ;  embrace  this  holy  mystery ; 
A  refuge  to  the  worst  for  rape  and  blood, 
And  yet,  I  fear,  not  hallow' d  for  the  good. 

Zoplii.  Help,  God !  defend  thine  altar !  since  thy  might, 
In  earth,  leaves  innocents  no  other  right. 

Ccslica.  Eternal  God !  that  seest  thyself  in  us, 
If  vows  be  more  than  sacrifice  of  lust, 
Raised  from  the  smokes  of  hope  and  fear  in  us, 
Protect  this  innocent,  calm  Alaham's  rage ; 
By  miracles  faith  goes  from  age  to  age. 
Affection  trembles  ;  reason  is  oppress' d ; 
Nature,  methiiiks,  doth  her  own  entrails  tear : 
In  resolution  ominous  is  fear. 

ALAHAM  causes  search  to  be  made  after  his  father  and  brother.  ZOPHI 
is  discovered,  and  C^LICA,  who,  being  questioned  by  ALAHAM  where 
she  has  hid  her  father,  dissembles  as  though  she  thought  that  the  King 
was  dead;  but  being  threatened  with  the  rack,  her  exclamations  call 
her  father  from  his  hiding-place ;  who,  together  with  her,  and  her 
brother  ZOPHI,  are  sentenced  by  ALAHAM  to  the  flames. 

ALAHAM.     Attendants. 
Alaliam.  Sirs,  seek  the  city,  examine,  torture,  rack ; 

Sanctuaries  none  let  there  be ;  make  darkness  known ; 

Pull  down  the  roofs,  dig,  burn,  put  all  to  wrack ; 

And  let  the  guiltless  for  the  guilty  groan. 

Change,  shame,  misfortune,  in  their  'scaping  lie, 

And  in  their  finding  our  prosperity. 
He  sees  C^ILICA. 

Good  fortune,  welcome !    We  have  lost  our  care, 

And  found  our  loss :  Caelica  distract  I  see. 

The  king  is  near.    She  is  her  father's  eyes. 
He  sees  ZOPHI. 

Behold !  the  forlorn  wretch,  half  of  my  fear, 

Takes  sanctuary  at  holy  altar's  feet : 

Lead  him  apart,  examine,  force,  and  try ; 

These  bind  the  subject,  not  the  monarchy. 

Caelica !  awake :  that  God  of  whom  you  crave 

Is  deaf,  and  only  gives  men  what  they  have. 
Ccelica.  Ah,  cruel  wretch !  guilty  of  parent's  blood! 

Might  I,  poor  innocent,  my  father  free, 


ALAHAM.  239 

My  murther  yet  were  less  impiety. 
But  on ;  devour :  fear  only  to  be  good : 
Let  us  not  'scape :  thy  glory  then  doth  rise, 
When  thou  at  once  thy  house  dost  sacrifice. 

Alaham.  Tell  me  where  thy  father  is. 

Ccelica.  0  bloody  scorn ! 

Must  he  be  kill'd  again  that  gave  thee  breath  ? 
Is  duty  nothing  else  in  thee  but  death  ? 

Alaliam.  Leave  off  this  mask ;  deceit  is  never  wise ; 
Though  he  be  blind,  a  king  hath  many  eyes. 

Ccelica.  O  twofold  scorn !     Grod  be  revenged  for  me. 
Yet  since  my  father  is  destroy 'd  by  thee, 
Add  still  more  scorn,  it  sorrow  multiplies. 

Aldham,  Passions  are  learn' d,  not  born  within  the  heart, 
That  method  keep  :  order  is  quiet's  art. 
Tell  where  he  is :  for  look  what  love  conceals, 
Pain  out  of  nature's  labyrinths  reveals. 

Ccelica.  This  is  reward  which  thou  dost  threaten  me. 
If  terror  thou  wilt  threaten,  promise  joys. 

Alaliam.  Smart  cools  these  boiling  styles  of  vanity. 

Ccelica.  And  if  my  father  I  no  more  shall  see, 
Help  me  unto  the  place  where  he  remains : 
To  hell  below,  or  to  the  sky  above, 
The  way  is  easy  where  the  guide  is  love. 

Alaliam.  Confess ;  where  is  he  hid  ? 

Ccelica.  Back  not  my  woe. 

Thy  glorious  pride  of  this  unglorious  deed 
Doth  mischief  ripe,  and  therefore  falling,  show. 

AlaTiam.  Bodies  have  place,  and  blindness  must  be  led. 
Graves  be  the  thrones  of  kings  when  they  be  dead. 

Calica.  He  was  (unhappy)  cause  that  thou  art  now ; 
Thou  art,  ah  wicked !  cause  that  he  is  not, 
And  fear'st  thou  parricide  can  be  forgot  ? 
Bear  witness,  thou  Almighty  Grod  on  high, 
And  you  black  powers  inhabiting  below, 
That  for  his  life  myself  would  yield  to  die. 

Alaham.  Well,  sirs,  go  seek  the  dark  and  secret  caves, 
The  holy  temples,  sanctified  cells, 
All  parts  wherein  a  living  corpse  may  dwell. 

Ccelica.  Seek  him  amongst  the  dead,  you  placed  him  there : 
Yet  lose  no  pains,  good  souls,  go  not  to  hell : 
And,  but  to  heaven,  you  may  go  everywhere. 
Guilty,  with  you,  of  his  blood  let  me  be, 


240  PTTLKE  GEEYILLE. 

If  any  more  I  of  my  father  know, 

Than  that  he  is  where  you  would  have  him  go. 
Alaham.  Tear  up  the  vaults.     Behold  her  agonies ! 

Sorrow  subtracts,  and  multiplies,  the  spirits ; 

Care,  and  desire,  do  under  anguish  cease ; 

Doubt  curious  is,  affecting  piety ; 

"Woe  loves  itself;  fear  from  itself  would  fly. 

Do  not  these  trembling  motions  witness  bear, 

That  all  these  protestations  be  of  fear  ? 
Ccelica.  If  aught  be  quick  in  me,  move  it  with  scorn : 

Nothing  can  come  amiss  to  thoughts  forlorn. 
Alaham.  Confess  in  time.  Revenge  is  merciless. 
Ccdiea.  Reward  and  pain,  fear  and  desire  too, 

Are  vain  in  things  impossible  to  do. 
Alaham.  Tell  yet  where  thou  thy  father  last  did  see. 
C&lica.  Ev'n  where  he  by  his  loss  of  eyes  hath  won 

That  he  no  more  shall  see  his  monstrous  son. 

First  in  perpetual  night  thou  madest  him  go ; 

His  flesh  the  grave ;  his  life  the  stage,  where  sense 

Plays  all  the  tragedies  of  pain  and  woe. 

And  wouldst  thou  traitorously  thyself  exceed, 

By  seeking  thus  to  make  his  ghost  to  bleed  ? 
Alaham.  Bear  her  away :  devise ;  add  to  the  rack 

Torments,  that  both  call  death  and  turn  it  back. 
Ccelica.  The  flattering  glass  of  power  is  others'  pain. 

Perfect  thy  work ;  that  heaven  and  hell  may  know, 

To  worse  I  cannot,  going  from  thee,  go. 

Eternal  life,  that  ever  livest  above ! 

If  sense  there  be  with  thee  of  hate,  or  love ; 

Revenge  my  king  and  father's  overthrow. 

O  father,  if  that  name  reach  up  so  high, 

And  be  more  than  a  proper  word  of  art, 

To  teach  respects  in  our  humanity ; 

Accept  these  pains,  whereof  you  feel  no  smart  1 

The  KING  comes  forth. 
King.  What  sound  is  this  of  Cselica's  distress  ? 

Alaham,  wrong  not  a  silly  sister's  faith. 

'Tis  plague  enough  that  she  is  innocent ; 

Mv  child,  thy  sister ;  born  (by  thee  and  me) 

"With  shame  and  sin  to  have  aflinity. 

Break  me ;  I  am  the  prison  of  thy  thought : 

Crowns  dear  enough  with  father's  blood  are  bought 
Alaham.  Now  feel  thou  shalt,  thou  ghost  unnatural. 


ALAHAM.  241 

Those  wounds  which  thou  to  my  heart  didst  give, 
"When,  in  despite  of  God,  this  state,  and  me, 
Thou  didst  from  death  mine  elder  brother  free. 
The  smart  of  king's  oppression  doth  not  die  : 
Time  rusteth  malice  ;  rust  wounds  cruelly. 

King.  Flatter  thy  wickedness  ;  adorn  thy  rage  ; 
To  wear  a  crown,  tear  up  thy  father's  age. 
Kill  not  thy  sister  :  it  is  lack  of  wit 
To  do  an  ill  that  brings  no  good  with  it. 

Alaham.  Go,  lead  them  hence.     Prepare  the  funeral. 
Hasten  the  sacrifice  and  pomp  of  woe. 
"Where  she  did  hide  him,  thither  let  them  go. 


A  NimTnjs  (or  Messenger)  relates  to  ALAHAM  the  manner  of  7iis  Fa 
ther's,  Brother's,  and  Sister's  deaths,  and  the  popular  discontent^ 
which  followed.  ALAHAM,  by  the  sudden  worlcing  of  remorse,  is  dis 
tracted,  and  imagines  that  he  sees  their  ghosts. 

ALAHAM.    NTTBTTIUS. 

Nuntius.  The  first  which  burnt,  as  Cain1  his  next  of  kin, 
In  blood  your  brother,  and  your  prince  in  state, 
Drew  wonder  from  men's  hearts,  brought  horror  in. 
This  innocent,  this  soul  too  meek  for  sin, 
Tet  made  for  others  to  do  harm  withal, 
"With  his  self-pity  tears  drew  tears  from  us  ; 
His  blood  compassion  had  ;  his  wrong  stirr'd  hate  : 
Dfeceit  is  odious  in  a  king's  estate. 
Repiningly  he  goes  unto  his  end  : 
Strange  visions  rise  ;  strange  furies  haunt  the  flame  ; 
People  cry  out,  Echo  repeats,  his  name. 
These  words  he  spake,  ev'n  breathing  out  his  breath  : 
"  Unhappy  weakness  !  never  innocent  ! 
If  in  a  crown,  yet  but  an  instrument. 
People  !  observe  ;  this  fact  may  make  you  see, 
Excess  hath  ruin'd  what  itself  did  build  : 
But  ah  !  the  more  oppress'  d  the  more  you  yield." 
The  next  was  he  whose  age  had  reverence, 
His  gesture  something  more  than  privateness  ; 
Guided  by  one,  whose  stately  grace  did  move 
Compassion,  ev'n  in  hearts  that  could  not  love 
As  soon  as  these  approached  near  the  flame, 

1  The  execution,  to  mate  it  plausible  to  the  people,  is  coloured  with 
the  pretext,  that  the  being  burnt  is  a  voluntary  sacrifice  of  themselves  by 
the  victims  at  the  funeral  of  Cain  a  bashaw  and  relative. 


242  FTJLZE  GEETILLE. 

The  wind,  the  steam,  or  Furies  raised  their  veils ; 

And  in  their  looks  this  image  did  appear : 

Each  unto  other,  life  to  neither,  dear. 

These  words  he  spake : — "  Behold  one  that  hath  lost 

Himself  within ;  and  so  the  world  without ; 

A  king,  that  brings  authority  in  doubt : 

This  is  the  fruit  of  power's  misgovernment. 

People !  my  fall  is  just ;  yet  strange  your  fate, 

That,  under  worst,  will  hope  for  better  state." 

Grief  roars  aloud.     Tour  sister  yet  remain' d ; 

Helping  in  death  to  him  in  whom  she  died ; 

Then  going  to  her  own,  as  if  she  gain'd, 

These  mild  words  spake  with  looks  to  heaven  bent : — 

"  0  G-od,  'tis  thou  that  sufferest  here,  not  we : 

Wrong  doth  but  like  itself  in  working  thus  : 

At  thy  will,  Lord !  revenge  thyself,  not  us." 

The  fire  straight  upward  bears  the  souls  in  breath : 

Visions  of  horror  circle  in  the  flame 

"With  shapes  and  figures  like  to  that  of  Death, 

But  lighter-tongued  and  nimbler- wing' d  than  Fame : 

Some  to  the  church ;  some  to  the  people  fly : 

A  voice  cries  out :  "  Eevenge  and  liberty. 

Princes,  take  heed ;  your  glory  is  your  care  ; 

And  power's  foundations,  ffcrengths,  not  vices,  are." 
Alaham.  What  change  is  this,  that  now  I  feel  within  ? 

Is  it  disease  that  works  this  fall  of  spirits  ? 

Or  works  this  fall  of  spirits  my  disease  ? 

Things  seem  not  as  they  did ;  horror  appears. 

What  Sin  embodied,  what  strange  sight  is  this  ? 

Doth  sense  bring  back  but  what  within  me  is, 

Or  do  I  see  those  shapes  which  haunt  the  flame  ? 

What  summons  up  remorse  ?   Shall  conscience  rate 

Kings'  deeds,  to  make  them  less  than  their  estate  ? 

Ah  silly  ghost !  is  't  you  that  swarm  about  ? 

Wouldst  thou,  that  art  not  now,  a  father  be  ? 

These  body  laws  do  with  the  life  go  out. 

What  thoughts  be  these  that  do  my  entrails  tear  ? 

You  wandering  spirits  frame  in  me  your  hell ; 

I  feel  my  brother  and  my  sister  there. 


MUSTAPHA.  243 

MUSTAPHA :  A  TEA&EDY. 
BY  FULKE  GEEYILLE,  LOED  BEOOKE. 

EOSSA,  wife  to  SOLYMAN  the  Turkish  Emperor,  persuades  Tier  husband, 
that  MIISTAPHA,  his  son  by  a  former  marriage,  and  heir  to  his  crown, 
seeks  his  life ;  that  she  may  make  way,  by  the  death  of  MUSTAPHA,  for 
the  advancement  of  her  own  children,  ZANGER  and  CAMENA.  CAMENA, 
the  virtuous  daughter  of  EOSSA,  defends  the  innocence  of  MTJSTAPHA, 


CAMENA.     SOLTMAN. 

Cam.  They  that  from  youth  do  suck  at  Fortune's  breast, 
And  nurse  their  empty  hearts  with  seeking  higher, 
Like  dropsy-fed,  their  thirst  doth  never  rest ; 
For  still,  by  getting,  they  beget  desire : 
Till  thoughts,  like  wood,  while  they  maintain  the  flame 
Of  high  desires,  grow  ashes  in  the  same. 
But  Virtue !  those  that  can  behold  thy  beauties, 
Those  that  suck,  from  their  youth,  thy  milk  of  goodness, 
Their  minds  grow  strong  against  the  storms  of  Fortune, 
And  stand,  like  rocks  in  winter-gusts,  unshaken ; 
Not  with  the  blindness  of  desire  mistaken. 

0  Virtue  therefore !  whose  thrall  I  think  Fortune, 
Thou  who  despisest  not  the  sex  of  women, 

Help  me  out  of  these  riddles  of  my  fortune, 
Wherein  (methinks)  you  with  yourself  do  pose  me : 
Let  fates  go  on :  sweet  Virtue !  do  not  lose  me. 
My  mother  and  my  husband  have  conspired, 
For  brother's  good,  the  ruin  of  my  brother  • 
My  father  by  my  mother  is  inspired, 
For  one  child  to  seek  ruin  of  another. 

1  that  to  help  by  nature  am  required, 

While  I  do  help,  must  needs  still  hurt  a  brother. 

While  I  see  who  conspire,  I  seem  conspired 

Against  a  husband,  father,  and  a  mother. 

Truth  bids  me  run,  by  truth  I  am  retired ; 

Shame  leads  me  both  the  one  way  and  the  other. 

In  what  a  labyrinth  is  honour  cast, 

Drawn  divers  ways  with  sex,  with  time,  with  state, 

In  all  which,  error's  course  is  infinite, 

By  hope,  by  fear,  by  spite,  by  love,  and  hate ; 

And  but  one  only  way  unto  the  right, 

A  thorny  way,  where  pain  must  be  the  guide, 

Danger  the  light,  ofience  of  power  the  praise ! 


FULKE  GEEVILLE. 

Such  are  the  golden  hopes  of  iron  days. 
Yet  Virtue,  I  am  thine,  for  thy  sake  grieved 
(Since  -basest  thoughts,  for  their  ill-placed  desires, 
In  shame,  in  danger,  death,  and  torment,  glory) 
That  I  cannot  with  more  pains  write  thy  story. 
Chance,  therefore,  if  thou  scornest  those  that  scorn  thee ; 
Fame,  if  thou  hatest  those  that  force  thy  trumpet 
To  sound  aloud,  and  yet  despise  thy  sounding : 
Laws,  if  you  love  not  those  that  be  examples 
Of  nature's  laws,  whence  you  are  fallen  corrupted ; 
Conspire  that  I,  against  you  all  conspired, 
Joined  with  tyrant  virtue,  as  you  call  her, 
That  I,  by  your  revenges  may  be  named, 
For  virtue,  to  be  ruin'd,  and  defamed. 
My  mother  oft  and  diversely  I  warn'd, 
"What  fortunes  were  upon  such  courses  builded : 
That  fortune  still  must  be  with  ill  maintain' d, 
Which  at  the  first  with  any  ill  is  gain'd. 
I  Eosten1  warn'd,  that  man's  self-loving  thought 
Still  creepeth  to  the  rude-embracing  might 
Of  princes'  grace :  a  lease  of  glories  let, 
"Which  shining  burns ;  breeds  sereness  when  'tis  set. 
And,  by  this  creature  of  my  mother's  making, 
This  messenger,  I  Mustapha  have  warn'd, 
That  innocence  is  not  enough  to  save, 
"Where  good  and  greatness,  fear  and  envy  have. 
Till  now,  in  reverence  I  have  forborne 
To  ask,  or  to  presume  to  guess,  or  know 
My  father's  thoughts ;  whereof  he  might  think  scorn : 
For  dreadful  is  that  power  that  all  may  do ; 
Yet  they,  that  all  men  fear,  are  fearful  too. 
Lo,  where  he  sits !  Virtue,  work  thou  in  me, 
That  what  thou  seekest  may  accomplish 'd  be. 
Solym.  Ah  death !  is  not  thyself  sufficient  anguish, 

But  thou  must  borrow  fear,  that  threatening  glass, 
"Which,  while  it  goodness  hides,  and  mischief  shows, 
Doth  lighten  wit  to  honour's  overthrows  ? 
But  hush !  methinks  away  Camena  steals ; 
Murder,  belike,  in  me  itself  reveals. 
Camena !  whither  now  ?  why  haste  you  from  me  ? 
Is  it  so  strange  a  thing  to  be  a  father  ? 
1  Her  husband* 


MUSTAPHA. 


245 


Or  is  it  I  that  am  so  strange  a  father  ? 
Cam.  My  lord,  methought,  nay,  sure  I  saw  you  busy : 

Tour  child  presumes,  uncall'd,  that  comes  unto  you. 
Solym.  Who  may  presume  with  fathers,  but  their  own, 

Whom  nature's  law  hath  ever  in  protection, 

And  gilds  in  good  belief  of  dear  affection  ? 
Cam.  Nay,  reverence,  sir,  so  children's  worth  doth  hide, 

As  of  the  fathers  it  is  least  espied. 
Solym.  I  think  'tis  true,  who  know  their  children  least, 

Have  greatest  reason  to  esteem  them  best. 
Cam.  How  so,  my  lord  ?  since  love  in  knowledge  lives, 

Which  unto  strangers  therefore  no  man  gives. 
Solym.  The  life  we  gave  them  soon  they  do  forget, 

While  they  think  our  lives  do  their  fortunes  let. 
Cam.  The  tenderness  of  life  it  is  so  great, 

As  any  sign  of  death  we  hate  too  much  ; 

And  unto  parents  sons,  perchance,  are  such. 

Yet  nature  meant  her  strongest  unity 

'Twixt  sons  and  fathers ;  making  parents  cause 

Unto  the  sons,  of  their  humanity  ; 

And  children  pledge  of  their  eternity. 

Fathers  should-  love  this  image  in  their  sons. 
Solym.  But  streams  back  to  their  springs  do  never  run. 
Cam.  Pardon,  my  lord,  doubt  is  succession's  foe : 

Let  not  her  mists  poor  children  overthrow. 

Though  streams  from  springs  do  seem  to  run  away, 

'Tis  nature  leads  them  to  their  mother  sea. 
Solym.  Doth  nature  teach  them,  in  ambition's  strife, 

To  seek  his  death,  by  whom  they  have  their  life  ? 
Cam.  Things  easy,  to  desire  impossible  do  seem : 

Why  should  fear  make  impossible  seem  easy  ? 
Solym.  Monsters  yet  be,  and  being  are  believed, 
Cam.  Incredible  hath  some  inordinate  progression : 

Blood,  doctrine,  age,  corrupting  liberty, 

Do  all  concur,  where  men  such  monsters  be. 

Pardon  me,  sir,  if  duty  do  seem  angry : 

Affection  must  breathe  out  afflicted  breath, 

Where  imputation  hath  such  easy  faith. 
Solym.  Mustapha  is  he  that  hath  denied  his  nest ; 

The  wrong  the  greater  for  I  loved  him  best. 

He  hath  devised  that  all  at  once  should  die, 

Boston,  and  Eossa,  Zanger,  thou,  and  I. 


246  FULKE  GEEYILLE. 

Cam.  Fall  none  but  angels  suddenly  to  hell  ? 
Are  kind  and  order  grown  precipitate  ? 
Did  ever  any  other  man  but  he 
In  instant  lose  the  use  of  doing  well  ? 
Sir,  these  be  mists  of  greatness.     Look  again : 
For  kings  that,  in  their  fearful  icy  state, 
Behold  their  children  as  their  winding-sheet, 
Do  easily  doubt ;  and  what  they  doubt,  they  hate 

JSotym.  Camena !  thy  sweet  youth,  that  knows  no  ill, 
Cannot  believe  thine  elders,  when  they  say, 
That  good  belief  is  great  estates'  decay. 
Let  it  suffice,  that  I,  and  Eossa  too, 
Are  privy  what  your  brother  means  to  do. 

Cam.  Sir,  pardon  me,  and  nobly,  as  a  father, 
"What  I  shall  say,  and  say  of  holy  mother  ; 
Know  I  shall  say  it,  but  to  right  a  brother. 
My  mother  is  your  wife  :  duty  in  her 
Is  love :  she  loves  ;  which  not  well  govern'd,  bears 
The  evil  angel  of  misgiving  fears ; 
"Whose  many  eyes,  whilst  but  itself  they  see, 
Still  makes  the  worst  of  possibility  : 
Out  of  this  fear  she  Mustapha  accuseth : 
Unto  this  fear,  perchance,  she  joins  the  love 
"Which  doth  in  mothers  for  their  children  move. 
Perchance,  when  fear  hath  show'd  her  yours  must  fall, 
In  love  she  sees  that  hers  must  rise  withal. 
Sir,  fear  a  frailty  is,  and  may  have  grace, 
And  over-care  of  you  cannot  be  blamed ; 
Care  of  our  own  in  nature  hath  a  place ; 
Passions  are  oft  mistaken  and  misnamed ; 
Things  simply  good  grow  evil  with  misplacing. 
Though  laws  cut  off,  and  do  not  care  to  fashion, 
Humanity  of  error  hath  compassion. 
Yet  God  forbid,  that  either  fear,  or  care, 
Should  ruin  those  that  true  and  faultless  are. 

Solym.  Is  it  no  fault,  or  fault  I  may  forgive, 
For  son  to  seek  the  father  should  not  live  ? 

Cam.  Is  it  a  fault,  or  fault  for  you  to  know, 
My  mother  doubts  a  thing  that  is  not  so  ? 
These  ugly  works  of  monstrous  parricide, 
Mark  from  what  hearts  they  rise,  and  where  they  bide : 
Violent,  despair 'd,  where  honour  broken  is ; 


MTJSTAPHA. 


247 


Pear  lord,  time  death  ;  where  hope  is  misery ; 

Doubt  having  stopp'd  all  honest  ways  to  bliss  • 

And  custom  shut  the  windows  up  of  shame, 

That  craft  may  take  upon  her  wisdom's  name. 

Compare  now  Mustapha  with  this  despair : 

Sweet  youth,  sure  hopes,  honour,  a  father's  love, 

No  infamy  to  move,  or  banish  fear, 

Honour  to  stay,  hazard  to  hasten  fate : 

Can  horrors  work  in  such  a  child's  estate  ? 

Besides,  the  gods,  whom  kings  should  imitate, 

Have  placed  you  high  to  rule,  not  overthrow  ; 

For  us,  not  for  yourselves,  is  your  estate : 

Mercy  must  hand  in  hand  with  power  go. 

Tour  sceptre  should  not  strike  with  arms  of  fear, 

"Which  fathoms  all  men's  imbecility, 

And  mischief  doth,  lest  it  should  mischief  bear. 

As  reason  deals  within  with  frailty, 

Which  kills  not  passions  that  rebellious  are, 

But  adds,  subtracts,  keeps  down  ambitious  spirits. 

So  must  power  form,  not  ruin  instruments  : 

Tor  flesh  and  blood,  the  means  'twixt  heaven  and  hell, 

Unto  extremes  extremely  racked  be ; 

Which  kings  in  art  of  government  should  see : 

Else  they,  which  circle  in  themselves  with  de.ath, 

Poison  the  air  wherein  they  draw  their  breath. 

Pardon,  my  lord,  pity  becomes  my  sex : 

Grace  with  delay  grows  weak,  and  fury  wise. 

Remember  Theseus'  wish,  and  Neptune's  haste, 

Kill'd  innocence,  and  left  succession  waste, 

Solym.  If  what  were  best  for  them  that  do  offend, 
Laws  did  inquire,  the  answer  must  be  grace. 
If  mercy  be  so  large,  where 's  justice'  place  ? 

Cam.  Where  love  despairs,  and  where  God's  promise  ends. 
Por  mercy  is  the  highest  reach  of  wit, 
A  safety  unto  them  that  save  with  it : 
Born  out  of  God,  and  unto  human  eyes, 
Like  God,  not  seen,  till  fleshly  passion  dies. 

Solym.  God  may  forgive,  whose  being  and  whose  harms 
Are  far  removed  from  reach  of  fleshly  arms  : 
But  if  God  equals  or  successors  had, 
Even  God  of  safe  revenges  would  be  glad. 

Cam.  While  he  is  yet  alive,  he  may  be  slain ; 


248  TTJIKE  GBEVILLE. 

But  from  the  dead  no  flesh  comes  back  again. 
Solym.  While  he  remains  alive,  I  live  in  fear. 
Cam.  Though  he  were  dead,  that  doubt  still  living  were. 
Solym.  None  hath  the  power  to  end  what  he  begun. 
Cam.  The  same  occasion  follows  every  son. 
Solym.  Their  greatness,  or  their  worth,  is  not  so  much. 
Cam.  And  shall  the  best  be  slain  for  being  such  ? 
Solym.  Thy  mother,  or  thy  brother,  are  amiss ; 

I  am  betray' d,  and  one  of  them  it  is. 
Cam.  My  mother,  if  she  errs,  errs  virtuously ; 

And  let  her  err,  ere  Mustapha  should  die. 
Solym.  Kings  for  their  safety  must  not  blame  mistrust. 
Cam.  Nor  for  surmises  sacrifice  the  just. 
Solym.  "Well,  dear  Camena,  keep  this  secretly : 

I  will  be  well  advised  before  he  die. 

HELI,  a  Priest,  acquaints  MTJSTAPHA  with  the  intentions  of  his  father 
towards  him,  and  counsels  him  to  seek  his  safety  in  the  destruction  of 
BOSSA  and  her  faction.  MUSTAPHA  refuses  to  save  his  life  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  public  peace ;  and  being  sent  for  by  his  father,  obeys  the 
mandate  to  his  destruction. 

Priest.  Thy  father  purposeth  thy  death. 
Must.  What  have  I  to  my  father  done  amiss  ? 
Priest.  That  wicked  Eossa  thy  step-mother  is. 
Must.  Wherein  have  I  of  Eossa  ill-deserved  ? 
Priest.  In  that  the  empire  is  for  thee  reserved. 
Must.  Is  it  a  fault  to  be  my  father's  son  ? 

Ah  foul  ambition !  which  like  water-floods 

Not  chaunel-bound  dost  neighbours  over-run, 

And  growest  nothing  when  thy  rage  is  done. 

Must  Eossa' s  heirs  out  of  my  ashes  rise  ? 

Yet,  Zanger,  I  acquit  thee  of  my  blood ; 

For  I  believe,  thy  heart  hath  no  impression 

To  ruin  Mustapha  for  his  succession. 

But  tell  what  colours  they  against  me  use, 

And  how  my  father's  love  they  first  did  wound  ? 
Priest.  Of  treason  towards  him  they  thee  accuse : 

Thy  fame  and  greatness  give  their  malice  ground. 
Must.  Good  world,  where  it  is  danger  to  be  good ! 

Tet  grudge  I  not  power  of  myself  to  power  : 

This  baseness  only  in  mankind  I  blame, 

That  indignation  should  give  laws  to  fame. 

Show  me  the  truth. To  what  rules  am  I  bound  ? 


MUSTAPHA.  249 

Priest.  No  man  commanded  is  by  God  to  die, 
As  long  as  he  may  persecution  fly. 

Must.  To  fly,  hath  scorn ;  — it  argues  guiltiness, 
Inherits  fear,  weakly  abandons  friends, 

Gives  tyrants  fame,  takes  honour  from  distress 

Death,  do  thy  worst !  thy  greatest  pains  have  end. 

Priest.  Mischief  is  like  the  cockatrice's  eyes, 

Sees  first,  and  kills  ;  or  is  seen  first,  and  dies. 
Ely  to  thy  strength,  which  makes  misfortune  vain. 
Eossa  intends  thy  ruin.     "What  is  she  ? 
Seek  in  her  bowels  for  thy  father  lost : 
"Who  can  redeem  a  king  with  viler  cost  ? 

Must.  0  false  and  wicked  colours  of  desire  ! 
Eternal  bondage  unto  him  that  seeks 
To  be  possess'd  of  all  things  that  he  likes  ! 
Shall  I,  a  son  and  subject,  seem  to  dare, 
Eor  any  selfhess,  to  set  realms  on  fire  ; 
"Which  golden  titles  to  rebellions  are  ? 
Heli,  ev'n  you  have  told  me,  wealth  was  given 
The  wicked,  to  corrupt  themselves  and  others  ; 
Greatness  and  health  to  make  flesh  proud  and  cruel, 
"Where  in  the  good,  sickness  mows  down  desire. 
Death  glorifies,  misfortune  humbles. 
Since  therefore  life  is  but  the  throne  of  woe, 
"Which  sickness,  pain,  desire,  and  fear  inherit, 
Ever  most  worth  to  men  of  weakest  spirit ; 
Shall  we,  to  languish  in  this  brittle  jail, 
Seek,  by  ill  deeds,  to  shun  ill  destiny  ; 
And  so,  for  toys,  lose  immortality  ? 

Priest.  Eatal  necessity  is  never  known 

Until  it  strike ;  and  till  that  blow  be  come, 
"Who  falls  is  by  false  visions  overthrown. 

Must.  Blasphemous  love !  safe  conduct  of  the  ill ! 

What  power  hath  given  man's  wickedness  such  skill  ? 

Priest.  Ah  servile  men !  how  are  your  thoughts  bewitch' d 
With  hopes  and  fears,  the  price  of  your  subjection, 
That  neither  sense  nor  time  can  make  you  see, 
The  art  of  power  will  leave  you  nothing  free  ! 
Must.  Is  it  in  us  to  rule  a  sultan's  will  ? 
Priest.  We  made  them  first  for  good,  and  not  for  ill. 

Must.  Our  gods  they  are ;  their  God  remains  above : 
To  think  against  anointed  power  is  death. 


250  FULKE  GKREYILLE. 

Priest.  To  worship  tyrants  is  no  work  of  faith. 

Must.  'Tis  rage  of  folly  that  contends  with  fate. 

Priest.  Yet  hazard  something  to  preserve  the  state. 

Must.  Sedition  wounds  what  should  preserved  be. 

Priest.  To  wound  power's  humours,  keeps  their  honours  free. 

Must.  Admit  this  true :  what  sacrifice  prevails  ? 

Priest.  Force  the  petition  is  that  never  fails. 

Must.  Where  then  is  nature's  place  for  innocence  ? 

Priest.  Prosperity,  that  never  makes  oifence. 

Must.  Hath  destiny  no  wheels  but  mere  occasion  ? 

Priest,  Could  east  upon  the  west  else  make  invasion  ? 

Must.  Confusion  follows  where  obedience  leaves. 

Priest.  The  tyrant  only  that  event  deceives. 

Must.  And  are  the  ways  of  truth  and  honour  such  ? 

Priest.  "Weakness  doth  ever  think  it  owes  too  much. 

Must.  Hath  fame  her  glorious  colours  out  of  fear  ? 

Priest.  What  is  the  world  to  him  that  is  not  there  ? 

Must.  Tempt  me  no  more.     Grood-will  is  then  a  pain, 

When  her  words  beat  the  heart  and  cannot  enter. 

I  constant  in  my  counsel  do  remain, 

And  more  lives  for  my  own  life  will  not  venture. 

My  fellows,  rest :  our  Alcoran  doth  bind, 

That  I  alone  should  first  my  father  find, 

A  Messenger  enters. 
Messenger.  Sir,  by  our  lord's  commandment,  here  I  wait, 

To  guide  you  to  his  presence, 

Where,  like  a  king  and  father,  he  intends 

To  honour  and  acquaint  you  with  his  ends. 
Must.  Heli,  farewell ;  all  fates  are  from  above 

Chain'd  unto  humours  that  must  rise  or  fall. 

Think  what  we  will,  men  do  but  what  they  shall. 
ACHMAT  describes  the  manner  q/'MtrsTAPHA's  execution  to  ZANGEB. 

ACHMAT.    ZANGER. 
Achm.  When  Solyman,  by  cunning  spite 

Of  Eossa's  witchcrafts,  from  his  heart  had  banish' d 
Justice  of  kings,  and  lovingness  of  fathers, 
To  wage  and  lodge  such  camps  of  heady  passions, 
As  that  sect's  cunning  practices  could  gather ; 
Envy  took  hold  of  worth :  doubt  did  misconstrue ; 
Renown  was  made  a  lie,  and  yet  a  terror : 
Nothing  could  calm  his  rage,  or  move  compassion : 
Mustapha  must  die.     To  which  end  fetch'd  he  was, 


>  MUSTAPHA.  251 

Laden  with  hopes  and  promises  of  favour. 

So  vile  a  thing  is  craft  in  every  heart, 

As  it  makes  power  itself  descend  to  art. 

While  Mustapha,  that  neither  hoped  nor  fear'd, 

Seeing  the  storms  of  rage  and  danger  coming, 

Yet  came ;  and  came  accompanied  with  power. 

But  neither  power,  which  warranted  his  safety, 

Nor  safety,  that  makes  violence  a  justice, 

Could  hold  him  from  obedience  to  this  throne ; 

A  gulph,  which  hath  devour 'd  many  a  one. 
Zang.  Alas !  could  neither  truth  appease  his  fury, 

Nor  his  unlook'd  humility  of  coming, 

Nor  any  secret-witnessing  remorses  ? 

Can  nature  from  herself  make  such  divorces  ? 

Tell  on,  that  all  the  world  may  rue  and  wonder. 
A.chm.  There  is  a  place  environed  with  trees. 

Upon  whose  shadow' d  centre  there  is  pitch' d 

A  large  embroider 'd  sumptuous  pavilion ; 

The  stately  throne  of  tyranny  and  murder ; 

Where  mighty  men  are  slain,  before  they  know 

That  they  to  other  than  to  honour  go. 

Mustapha  no  sooner  to  the  port  did  come, 

But  thither  he  is  sent  for  and  conducted 

By  six  slave  eunuchs,  either  taught  to  colour 

Mischief  with  reverence,  or  forced,  by  nature, 

To  reverence  true  virtue  in  misfortune. 

While  Mustapha,  whose  heart  was  now  resolved, 

Not  fearing  death,  which  he  might  have  prevented ; 

Nor  craving  life,  which  he  might  well  have  gotten, 

If  he  would  other  duties  have  forgotten ; 

Yet  glad  to  speak  his  last  thoughts  to  his  father, 

Desired  the  eunuchs  to  entreat  it  for  him. 

They  did ;  wept  they,  and  kneeled  to  his  father. 

But  bloody  rage  that  glories  to  be  cruel, 

And  jealousy  that  fears  she  is  not  fearful, 

Made  Solyman  refuse  to  hear,  or  pity. 

He  bids  them  haste  their  charge ;  and  bloody-eyed 

Beholds  his  son,  while  he  obeying  died. 
Zang.  How  did  that  doing  heart  endure  to  suffer  ? 

Tell  on. 

Quicken  my  powers,  harden' d  and  dull  to  good, 

Which,  yet  unmoved,  hear  tell  of  brother's  blood. 


252  FULKE  GREYILLE. 

AcJim.  "While  these  six  eunuchs  to  this  charge  appointed 
(Whose  hearts  had  never  used  their  hands  to  pity, 
"Whose  hands,  now  only,  trembled  to  do  murder) 
"With  reverence  and  fear  stood  still  amazed  ; 
Loath  to  cut  off  such  worth,  afraid  to  save  it ; 
Mustapha,  with  thoughts  resolved  and  united, 
Bids  them  fulfil  their  charge  and  look  no  further. 
Their  hearts  afraid  to  let  their  hands  be  doing, 
The  cord,  that  hateful  instrument  of  murder, 
They  lifting  up  let  fall,  and  falling  lift  it : 
Each  sought  to  help,  and  helping  hinder' d  other. 
Till  Mustapha,  in  haste  to  be  an  angel, 
"With  heavenly  smiles,  and  quiet  words,  foreshows 
The  joy  and  peace  of  those  souls  where  he  goes. 
His  last  words  were  :  "  O  father,  now  forgive  me ; 
Forgive  them  too  that  wrought  my  overthrow : 
Let  my  grave  never  minister  offences. 
For  since  my  father  coveteth  my  death, 
Behold  with  joy  I  offer  him  my  breath." 
The  eunuchs  roar :  Solyman  his  rage  is  glutted  : 
His  thoughts  divine  of  vengeance  for  this  murder : 
Rumour  flies  up  and  down :  the  people  murmur : 
Sorrow  gives  laws  before  men  know  the  truth  : 
Pear  prophesieth  aloud,  and  threatens  ruth. 

EOSTEN  describes  to  ACHMAT  the  popular  fury  which  followed  upon  the 
execution  of  MUSTAPHA. 

ROSTER.     ACHMAT. 

JSos.  "When  Mustapha  was  by  the  eunuchs  strangled, 
Forthwith  his  camp  grew  doubtful  of  his  absence : 
The  guard  of  Solyman  himself  did  murmur : 
People  began  to  search  their  prince's  counsels  : 
Fury  gave  laws :  the  laws  of  duty  vanish' d : 
Kind  fear  of  him  they  loved  self-fear  had  banish' d. 
The  headlong  spirits  were  the  heads  that  guided : 
He  that  most  disobey 'd,  was  most  obey'd. 
Fury  so  suddenly  became  united, 
As  while  her  forces  nourished  confusion, 
Confusion  seem'd  with  discipline  delighted. 
Towards  Solyman  they  run  :  and  as  the  waters, 
That  meet  with  banks  of  snow,  mdkes  snow  grow  water; 
So,  ev'n  those  guards,  that  stood  to  interrupt  them, 
Give  easy  passage,  and  pass  on  amongst  them. 


MTTSTAPHA. 


253 


Solyman,  who  saw  this  storm  of  mischief  coming, 
Thinks  absence  his  best  argument  unto  them : 
Retires  himself,  and  sends  me  to  demand, 
"What  they  demanded,  or  what  meant  their  coming  ? 
I  speak :  they  cried  for  Mustapha  and  Achmat. 
Some  bid  away ;  some  kill ;  some  save  ;  some  hearken. 
Those  that  cried  save,  were  those  that  sought  to  kill  me. 
Who  cried  hark,  were  those  that  first  brake  silence : 
They  held  that  bade  me  go.     Humility  was  guilty ; 
Words  were  reproach ;  silence  in  me  was  scornful ; 
They  answer' d  ere  they  ask'd;  assured,  and  doubted. 
I  fled ;  their  fury  follow' d  to  destroy  me  ; 
Fury  made  haste  ;  haste  multiplied  their  fury ; 
Each  would  do  all ;  none  would  give  place  to  other. 
•  The  hindmost  strake ;  and  while  the  foremost  lifted 
Their  arms  to  strike,  each  weapon  hinder' d  other  : 
Their  running  let  their  strokes,  strokes  let  their  running. 
Desire,  mortal  enemy  to  desire, 
Made  them  that  sought  my  life,  give  life  unto  me. 

[These  two  tragedies  of  Lord  Brooke  might  with  more  propriety  have 
been  termed  political  treatises  than  plays.  Their  author  has  strangely 
contrived  to  make  passion,  character  and  interest,  of  the  highest  order 
subservient  to  the  expression  of  state  dogmas  and  mysteries.  He  is  nine 
parts  Machiavel  and  Tacitus,  for  one  part  Sophocles  or  Seneca.  In  this 
writer's  estimate  of  the  faculties  of  his  own  mind,  the  understanding  must 
have  held  a  most  tyrannical  pre-eminence.  Whether  we  look  into  his 
plays,  or  his  most  passionate  love-poems,  we  shall  find  all  frozen  and 
made  rigid  with  intellect.  The  finest  movements  of  the  human  heart,  the 
utmost  grandeur  of  which  the  soul  is  capable,  are  essentially  comprised  in 
the  actions  and  speeches  of  Caelica  and  Camena.  Shakspeare,  who  seems 
to  have  had  a  peculiar  delight  in  contemplating  womanly  perfection, 
whom  for  his  many  sweet  images  of  female  excellence  all  women  are  in  an 
especial  manner  bound  to  love,  has  not  raised  the  ideal  of  the  female  cha 
racter  higher  than  Lord  Brooke  in  these  two  women  has  done.  But  it 
requires  a  study  equivalent  to  the  learning  of  a  new  language  to  under 
stand  their  meaning  when  they  speak.  It  is  indeed  hard  to  hit : 

Much  like  thy  riddle,  Samson,  in  one  day 
Or  seven  though  one  should  musing  sit. 

It  is  as  if  a  being  of  pure  intellect  should  take  upon  him  to  express  the 
emotions  of  our  sensitive  natures.  There  would  be  all  knowledge,  but 
sympathetic  expression  would  be  wanting.] 


254 


BEN  JONSON. 


THE  CASE  IS  ALTEEED  :  A  COMEDY,  BY  BEN  JONSON. 

The  present  humour  to  be  followed. 

ATJBELIA,  PHCENIXELLA,  sisters ;  their  mother  being  lately  dead. 

Aur.  Room  for  a  case  of  matrons,  colour' d  black : 

How  motherly  my  mother's  death  hath  made  us  ! 

I  would  I  had  some  girls  now  to  bring  up  j 

0, 1  could  make  a  wench  so  virtuous, 

She  should  say  grace  to  every  bit  of  meat, 

And  gape  no  wider  than  a  wafer's  thickness, 

And  she  should  make  French  courtesies  so  most  low 

That  every  touch  should  turn  her  over  backward. 

Phoen.  Sister,  these  words  become  not  your  attire, 
Nor  your  estate ;  our  virtuous  mother's  death 
Should  print  more  deep  effects  of  sorrow  in  us, 
Than  may  be  worn  out  in  so  little  time. 

Aur.  Sister,  i'  faith  you  take  too  much  tobacco, 
It  makes  you  black  within  as  you  are  without. 
What,  true-stitch  sister,  both  your  sides  alike ! 
Be  of  a  slighter  work ;  for,  of  my  word, 
You  shall  be  sold  as  dear,  or  rather  dearer. 
Will  you  be  bound  to  customs  and  to  rites, 
Shed  profitable  tears,  weep  for  advantage  ; 
Or  else  do  all  things  as  you  are  inclined  ? 
Eat  when  your  stomach  serves,  saith  the  physician, 
Not  at  eleven  and  six.     So,  if  your  humour 
Be  now  affected  with  this  heaviness, 
Give  it  the  reins,  and  spare  not ;  as  I  do 
In  this  my  pleasurable  appetite. 
It  is  Precisianism  to  alter  that, 
With  austere  judgment,  that  is  given  by  nature. 
I  wept  (you  saw)  too,  when  my  mother  died ; 
For  then  I  found  it  easier  to  do  so, 
And  fitter  with  my  mode,  than  not  to  weep : 
But  now  'tis  otherwise.    Another  time 
Perhaps  I  shall  have  such  deep  thoughts  of  her, 
That  I  shall  weep  afresh  some  twelvemonth  hence ; 
And  I  will  weep,  if  I  be  so  disposed ; 
And  put  on  black  as  grimly  then  as  now. — 
Let  the  mind  go  still  .with  the  body's  stature : 
Judgement  is  fit  for  judges ;  give  me  nature. 


THE  CASE  IS  ALTEEED.  255 

Presentiment  of  treachery,  vanishing  at  the  sight  of  the  person  suspected. 
Lord  PAULO  FAENESE.     (Speaking  to  himself  of  AN GELO.) 


My  thoughts  cannot  propose  a  reason 


Why  I  should  fear  or  faint  thus  in  my  hopes 

Of  one  so  much  endeared  to  my  love  : 

Some  spark  it  is,  kindled  within  the  soul, 

"Whose  light  yet  breaks  not  to  the  outward  sense, 

That  propagates  this  timorous  suspect. 

His  actions  never  carried  any  force 

Of  change  or  weakness ;  then  I  injure  him, 

In  being  thus  cold-conceited  of  his  faith. 

O,  here  he  comes.        [While  Tie  speaks  ANGELO  enters. 
Angela.  How  now,  sweet  lord,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Paul.  Grood  faith,  his  presence  makes  me  half-ashamed 
Of  my  stray'd  thoughts. 

JAQTTES  (a  Miser)  worships  his  gold. 
Jaq.  "Pis  not  to  be  told 

"What  servile  villanies  men  will  do  for  gold. 

O,  it  began  to  have  a  huge  strong  smell, 

"With  lying  so  long  together  in  a  place : 

I  '11  give  it  vent,  it  shall  have  shift  enough  ; 

And  if  the  devil,  that  envies  all  goodness, 

Have  told  them  of  my  gold,  and  where  I  kept  it, 

I  '11  set  his  burning  nose  once  more  a  work 

To  smell  where  I  removed  it.     Here  it  is ; 

I  '11  hide  and  cover  it  with  this  horse-dung. 

"Who  will  suppose  that  such  a  precious  nest 

Is  crown' d  with  such  a  dunghill  excrement  ? 

In,  my  dear  life,  sleep  sweetly,  my  dear  child, 

Scarce  lawfully  begotten,  but  yet  gotten, 

And  that 's  enough.   Eot  all  hands  that  come  near  thee, 

Except  mine  own.     Burn  out  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 

Except  mine  own.    All  thoughts  of  thee  be  poison 

To  their  enamour' d  hearts,  except  mine  own. 

I  '11  take  no  leave,  sweet  prince,  great  emperor, 

But  see  thee  every  minute :  king  of  kings, 

I  '11  not  be  rude  to  thee,  and  turn  my  back 

In  going'  from  thee,  but  go  backward  out, 

"With  my  face  toward  thee,  with  humble  courtesies. 

[The  passion  for  wealth  has  worn  out  much  of  its  gros,sness  by  tract  of 
time.     Our  ancestors  certainly  conceived  of  money  as  able  to  confer  a 


256  BEN  JONSOtf. 

distinct  gratification  in  itself,  not  alone  considered  simply  as  a  symbol  of 
wealth.  The  oldest  poets,  when  they  introduce  a  miser,  constantly  make 
him  address  his  gold  as  liis  mistress  ;  as  something  to  be  seen,  felt,  and 
hugged ;  as  capable  of  satisfying  two  of  the  senses  at  least.  The  substi 
tution  of  a  thin  unsatisfying  medium  for  the  good  old  tangible  gold,  has 
made  avarice  quite  a  Platonic  affection  in  comparison  with  the  seeing, 
touching,  and  handling  pleasures  of  the  old  Glory sophilites.  A  bank-note 
can  no  more  satisfy  the  touch  of  a  true  sensualist  in  this  passion,  than 
Creusa  could  return  her  husband's  embrace  in  the  shades.  See  the  Cave 
of  Mammon  in  Spenser ;  Barabas's  contemplation  of  his  wealth  in  the 
Jew  of  Malta ;  Luke's  raptures  in  the  City  Madam,  &c.  Above  all,  hear 
Guzman,  in  that  excellent  old  Spanish  novel,  The  Rogue,  expatiate  on  the 
"  ruddy  cheeks  of  your  golden  Euddocks,  your  Spanish  Pistolets,  your 
plump  and  full-faced  Portuguese,  and  your  clear-skinned  pieces  of  eight  of 
Castile,"  which  he  and  his  fellows  the  beggars  kept  secret  to  themselves, 
and  did  "  privately  enjoy  in  a  plentiful  manner."  "  For  to  have  them, 
for  to  pay  them  away,  is  not  to  enjoy  them ;  to  enjoy  them  is  to  have 
them  lying  by  us,  having  no  other  need  of  them  than  to  use  them  for  the 
clearing  of  the  eye- sight,  and  the  comforting  of  our  senses.  These  we  did 
carry  about  with  us,  sewing  them  in  some  patches  of  our  doublets  near 
unto  the  heart,  and  as  close  to  the  skin  as  we  could  handsomely  quilt  them 
in,  holding  them  to  be  restorative."] 


POETASTEE ;  OE,  HIS  AEEAIONMENT :  A  COMICAL  SATTE, 
BY  BEN  JONSON. 

Ovid  bewails  his  hard  condition  in  being  banished  from  court  and  the 
society  of  the  princess  Julia. 

OVID. 

Banish' d  the  court  ?  let  me  be  banish'd  life, 

Since  the  chief  end  of  life  is  there  concluded. 

"Within  the  court  is  all  the  kingdom  bounded ; 

And  as  her  sacred  sphere  doth  comprehend 

Ten  thousand  times  so  much,  as  so  much  place 

In  any  part  of  all  the  empire  else, 

So  every  body,  moving  in  her  sphere, 

Contains  ten  thousand  times  as  much  in  him 

As  any  other  her  choice  orb  excludes. 

As  in  a  circle  a  magician,  then, 

Is  safe  against  the  spirit  he  excites, 

But  out  of  it  is  subject  to  his  rage, 

And  loseth  all  the  virtue  of  his  art ; 

So  I,  exiled  the  circle  of  the  court, 

Lose  all  the  good  gifts  that  in  it  I  joy'd. 

No  virtue  current  is,  but  with  her  stamp ; 

And  no  vice  vicious,  blanch' d  with  her  white  hand. 


POETASTEB.  257 

The  court 's  the  abstract  of  all  Eome's  desert, 
And  my  dear  Julia  the  abstract  of  the  court. 
Methinks,  now  I  come  near  her,  I  respire 
Some  air  of  that  late  comfort  I  received : 
And  while  the  evening,  with  her  modest  veil, 
Gives  leave  to  such  poor  shadows  as  myself 
To  steal  abroad,  I,  like  a  heartless  ghost, 
Without  the  living  body  of  my  love, 
Will  here  walk,  and  attend  her.     For  I  know 
Not  far  from  hence  she  is  imprisoned, 
And  hopes  of  her  strict  guardian  to  bribe 
So  much  admittance,  as  to  speak  to  me, 
And  cheer  my  fainting  spirits  with  her  breath. 
JULIA  appears  above  at  Tier  chamber-window. 

Jul.  Ovid !  my  love ! 

Ovid.  Here,  heavenly  Julia. 

Jul.  Here !  and  not  here !  0,  how  that  word  doth  play 
With  both  our  fortunes,  differing,  like  ourselves ; 
But  one,  and  yet  divided,  as  opposed ; 
I  high,  thou  low !  0,  this  our  plight  of  place 
Doubly  presents  the  two  lets  of  our  love, 
Local  and  ceremonial  height  and  lowness ; 
Both  ways,  I  am  too  high,  and  thou  too  low. 
Our  minds  are  even,  yet :  O,  why  should  our  bodies, 
That  are  their  slaves,  be  so  without  their  rule  ? 
I  '11  cast  myself  down  to  thee ;  if  I  die, 
I  '11  ever  live  with  thee :  no  height  of  birth, 
Of  place,  of  duty,  or  of  cruel  power, 
Shall  keep  me  from  thee ;  should  my  father  lock 
This  body  up  within  a  tomb  of  brass, 
Yet  I  '11  be  with  thee.     If  the  forms,  I  hold 
Now  in  my  soul,  be  made  one  substance  with  it ; 
That  soul  immortal ;  and  the  same  'tis  now ; 
Death  cannot  raze  the  effects  she  now  retaineth : 
And  then  may  she  be  any  where  she  will. 
The  souls  of  parents  rule  not  children's  souls ; 
When  death  sets  both  in  their  dissolved  estates, 
Then  is  no  child  nor  father :  then  eternity 
Frees  all  from  any  temporal  respect. 
I  come,  my  Ovid ;  take  me  in  thine  arms ; 
And  let  me  breathe  my  soul  into  thy  breast. 

Ovid.  0  stay,  my  love ;  the  hopes  thou  dost  conceive 


258  BEN  JONSOIT. 

Of  thy  quick  death,  and  of  thy  future  life, 
Are  not  authentical.     Thou  choosest  death, 
So  thou  mightst  joy  thy  love  in  the  other  life. 
But  know,  my  princely  love,  when  thou  art  dead, 
Thou  only  must  survive  in  perfect  soul ; 
And  in  the  soul  are  no  affections : 
"We  pour  out  our  affections  with  our  blood ; 
And  with  our  blood's  affections  fade  our  loves. 
No  life  hath  love  in  such  sweet  state  as  this ; 
No  essence  is  so  dear  to  moody  sense, 
As  flesh  and  blood,  whose  quintessence  is  sense. 
Beauty,  composed  of  blood  and  flesh,  moves  more, 
And  is  more  plausible  to  blood  and  flesh, 
Than  spiritual  beauty  can  be  to  the  spirit. 
Such  apprehension  as  we  have  in  dreams 
(When  sleep,  the  bond  of  senses,  locks  them  up), 
Such  shall  we  have  when  death  destroys  them  quite. 
If  love  be  then  thy  object,  change  not  life ; 
Live  high  and  happy  still ;  I  still  below, 
Close  with  my  fortunes,  in  thy  height  shall  joy. 
Jul.  Ay  me !  that  virtue,  whose  brave  eagle's  wings 
"With  every  stroke  blow  stars  in  burning  heaven, 
Should,  like  a  swallow,  (preying  toward  storms) 
Fly  close  to  earth ;  and,  with  an  eager  plume, 
Pursue  those  objects  which  none  else  can  see, 
But  seem  to  all  the  world  the  empty  air. 
Thus  thou,  poor  Ovid,  and  all  virtuous  men, 
Must  prey  like  swallows  on  invisible  food ; 
Pursuing  flies,  or  nothing :  and  thus  love, 
And  every  worldly  fancy,  is  transposed 
By  worldly  tyranny  to  what  plight  it  list. 
O  father,  since  thou  gavest  me  not  my  mind, 
Strive  not  to  rule  it ;  take  but  what  thou  gavest 
To  thy  disposure ;  thy  affections 
Eule  not  in  me ;  I  must  bear  all  my  griefs ; 
Let  me  use  all  my  pleasures :  virtuous  love 
"Was  never  scandal  to  a  goddess'  state. 
But  he  's  inflexible !  and,  my  dear  love, 
Thy  life  may  chance  be  shorten' d  by  the  length 
Of  my  unwilling  speeches  to  depart. 
Farewell,  sweet  life :  though  thou  be  yet  exiled 
The  officious  court,  enjoy  me  amply  still : 


POETASTEB.  259 

My  soul,  in  this  my  breath,  enters  thine  ears ; 

And  on  this  turret's  floor  will  I  lie  dead, 

Till  we  may  meet  again.     In  this  proud  height, 

I  kneel  beneath  thee  in  my  prostrate  love, 

And  kiss  the  happy  sands  that  kiss  thy  feet. 

Great  Jove  submits  a  sceptre  to  a  cell ; 

And  lovers,  ere  they  part,  will  meet  in  hell. 
Ovid.  Farewell  all  company,  and,  if  I  could, 

All  light,  with  thee :  hell's  shade  should  hide  my 
brows, 

Till  thy  dear  beauty's  beams  redeem'd  my  vows. 
Jul.  Ovid,  my  love :  alas  !  may  we  not  stay  . 

A  little  longer,  think' st  thou,  undiscern'd? 
Ovid.  For  thine  own  good,  fair  goddess,  do  not  stay. 

Who  would  engage  a  firmament  of  fires, 

Shining  in  thee,  for  me,  a  falling  star  ? 

Begone,  sweet  life-blood :  if  I  should  discern 

Thyself  but  touch' d  for  my  sake,  I  should  die. 
Jul.  I  will  begone  then ;  and  not  Heaven  itself 

Shall  draw  me  back. 
Ovid.  Yet,  Julia,  if  thou  wilt, 

A  little  longer  stay. 
Jul.  I  am  content. 
Ovid.  0  mighty  Ovid !  what  the  sway  of  Heaven 

Could  not  retire,  my  breath  hath  turned  back. 
Jul.  Who  shall  go  first,  my  love  ?  my  passionate  eyes 

Will  not  endure  to  see  thee  turn  from  me. 
Ovid.  If  thou  go  first,  my  soul  will  follow  thee. 
Jul.  Then  we  must  stay. 
Ovid.  Ay  me !  there  is  no  stay 

In  amorous  pleasures.     If  both  stay,  both  die. 

I  hear  thy  father.     Hence,  my  deity.      [  JULIA  goes  in. 

Fear  forgeth  sounds  in  my  deluded  ears ; 

I  did  not  hear  him :  I  am  mad  with  love. 

There  is  no  spirit,  under  heaven,  that  works 

With  such  illusion :  yet,  such  witchcraft  kill  me, 

Ere  a  sound  mind,  without  it,  save  my  life. 

Here  on  my  knees  I  worship  the  blest  place, 

That  held  my  goddess ;  and  the  loving  air, 

That  closed  her  body  in  his  silken  arms. 

Vain  Ovid !  kneel  not  to  the  place,  nor  air : 

She  's  in  thy  heart ;  rise  then,  and  worship  there* 

s2 


260  BEN  JONSOtf. 

The  truest  wisdom,  silly  men  can  have, 
Is  dotage  on  the  follies  of  their  flesh  .- 


AtrGttTSTTJS  discourses  with  his  Courtiers  concerning  Poetry. 

C^SAB,  MECJGNAS,  G-ALLTTS,  TIBTTLLTJS,  HOBACE. 
Equites  Romani. 

C(BS,  "We,  that  have  conquer' d  still  to  save  the  conquer' d, 
And  loved  to  make  inflictions  fear'd,  not  felt ; 
Grieved  to  reprove,  and  joyful  to  reward, 
More  proud  of  reconcilement  than  revenge, 
Eesume  into  the  late  state  of  our  love 
Worthy  Cornelius  G-allus  and  Tibullus1. 
You  both  are  gentlemen ;  you,  Cornelius, 
A  soldier  of  renown,  and  the  first  provost 
That  ever  let  our  Roman  Eagles  fly 
On  swarthy  Egypt,  quarried  with  her  spoils. 
Yet  (not  to  bear  cold  forms,  nor  men's  out-terms, 
"Without  the  inward  fires,  and  lives  of  men) 
You  both  have  virtues,  shining  through  your  shapes ; 
To  show,  your  titles  are  not  writ  on  posts, 
Or  hollow  statues ;  which  the  best  men  are, 
Without  Promethean  stuffings  reach' d  from  heaven. 
Sweet  Poesy's  sacred  garlands  crown  your  gentry ;   . 
"Which  is,  of  all  the  faculties  on  earth, 
The  most  abstract,  and  perfect,  if  she  be 
True  born,  and  nursed  with  all  the  sciences. 
She  can  so  mould  Rome,  and  her  monuments, 
"Within  the  liquid  marble  of  her  lines, 
That  they  shall  stand  fresh  and  miraculous, 
Ev'n  when  they  mix  with  innovating  dust ; 
In  her  sweet  streams  shall  our  brave  Roman  spirits 
Chase,  and  swim  after  death,  with  their  choice  deeds 
Shining  on  their  white  shoulders ;  and  therein 
Shall  Tiber,  and  our  famous  rivers,  fall 
With  such  attraction,  that  the  ambitious  line 
Of  the  round  world  shall  to  her  centre  shrink, 
To  hear  their  music.     And  for  these  high  parts, 
Csesar  shall  reverence  the  Pierian  arts. 

Mec.  Your  majesty's  high  grace  to  poesy 

Shall  stand  'gainst  all  the  dull  detractions 
Of  leaden  souls ;  who,  for  the  vain  assumings 
1  They  had  offended  the  emperor  by  concealing  the  love  of  Ovid  for 

the  princess  Julia, 


POETASTEB.  261 

Of  some,  quite  worthless-  of  her  sovereign  wreaths, 
Contain  her  worthiest  prophets  in  contempt. 

Gal.  Happy  is  Rome  of  all  earth's  other  states, 
To  have  so  true  and  great  a  president, 
For  her  inferior  spirits  to  imitate, 
As  Caesar  is ;  who  addeth  to  the  sun 
Influence  and  lustre,  in  increasing  thus 
His  inspirations,  kindling  fire  in  us. 

Hor.  Phoebus  himself  shall  kneel  at  Caesar's  shrine 
And  deck  it  with  bay-garlands  dew'd  with  wine, 
To  quit  the  worship  Caesar  does  to  him : 
"Where  other  princes,  hoisted  to  their  thrones 
By  Fortune's  passionate  and  disorder' d  power, 
Sit  in  their  height  like  clouds  before  the  sun, 
Hindering  his  comforts ;  and  (by  their  excess 
Of  cold  in  virtue,  and  cross  heat  in  vice) 
Thunder  and  tempest  on  those  learned  heads, 
Whom  Caesar  with  such  honour  doth  advance. 

Tib.  All  human  business  Fortune  doth  command 
Without  all  order ;  and  with  her  blind  hand, 
She,  blind,  bestows  blind  gifts  :  that  still  have  nursed, 
They  see  not  who,  nor  how,  but  still  the  worst. 

CCBS.  Caesar,  for  his  rule,  and  for  so  much  stuif 
As  Fortune  puts  in  his  hand,  shall  dispose  it 
(As  if  his  hand  had  eyes,  and  soul,  in  it) 
With  worth  and  judgment.   Hands  that  part  with  gifts, 
Or  will  restrain  their  use,  without  desert, 
Or  with  a  misery,  numb'd  to  Virtue's  right, 
Work,  as  they  had  no  soul  to  govern  them, 
And  quite  reject  her ;  severing  their  estates 
From  human  order.     Whosoever  can, 
And  will  not  cherish  Virtue,  is  no  man. 

JZques.  Virgil  is  now  at  hand,  imperial  Caesar. 

CCBS.  Rome's  honour  is  at  hand  then.     Fetch  a  chair, 
And  set  it  on  our  right-hand ;  where  'tis  fit, 
Rome's  honour  and  our  own  should  ever  sit. 
Now  he  is  come  out  of  Campania, 
I  doubt  not  he  hath  finish' d  all  his  JEneids ; 
Which,  like  another  soul,  I  long  to  enjoy. 
What  think  you  three  of  Virgil,  gentlemen, 
(That  are  of  his  profession  though  rank'd  higher) 
Or,  Horace,  what  sayst  thou,  that  art  the  poorest, 


262  BEN  JOKSON. 

And  likeliest  to  envy  or  to  detract  ? 
Hor.  Caesar 'speaks  after  common  men  in  this, 
To  make  a  difference  of  me  for  my  poorness ; 
As  if  the  filth  of  poverty  sunk  as  deep 
Into  a  knowing  spirit,  as  the  bane 
Of  riches  doth  into  an  ignorant  soul. 
No,  Caesar ;  they  be  pathless  moorish  minds, 
That  being  once  made  rotten  with  the  dung 
Of  damned  riches,  ever  after  sink 
Beneath  the  steps  of  any  villany. 
But  knowledge  is  the  nectar,  that  keeps  sweet 
A  perfect  soul,  ev'n  in  this  grave  of  sin  ; 
And  for  my  soul,  it  is  as  free  as  Caesar's : 
For  what  I  know  is  due  I  '11  give  to  all. 
He  that  detracts,  or  envies  virtuous  merit, 
Is  still  the  covetous  and  the  ignorant  spirit. 
Cces.  Thanks,  Horace,  for  thy  free  and  wholesome  sharp 
ness, 

"Which  pleaseth  Caesar  more  than  servile  fawns. 
A  natter 'd  prince  soon  turns  the  prince  of  fools. 
And  for  thy  sake,  we  '11  put  no  difference  more 
Between  the  great  and  good  for  being  poor. 

Say  then,  loved  Horace,  thy  true  thought  of  Virgil. 
HOT.  I  judge  him  of  a  rectified  spirit, 

By  man}'"  revolutions  of  discourse, 

(In  his  bright  reason's  influence)  refined 

Erom  all  the  tartarous  moods  of  common  men ; 

Bearing  the  nature  and  similitude 

Of  a  right  heavenly  body ;  most  severe 

In  fashion  and  collection  of  himself ; 

And  then  as  clear  and  confident  as  Jove. 
Gal.  And  yet  so  chaste  and  tender  is  his  ear, 

In  suffering  any  syllable  to  pass, 

That  he  thinks  may  become  the  honour' d  name 

Of  issue  to  his  so  examined  self; 

That  all  the  lasting  fruits  of  his  full  merit 

In  his  own  poems,  he  doth  still  distaste ; 

As  if  his  mind's  piece,  which  he  strove  to  paint, 

Could  not  with  fleshly  pencils  have  her  right. 
Tib.  But  to  approve  his  works  of  sovereign  worth, 

This  observation  (methinks)  more  than  serves ; 

And  is  not  vulgar.     That  which  he  hath  writ, 


POETASTEE.  263 

Is  with  such  judgment  labour' d,  and  distill' d 
Through  all  the  needful  uses  of  our  lives, 
That  could  a  man  remember  but  his  lines, 
He  should  not  touch  at  any  serious  point, 
But  he  might  breathe  his  spirit  out  of  him. 

C(ss.  You  mean  he  might  repeat  part  of  his  works, 
As  fit  for  any  conference  he  can  use  ? 

Tib.  True,  royal  Caesar. 

COBS.  Worthily  observed : 

And  a  most  worthy  virtue  in  his  works. 
What  thinks  material  Horace  of  his  learning  ? 

Hor.  His  learning  savours  not  the  school-like  gloss, 
That  most  consists  in  echoing  words  and  terms, 
And  soonest  wins  a  man  an  empty  name ; 
£jor  any  long,  or  far-fetch' d  circumstance, 
Wrapp'd  in  the  curious  generalties  of  arts ; 
But  a  direct  and  analytic  sum 
Of  all  the  worth  and  first  effects  of  arts. 
And  for  his  poesy,  'tis  so  ramm'd  with  life, 
That  it  shall  gather  strength  of  life,  with  being, 
And  live  hereafter  more  admired  than  now. 

Gees.  This  one  consent,  in  all  your  dooms  of  him, 
And  mutual  loves  of  all  your  several  merits, 
Argues  a  truth  of  merit  in  you  all. 

VIE  GIL  enters. 

See  here  comes  Virgil ;  we  will  rise  and  greet  him : 
Welcome  to  Caesar,  Virgil.     Caesar  and  Virgil 
Shall  differ  but  in  sound ;  to  Caesar,  Virgil 
(Of  his  expressed  greatness)  shall  be  made 
A  second  sirname ;  and  to  Virgil,  Csesar. 
Where  are  thy  famous  .^Eneids  ?  do  us  grace 
To  let  us  see,  and  surfeit  on  their  sight. 

Vir.  Worthless  they  are  of  Caesar's  gracious  eyes, 

If  they  were  perfect ;  much  more  with  their  wants ; 
Which  yet  are  more  than  my  time  could  supply. 
And  could  great  Caesar's  expectation 
Be  satisfied  with  any  other  service, 
I  would  not  show  them. 

GCBB.  Virgil  is  too  modest ; 

Or  seeks,  in  vain,  to  make  our  longings  more. 
Show  them,  sweet  Virgil. 

Vir.  Then,  in  such  due  fear 


264  BEN  JONSON. 

As  fits  presenters  of  great  works  to  Caesar, 
I  humbly  show  them. 

CCBS.  Let  us  now  behold 

A  human  soul  made  visible  in  life ; 
And  more  refulgent  in  a  senseless  paper, 
Than  in  the  sensual  complement  of  kings. 
Bead,  read,  thyself,  dear  Virgil ;  let  not  me 
Profane  one  accent  with  an  untuned  tongue : 
Best  matter,  badly  shown,  shows  worse  than  bad. 
See  then  this  chair,  of  purpose  set  for  thee, 
To  read  thy  poem  in ;  refuse  it  not. 
Virtue,  without  presumption,  place  may  take 
Above  best  kings,  whom  only  she  should  make. 

Vir.  It  will  be  thought  a  thing  ridiculous 
To  present  eyes,  and  to  all  future  times 
A  gross  untruth ;  that  any  poet  (void 
Of  birth,  or  wealth,  or  temporal  dignity,) 
Should,  with  decorum,  transcend  Caesar's  chair. 
Poor  virtue  raised,  high  birth  and  wealth  set  under, 
Crosseth  Heaven's  courses,  and  makes  worldlings 
wonder. 

CCBS.  The  course  of  heaven,  and  fate  itself,  in  this 

"Will  Caesar  cross ;  much  more  all  worldly  custom. 

Hor.  Custom  in  course  of  honour  ever  errs ; 

And  they  are  best,  whom  fortune  least  prefers. 

CCBS.  Horace  hath  (but  more  strictly)  spoke  our  thoughts. 
The  vast  rude  swinge  of  general  confluence 
Is,  in  particular  ends,  exempt  from  sense : 
And  therefore  reason  (which  in  right  should  be 
The  special  rector  of  all  harmony) 
Shall  show  we  are  a  man,  distinct  by  it 
Prom  those,  whom  custom  rapteth  in  her  press. 
Ascend  then,  Virgil ;  and  where  first  by  chance 
"We  here  have  turn'd  thy  book,  do  thou  first  read. 

Vir.  Great  Caesar  hath  his  will :  I  will  ascend. 
'Twere  simple  injury  to  his  free  hand, 
That  sweeps  the  cobwebs  from  unused  virtue, 
And  makes  her  shine  proportion' d  to  her  worth, 
To  be  more  nice  to  entertain  his  grace, 
Than  he  is  choice  and  liberal  to  afford  it. 

CCBS.  Gentlemen  of  our  chamber,  guard  the  doors, 
And  let  none  enter ;  peace.     Begin,  good  Virgil. 


SEJAITOS  HIS  FALL.  265 

VIE  GIL  reads  part  of  Ms  fourth  JEneid. 
Vir.  Meanwhile,  the  skies  'gan  thunder,  &c. 

[This  Roman  play  seems  written  to  confute  those  enemies  of  Ben 
Jonson  in  his  own  days  and  ours,  who  have  said  that  he  made  a  pedan- 
tical  use  of  his  learning.  He  has  here  revived  the  whole  court  of  Augus 
tus,  by  a  learned  spell.  We  are  admitted  to  the  society  of  the  illustrious 
dead.  Yirgil,  Horace,  Ovid,  Tibullus,  converse  in  our  own  tongue  more 
finely  and  poetically  than  they  expressed  themselves  in  their  native  Lathi. 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  elegant,  refined,  and  court-like  than 

the  scenes  between  this  Louis  the  Fourteenth  of  antiquity  and  his  lite 
rati.  The  whole  essence  and  secret  of  that  kind  of  intercourse  is  con 
tained  therein.  The  economical  liberality  by  which  greatness,  seeming  to 
wave  some  part  of  its  prerogative,  takes  care  to  lose  none  of  the  essen 
tials  ;  the  prudential  liberties  of  an  inferior  which  flatter  by  commanded 
boldness  and  soothe  with  complimental  sincerity.] 


SE JANUS  HIS  FALL:  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  BEN  JONSON. 
SEJANTTS,  the  morning  Tie  is  condemned  by  the  Senate,  receives  some 


SEJANTJS.    POMPONITJS.    MINUTIUS.    TEEENTIUS,  &c. 

Ter.  Are  these  things  true  ? 

Min,  Thousands  are  gazing  at  it  in  the  streets. 

Sej.  What 's  that  ? 

Ter.  Minutius  tells  us  here,  my  lord, 

That  a  new  head  being  set  upon  your  statue, 

A  rope  is  since  found  wreath' d  about  it !  and 

But  now  a  fiery  meteor  in  the  form 

Of  a  great  ball  was  seen  to  roll  along 

The  troubled  air,  where  yet  it  hangs  imperfect, 

The  amazing  wonder  of  the  multitude. 

Sef.  No  more. — : 

Send  for  the  tribunes ;  we  will  straight  have  up 

More  of  the  soldiers  for  our  guard.     Minutius, 

"We  pray  you  go  for  Cotta,  Latiaris, 

Trio  the  consul,  or  what  senators 

You  know  are  sure,  and  ours.     You,  my  good  Natta, 

[For  Laco  provost  of  the  watch.     Now,  Satrius, 

The  time  of  proof  comes  on.     Arm  all  our  servants, 

And  without  tumult.     You,  Pomponius, 

Hold  some  good  correspondence  with  the  consul ; 

Attempt  him,  noble  friend.     These  things  begin 

To  look  like  dangers,  now,  worthy  my  fates. 


2G6  BEN  JONSON. 

Fortune,  I  see  thy  worst :  let  doubtful  states 

And  things  uncertain  hang  upon  thy  will ; 

Me  surest  death  shall  render  certain  still. 

Yet  why  is  now  my  thought  turn'd  toward  death, 

"Whom  fates  have  let  go  on  so  far  in  breath 

Uncheck'd  or  unreproved  ?     I,  that  did  help 

To  fell  the  lofty  cedar  of  the  world, 

G-ermanicus  ;  that  at  one  stroke  cut  down 

Drusus  that  upright  elm ;  wither' d  his  vine ; 

Laid  Silius  and  Sabinus,  two  strong  oaks, 

Flat  on  the  earth ;  besides  those  other  shrubs, 

Cordus,  and  Sosia,  Claudia,  Pulchra, 

Furnius,  and  Grallus,  which  I  have  grubb'd  up ; 

And  since,  have  set  my  axe  so  strong  and  deep 

Into  the  root  of  spreading  Agrippina ; 

Lopp'd  off  and  scatter' d  her  proud  branches,  ISTero, 

Drusus,  and  Caius  too,  although  replanted : 

If  you  will,  destinies,  that  after  all 

I  faint  now  ere  I  touch  my  period, 

You  are  but  cruel ;  and  I  already  have  done 

Things  great  enough.     All  Borne  hath  been  my  slave ; 

The  senate  sat  an  idle  looker-on, 

And  witness  of  my  power ;  when  I  have  blush' d 

More  to  command,  than  it  to  suffer ;  all 

The  fathers  have  sat  ready  and  prepared 

To  give  me  empire,  temples,  or  their  throats, 

"When  I  would  ask  them ;  and  (what  crowns  the  top) 

Home,  senate,  people,  all  the  world,  have  seen 

Jove  but  my  equal,  Caesar  but  my  second. 

'Tis  then  your  malice,  Fates,  who  (but  your  own) 

Envy  and  fear  to  have  any  power  long  known. 


THE  SAD  SHEPHEED :  OE,  A  TALE  OF  EOBEST  HOOD. 
BY  BEN  JONSON. 

ALKEN,  an  old  Shepherd,  instructs  EOBIK  HOOD'S  men  how  to  find  a 
Witch,  and  how  she  is  to  be  hunted. 

ROBIN  HOOD.    TUCK.    LITTLE  JOHN.    SCARLET.     SCATH- 

LOCK.     GEORGE.    ALKEN.     CLARION. 
Tuck.  Hear  you  how 

Poor  Tom,  the  cook,  is  taken !  all  his  joints 


THE  SAD  SHEPHEED.  267 

Do  crack,  as  if  his  limbs  were  tied  with  points : 

His  whole  frame  slackens,  and  a  kind  of  rack 

Buns  down  along  the  spondils  of  his  back ; 

A  gout,  or  cramp,  now  seizeth  on  his  head, 

Then  falls  into  his  feet ;  his  knees  are  lead ; 

And  he  can  stir  his  either  hand  no  more 

Than  a  dead  stump  to  his  office,  as  before. 
Alk.  He  is  bewitch' d. 
Cla.  This  is  an  argument 

Both  of  her  malice,  and  her  power,  we  see. 
Alk.  She  must  by  some  device  restrained  be, 

Or  she  '11  go  far  in  mischief. 
Hob.  Advise  how, 

Sage  shepherd ;  we  shall  put  it  straight  in  practice. 
Alk.  Send  forth  your  woodmen  then  into  the  walks, 

Or  let  them  prick  her  footing  hence ;  a  witch 

Is  sure  a  creature  of  melancholy, 

And  will  be  found,  or  sitting  in  her  fourm, 

Or  else  at  relief,  like  a  hare. 
Cla.  You  speak, 

Alken,  as  if  you  knew  the  sport  of  witch-hunting, 

Or  starting  of  a  hag. 
jR0Z>.  Gro,  sirs,  about  it ; 

Take  George  here  with  you,  he  can  help  to  find  her. 
John.  Bare  sport,  I  swear,  this  hunting  of  the  witch 

"Will  make  us. 

Scar.  Let 's  advise  upon  it,  like  huntsmen. 
Geo.  An  we  can  spy  her  once,  she  is  our  own. 
Scath.  First  think  which  way  she  fourmeth,  on  what  wind : 

Or  north,  or  south. 
Geo.  Eor,  as  the  shepherd  said, 

A  witch  is  a  kind  of  hare. 
ScatJi.  And  marks  the  weather, 

As  the  hare  does. 

John.  Where  shall  we  hope  to  find  her  ? 
Alk.  Know  you  the  witches'  dell  ? 
Scar.  No  more  than  I  do  know  the  walks  of  hell. 
Alk.  "Within  a  gloomy  dimble  she  doth  dwell, 

Down  in  a  pit  o'ergrown  with  brakes  and  briars, 

Close  by  the  ruins  of  a  shaken  abbey, 

Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unto  the  ground, 

'Mongst  graves,  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel-house, 


268 

"Where  you  shall  find  her  sitting  in  her  fourm, 

As  fearful,  and  melancholic,  as  that 

She  is  about ;  with  caterpillars'  kells, 

And  knotty  cobwebs,  rounded  in  with  spells. 

Then  she  steals  forth  to  relief,  in  the  fogs, 

And  rotten  mists,  upon  the  fens  and  bogs, 

Down  to  the  drowned  lands  of  Lincolnshire ; 

To  make  ewes  cast  their  lambs,  swine  eat  their  farrow ; 

The  housewife's  tun  not  work,  nor  the  milk  churn ; 

Writhe  children's  wrists,  and  suck  their  breath  in  sleep ; 

Get  vials  of  their  blood ;  and  where  the  sea 

Casts  up  his  slimy  ooze,  search  for  a  weed 

To  open  locks  with,  and  to  rivet  charms, 

Planted  about  her,  in  the  wicked  seat 

Of  all  her  mischiefs,  which  are  manifold. 
John.  I  wonder  such  a  story  could  be  told 

Of  her  dire  deeds. 
Geo.  I  thought,  a  witch's  banks 

Had  enclosed  nothing  but  the  merry  pranks 
Of  some  old  woman. 
Scar.  Yes,  her  malice  more. 
Scath.  As  it  would  quickly  appear,  had  we  the  store 

Of  his  collects. 
Geo.  Ay,  this  good  learned  man 

Can  speak  her  right. 
Scar.  He  knows  her  shifts  and  haunts. 
Alk.  And  all  her  wiles  and  turns.     The  venom'd  plants 
Wherewith  she  kills ;  where  the  sad  mandrake  grows, 
Whose  groans  are  deathful ;  the  dead  numbing  night- 
The  stupefying  hemlock ;  adder's  tongue,  [shade ; 

And  martegan ;  the  shrieks  of  luckless  owls, 
We  hear,  and  croaking  night-crows  in  the  air ; 
Green-bellied  snakes ;  blue  fire  drakes  in  the  sky ; 
And  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings ; 
The  scaly  beetles,  with  their  habergeons 
That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  they  fly ; 
There,  in  the  stocks  of  trees,  white  fays  do  dwell, 
And  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  a  pool, 
With  each  a  little  changeling  in  their  arms : 
The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars, 
And  mount  the  sphere  of  fire,  to  kiss  the  moon ; 
While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glow-worm's  light, 


CATILINE.  269 

Or  rotten  wood,  o'er  which  the  worm  hath  crept, 
The  baneful  schedule  of  her  nocent  charms, 
And  binding  characters,  through  which  she  wounds 
Her  puppets,  the  Sigilla  of  her  witchcraft. 
All  this  I  know,  and  I  will  find  her  for  you ; 
And  show  you  her  sitting  in  her  fourm ;  I  '11  lay 
My  hand  upon  her ;  make  her  throw  her  scut 
Along  her  back,  when  she  doth  start  before  us. 
But  you  must  give  her  law ;  and  you  shall  see  her 
Make  twenty  leaps  and  doubles,  cross  the  paths, 
And  then  squat  down  beside  us. 

John.  Crafty  croan, 

I  long  to  be  at  the  sport,  and  to  report  it. 

Scar.  We  '11  make  this  hunting  of  the  witch  as  famous 
As  any  other  blast  of  venery 

Geo.  If  we  could  come  to  see  her,  cry  so  Tiaw  once — 

Alk.  That  I  do  promise,  or  I  'm  no  good  hag-finder. 


CATILINE  HIS  CONSPIRACY :  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  BEN  JONSON. 

The  morning  of  the  conspiracy. — LENTTJLTTS,  CETHEGTTS,  and  CATILINE 
meet,  before  the  other  Conspirators  are  ready. 

Lent.  It  is  methinks  a  morning  full  of  fate : 

It  riseth  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 

Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it. 

She  is  not  rosy-finger' d,  but  swoln  black. 

Her  face  is  like  a  water  turn'd  to  blood, 

And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds, 

As  if  she  threaten' d  night  ere  noon  of  day. 

It  does  not  look  as  it  would  have  a  hail 

Or  health  wish'd  in  it,  as  on  other  morns. 
Get.  Why,  all  the  fitter,  Lentulus :  our  coming 

Is  not  for  salutation :  we  have  business. 
Cat.  Said  nobly,  brave  Cethegus.    Where 's  Autronius  ? 
Get.  Is  he  not  come  ? 
Cat.  Not  here. 
Get.  Not  Vargunteius  ? 
Cat.  Neither. 
Get.  A  fire  in  their  beds  and  bosoms, 

That  so  well  serve  their  sloth  rather  than  virtue. 


270  BEN  JONSON. 

They  are  no  Homans  and  at  such  high  need 

As  now 

Lent.  Both  they,  Longinus,  Lecca,  Curius, 

Fulvius,  Q-abinus,  gave  me  word  last  night, 
By  Lucius  Bestia,  they  would  all  be  here, 
And  early. 
.Cet.  Yes !  as  you,  had  I  not  call'd  you. 

Come,  we  all  sleep,  and  are  mere  dormice ;  flies 
A  little  less  than  dead :  more  dulness  hangs 
On  us  than  on  the  morn.    We  are  spirit-bound, 
In  ribs  of  ice ;  our  whole  bloods  are  one  stone : 
And  honour  cannot  thaw  us,  nor  our  wants, 
Though  they  burn  hot  as  fevers  to  our  states. 

Cat.  I  muse  they  would  be  tardy  at  an  hour 
Of  so  great  purpose. 

Cet.  If  the  gods  had  call'd 

Them  to  a  purpose,  they  would  just  have  come 
"With  the  same  tortoise-  speed ;  that  are  thus  slow 
To  such  an  action,  which  the  gods  will  envy ; 
As  asking  no  less  means  than  all  their  powers 
Conjoin' d  to  effect.     I  would  have  seen  Rome  burnt 
By  this  time,  and  her  ashes  in  an  urn ; 
The  kingdom  of  the  senate  rent  asunder ; 
And  the  degenerate  talking  gown  run  frighted 
Out  of  the  air  of  Italy. 

Cat.  Spirit  of  men, 

Thou  heart  of  our  great  enterprise,  how  much 
I  love  these  voices  in  thee ! 

Cet.  0  the  days 

Of  Sylla's  sway,  when  the  free  sword  took  leave 
To  act  all  that  it  would ! 

Cat.  And  was  familiar 

"With  entrails,  as  our  augurs 

Cet.  Sons  kill' d  fathers, 

Brothers  their  brothers 

Cat.  And  had  price  and  praise : 

All  hate  and  licence  given  it ;  all  rage  reins. 

Cet.  Slaughter  bestrid  the  streets,  and  stretch' d  himself 
To  seem  more  huge ;  whilst  to  his  stained  thighs 
The  gore  he  drew  flow'd  up,  and  carried  down 
"Whole  heaps  of  limbs  and  bodies  through  his  arch. 
No  age  was  spared,  no  sex. 


CATILI3TB.  271 

Cat.  Nay,  no  degree 

Get.  Not  infants  in  the  porch  of  life  were  free. 

The  sick,  the  old,  that  could  but  hope  a  day 

Longer  by  nature's  bounty,  not  let  stay. 

Virgins  and  widows,  matrons,  pregnant  wives, 

All  died. 
Cat.  'Twas  crime  enough  that  they  had  lives. 

To  strike  but  only  those  that  could  do  hurt, 

"Was  dull  and  poor.     Some  fell,  to  make  the  number  j 

As  some,  the  prey. 
Get.  The  rugged  Charon  fainted, 

And  ask'd  a  navy  rather  than  a  boat, 

To  ferry  over  the  sad  world  that  came : 

The  maws  and  dens  of  beasts  could  not  receive 

The  bodies  that  those  souls  were  frighted  from ; 

And  ev'n  the  graves  were  fill'd  with  men  yet  living, 

Whose  flight  and  fear  had  mix'd  them  with  the  dead. 
Cat.  And  this  shall  be  again,  and  more,  and  more, 

Now  Lentulus,  the  third  Cornelius, 

Is  to  stand  up  in  E/ome. 
Lent.  Nay,  urge  not  that 

Is  so  uncertain. 
Cat.  How! 
Lent.  I  mean,  not  clear 'd ; 

And  therefore  not  to  be  reflected  on. 
Cat.  The  Sibyl's  leaves  uncertain!  or  the  comments, 

Of  our  grave,  deep,  divining  men,  not  clear ! 
Lent.  All  prophecies,  you  know,  suffer  the  torture. 
Cat.  But  this  already  hath  confess' d,  without ; 

And  so  been  weigh'd,  examined,  and  compared, 

As  'twere  malicious  ignorance  in  him 

Would  faint  in  the  belief. 
Lent.  Do  you  believe  it  ? 
Cat.  Do  I  love  Lentulus,  or  pray  to  see  it  ? 
Lent.  The  augurs  all  are  constant  I  am  meant. 
Cat.  They  had  lost  their  science  else. 

Lent.  They  count  .from  Cinna 

Cat.  And  Sylla  next and  so  make  you  the  third : 

All  that  can  say  the  sun  is  risen,  must  think  it. 
Lent.  Men  mark  me  more  of  late  as  I  come  forth ! 
Cat.  Why,  what  can  they  do  less  ?    Cinna  and  Sylla 

Are  set  and  gone  j  and  we  must  turn  our  eyes 


272  BEN  JWSOff. 

On  him  that  is,  and  shines.     Noble  Cethegus, 
But  view  him  with  me  here !    He  looks  already 
As  if  he  shook  a  sceptre  o'er  the  senate, 
And  the  awed  purple  dropp'd  their  rods  and  axes. 
The  statues  melt  again,  and  household  gods 
In  groans  confess  the  travails  of  the  city : 
The  very  walls  sweat  blood  before  the  change ; 
And  stones  start  out  to  ruin,  ere  it  comes. 

Get.  But  he,  and  we,  and  all,  are  idle  still. 

Lent.  I  am  your  creature,  Sergius ;  and  whate'er 
The  great  Cornelian  name  shall  win  to  be, 
It  is  not  augury,  nor  the  Sibyl's  books, 
But  Catiline,  that  makes  it. 

Cat.  I  am  a  shadow 

To  honour' d  Lentulus,  and  Cethegus  here ; 
Who  are  the  heirs  of  Mars. 


THE  NEW  INN :  OE,  THE  LIGHT  HEAET.    A  COMEDY, 
BY  BEN  JONSON. 

LOVEL  discovers  to  the  HOST  of  the  New  Inn,  his  love  for  the  LADY 
EEA>TCES,  and  his  reasons  for  concealing  his  passion  from  her. 

Lov.  There  is  no  life  on  earth,  but  being  in  love ! 
There  are  no  studies,  no  delights,  no  business, 
]S  o  intercourse,  or  trade  of  sense,  or  soul, 
But  what  is  love  !     I  was  the  laziest  creature, 
The  most  unprofitable  sign  of  nothing, 
The  veriest  drone,  and  slept  away  my  life 
Beyond  the  dormouse,  till  I  was  in  love. 
And  now  I  can  outwake  the  nightingale, 
Outwatch  an  usurer,  and  outwalk  him  too, 
Stalk  like  a  ghost  that  haunted  'bout  a  treasure ; 
And  all  that  fancied  treasure,  it  is  love ! 

Host.  But  is  your  name  Love-ill,  sir,  or  Love-well  ? 
I  would  know  that. 

Lov.  I  do  not  know  it  myself, 

Whether  it  is.    But  it  is  love  hath  been 
The  hereditary  passion  of  our  house, 
My  gentle  host,  and,  as  I  guess,  my  friend ; 
The  truth  is,  I  have  loved  this  lady  long, 
And  impotently,  with  desire  enough, 


NEW  HTBT.  278 

But  no  success :  for  I  have  still  forborne 
To  express  it  in  my  person  to  her. 

Host.  How  then? 

Lov.  I  have  sent  her  toys,  verses,  and  anagrams, 
Trials  of  wit,  mere  trifles,  she  has  commended, 
But  knew  not  whence  they  came,  nor  could  she  guess. 

Host.  This  was  a  pretty  riddling  way  of  wooing ! 

Lov.  I  oft  have  been  too  in  her  company, 

And  look'd  upon  her  a  whole  day,  admired  her, 
Loved  her,  and  did  not  tell  her  so,  loved  still, 
Look'd  still,  and  loved;   and  loved,  and  look'd,  and 
But,  as  a  man  neglected,  I  came  off,  ^      [sigh'd ; 

And  unregarded. 

Host.  Could  you  blame  her,  sir, 

When  you  were  silent  and  not  said  a  word  ? 

Lov.  O,  but  I  loved  the  more ;  and  she  might  read  it 
Best  in  my  silence,  had  she  been 

Host.  as  melancholic 

As  you  are.  Pray  you,  why  would  you  stand  mute,  sir  ? 

Lov.  0,  thereon  hangs  a  history,  mine  host. 

Did  you  ever  know  or  hear  of  the  lord  Beaufort, 
"Who  served  so  bravely  in  France  ?     I  was  his  page, 
And,  ere  he  died,  his  friend !     I  follow'd  him 
Eirst  in  the  wars,  and  in  the  times  of  peace 
I  waited  on  his  studies ;  which  were  right. 
He  had  no  Arthurs,  nor  no  Eosicleers, 
No  Knights  of  the  Sun,  nor  Amadis  de  Gauls, 
Primalions,  and  Pantagruels,  public  nothings ; 
Abortives  of  the  fabulous  dark  cloister, 
Sent  out  to  poison  courts,  and  infest  manners : 
But  great  Achilles',  Agamemnon's  acts, 
Sage  Nestor's  counsels,  and  Ulysses'  sleights, 
Tydides'  fortitude,  as  Homer  wrought  them 
In  his  immortal  fancy,  for  examples 
Of  the  heroic  virtue.     Or,  as  Virgil, 
That  master  of  the  epic  poem,  limn'd 
Pious  JEneas,  his  religious  prince, 
Bearing  his  aged  parent  on  his  shoulders, 
Rapt  from  the  flames  of  Troy,  with  his  young  son. 
And  these  he  brought  to  practise  and  to  use. 
He  gave  me  first  my  breeding,  I  acknowledge, 
Then  shower'd  his  bounties  on  me,  like  the  Hours, 

T 


274  BB31  JONSON. 

That  open-handed  sit  upon  the  clouds, 

And  press  the  liberality  of  Heaven 

Down  to  the  laps  of  thankful  men !     But  then, 

The  trust  committed  to  me  at  his  death 

Was  above  all,  and  left  so  strong  a  tie 

On  all  my  powers  as  time  shall  not  dissolve, 

Till  it  dissolve  itself,  and  bury  all : 

The  care  of  his  brave  heir  and  only  son ! 

"Who  being  a  virtuous,  sweet,  young,  hopeful  lord, 

Hath  cast  his  first  affections  on  this  lady : 

And  though  I  know,  and  may  presume  her  such, 

As,  out  of  humour,  will  return  no  love, 

And  therefore  might  indifferently  be  made 

The  courting-stock  for  all  to  practise  on, 

As  she  doth  practise  on  us  all  to  scorn ; 

Yet  out  of  a  religion  to  my  charge, 

And  debt  profess'd,  I  have  made  a  self-decree, 

Ne'er  to  express  my  person  though  my  passion 

Burn  me  to  cinders. 

LOVEL,  in  the  presence  of  the  LADY  FBANCES,  the  young  LOED  BEATJPOET, 

and  other  Guests  of  the  New  Inn,  defines  what  love  is. 
Lov.  What  else 

Is  love,  but  the  most  noble,  pure  affection 

Of  what  is  truly  beautiful  and  fair  ? 

Desire  of  union  with  the  thing  beloved  ? 
Beau.  I  have  read  somewhere,  that  man  and  woman 

Were,  in  the  first  creation,  both  one  piece, 

And  being  cleft  asunder,  ever  since 

Love  was  an  appetite  to  be  rejoin' d. 
Lov.  It  is  a  fable  of  Plato's,  in  his  Banquet, 

And  utter' d  there  by  Aristophanes. 
Host.  'Twas  well  remember' d  here,  and  to  good  use. 

But  on  with  your  description  what  love  is. 

Desire  of  union  with  the  thing  beloved. 
Lov.  I  meant  a  definition.     For  I  make 

The  efficient  cause,  what 's  beautiful  and  fair. 

The  formal  cause,  the  appetite  of  union. 

The  final  cause,  the  union  itself. 

But  larger,  if  you  '11  have  it,  by  description : 

It  is  a  flame  and  ardour  of  the  mind, 

Dead  in  the  proper  corpse,  quick  in  another's : 

Transfers  the  lover  into  the  loved. 


NEW  IKST.  275 

That  he,  or  she,  that  loves,  engraves  or  stamps 

The  idea  of  what  they  love,  first  in  themselves : 

Or,  like  to  glasses,  so  their  minds  take  in 

The  forms  of  their  beloved,  and  them  reflect. 

It  is  the  likeness  of  affections, 

Is  both  the  parent  and  the  nurse  of  love. 

Love  is  a  spiritual  coupling  of  two  souls, 

So  much  more  excellent  as  it  least  relates 

Unto  the  body ;  circular,  eternal ; 

Not  feign' d,  or  made,  but  born  :  and  then,  so  precious, 

As  naught  can  value  it  but  itself;  so  free, 

As  nothing  can  command  it  but  itself. 

And  in  itself  so  round  and  liberal, 

As,  where  it  favours,  it  bestows  itself. 

But  we  must  take  and  understand  this  love 

Along  still  as  a  name  of  dignity, 

Not  pleasure. 

True  love  hath  no  unworthy  thought,  no  light 

Loose  unbecoming  appetite,  or  strain ; 

But  fixed,  constant,  pure,  immutable. 

Beau.  I  relish  not  these  philosophical  feasts : 

Give  me  a  banquet  of  sense,  like  that  of  Ovid ; 
A  form,  to  take  the  eye ;  a  voice,  mine  ear ; 
Pure  aromatics  to  my  scent ;  a  soft 
Smooth  dainty  hand  to  touch  ;  and,  for  my  taste, 
Ambrosiac  kisses  to  melt  down  the  palate. 

Lov.  They  are  the  earthly,  lower  form  of  lovers, 
Are  only  taken  with  what  strikes  the  senses, 
And  love  by  that  loose  scale.     Although  I  grant, 
"We  like  what 's  fair  and  graceful  in  an  object, 
And  (true)  would  use  it,  in  them  all  we  tend  to, 
Both  of  our  civil  and  domestic  deeds, 
In  ordering  of  an  army,  in  our  style, 
Apparel,  gesture,  building,  or  what  not  ? 
All  arts  and  actions  do  affect  their  beauty. 
But  put  the  case,  in  travel  I  may  meet 
Some  gorgeous  structure,  a  brave  frontispiece, 
Shall  I  stay  captive  in  the  outer  court, 
Surprised  with  that,  and  not  advance  to  know 
"Who  dwells  there,  and  inhabiteth  the  house  ? 
There  is  my  friendship  to  be  made,  within ; 
"With  what  can  love  me  again ;  not  with  the  walls, 

r  2 


BEN  JONSOff. 

Doors,  windows,  architraves,  the  frieze,  and  cornice. 
My  end  is  lost  in  loving  of  a  face, 
An  eye,  lip,  nose,  hand,  foot,  or  other  part, 
Whose  all  is  but  a  statue  if  the  mind 
Move  not,  which  only  can  make  the  return. 
The  end  of  love  is,  to  have  two  made  one 
In  will,  and  in  affection,  that  the  minds 
Be  first  inoculated,  not  the  bodies. 
The  body's  love  is  frail,  subject  to  change, 
And  alter  still  with  it :  the  mind's  is  firm, 
One  and  the  same,  proceedeth  first  from  weighing, 
And  well  examining  what  is  fair  and  good ; 
Then  what  is  like  in  reason,  fit  in  manners  ; 
That  breeds  good  will :  good  will  desire  of  union. 
So  knowledge  first  begets  benevolence, 
Benevolence  breeds  friendship,  friendship  love : 
And  where  it  starts  or  steps  aside  from  this, 
It  is  a  mere  degenerous  appetite, 
A  lost,  oblique,  depraved  affection, 
And  bears  no  mark  or  character  of  love. 
Nor  do  they  trespass  within  bounds  of  pardon 
That  giving  way  and  licence  to  their  love, 
Divest  him  of  his  noblest  ornaments, 
"Which  are  his  modesty  and  shamefacedness : 
And  so  they  do,  that  have  unfit  designs 
Upon  the  parties  they  pretend  to  love. 
For  what 's  more  monstrous,  more  a  prodigy, 
Than  to  hear  me  protest  truth  of  affection 
Unto  a  person  that  I  would  dishonour  ? 
And  what 's  a  more  dishonour,  than  defacing 
Another's  good  with  forfeiting  mine  own, 
And  drawing  on  a  fellowship  of  sin  ? 
From  note  of  which  though  for  awhile  we  may 
Be  both  kept  safe  by  caution,  yet  the  conscience 
Cannot  be  cleansed.     For  what  was  hitherto 
Call'd  by  the  name  of  love,  becomes  destroy 'd 
Then,  with  the  fact ;  the  innocency  lost, 
The  bating  of  affection  soon  will  follow ; 
And  love  is  never  true  that  is  not  lasting : 
No  more  than  any  can  be  pure  or  perfect, 
That  entertains  more  than  one  object. 
[These  and  the  preceding  extracts  may  serve  to  show  the  poetical  fancy 


ALCHEMIST.  277 

and  elegance  of  mind  of  the  supposed  rugged  old  bard.  A  thousand 
beautiful  passages  might  be  adduced  from  those  numerous  court  masques 
and  entertainments  which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit  of  furnishing,  to 
prove  the  same  thing.  But  they  do  not  come  within  my  plan.  That 
which  follows  is  a  specimen  of  that  talent  for  comic  humour,  and  the 
assemblage  of  ludicrous  images,  on  which  his  reputation  chiefly  rests.  It 
may  serve  for  a  variety  after  so  many  serious  extracts.] 


THE  ALCHEMIST :  A  COMEDY,  BY  BEN  JONSON. 

EPICTTEE  MAMMON,  a  Knight,  deceived  by  the  pretensions  of  SUBTLE  (the 
Alchemist),  glories  in  the  prospect  of  obtaining  the  philosopher's  stone ; 
and  promises  what  rare  things  he  will  do  with  it. 

MAMMON.    STJBLY,  Ms  Friend.    The  Scene,  SUBTLE 's  House. 

Mam.  Come  on,  sir.     Now  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 
In  novo  orbe.     Here 's  the  rich  Peru : 
And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  mines, 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir !     He  was  sailing  to  it 
Three  years,  but  we  have  reach' d  it  in  ten  months. 
This  is  the  day  wherein  to  all  my  friends 
I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word,  Be  rich. 
This  day  you  shall  be  spectatissimi. 
You  shall  no  more  deal  with  the  hollow  die, 
Or  the  frail  card ;  no  more  be  at  charge  of  keeping 
The  livery  punk  for  the  young  heir,  that  must 
Seal  at  all  hours  in  his  shirt.     No  more, 
If  he  deny,  have  him  beaten  to  it,  as  he  is 
That  brings  him  the  commodity.     No  more 
Shall  thirst  of  satin,  or  the  covetous  hunger 
Of  velvet  entrails  for  a  rude-spun  cloke 
To  be  display 'd  at  madam  Augusta's,  make 
The  sons  of  Sword  and  Hazard  fall  before 
The  golden  calf,  and  on  their  knees  whole  nights 
Commit  idolatry  with  wine  and  trumpets ; 
Or  go  a-feasting  after  drum  and  ensign. 
No  more  of  this.    You  shall  start  up  young  viceroys, 
And  have  your  punques  and  punquetees,  my  Surly : 
And  unto  thee  I  speak  it  first,  Be  rich. 

Where  is  my  Subtle  there  ?  within  ho 

FACE  answers  from  within. 

Sir, 
He  '11  come  to  you  by  and  by. 

Mem.  That 's  his  fire-drake, 


278  BEN  JONSOtf. 

His  Lungs,  his  Zephyrus,  lie  that  puffs  his  coals 

Till  he  firk  Nature  up  in  her  own  centre. 

You  are  not  faithful,  sir.     This  night  I  '11  change 

All  that  is  metal  in  thy  house  to  gold : 

And  early  in  the  morning  will  I  send 

To  all  the  plumbers  and  the  pewterers, 

And  buy  their  tin  and  lead  up ;  and  to  Lothbury, 

For  all  the  copper. 

Sur.  What,  and  turn  that  too  ? 

Mam.  Yes,  and  I  '11  purchase  Devonshire  and  Cornwall, 
And  make  them,  perfect  Indies  !    You  admire  now  ? 

Sur.  No,  faith. 

Mam.  But  when  you  see  the  effects  of  the  great  medicine ! 
Of  which  one  part  projected  on  a  hundred 
Of  Mercury,  or  Yenus,  or  the  Moon, 
Shall  turn  it  to  as  many  of  the  Sun ; 
Nay,  to  a  thousand,  so  ad  infinitum  : 
You  will  believe  me. 

Sur.  Yes,  when  I  see  it,  I  will. 

Mam.  Ha!  why, 

Do  you  think  I  fable  with  you  ?     I  assure  you, 
He  that  has  once  the  flower  of  the  Sun, 
The  perfect  ruby,  which  we  call  Elixir, 
Not  only  can  do  that,  but  by  its  virtue 
Can  confer  honour,  love,  respect,  long  life, 
Give  safety,  valour,  yea,  and  victory 
To  whom  he  will.     In  eight  and  twenty  days 
I  '11  make  an  old  man  of  fourscore  a  child. 

Sur.  No  doubt ;  he 's  that  already. 

Mam.  Nay,  I  mean, 

Restore  his  years,  renew  him  like  an  eagle, 

To  the  fifth  age ;  make  him  get  sons  and  daughters, 

Young  giants,  as  our  philosophers  have  done 

(The  ancient  patriarchs  afore  the  flood) 

But  taking,  once  a  week,  on  a  knife's  point 

The  quantity  of  a  grain  of  mustard  of  it, 

Become  -stout  Marses,  and  beget  young  Cupids. 

Sur.  The  decay 'd  vestals  of  Pickt-hatch  would  thank  you, 
That  keep  the  fire  alive  there. 

Mam.  'Tis  the  secret 

Of  Nature  naturized  'gainst  all  infections, 
Cures  all  diseases,  coming  of  all  causes ; 


ALCHEMIST.  279 

A  month's  grief  in  a  day ;  a  year's  in  twelve ; 

And  of  what  age  soever,  in  a  month  ; 

Past  all  the  doses  of  your  drugging  doctors. 

I  '11  undertake  withal  to  fright  the  plague 

Out  of  the  kingdom  in  three  months. 
Sur.  And  I'll 

Be  bound,  the  players  shall  sing  your  praises,  then, 

"Without  their  poets. 
Mam.  Sir,  I  '11  do  it.     Meantime 

I  '11  give  way  so  much  unto  my  man, 

Shall  serve  the  whole  city  with  preservative 

"Weekly ;  each  house  his  dose,  and  at  the  rate — 
Sur.  As  he  that  built  the  waterwork,  does  with  water ! 
Mam.  You  are  incredulous. 
Sur.  Eaith,  I  have  a  humour, 

I  would  not  willingly  be  gull'd.     Your  stone 

Cannot  transmute  me. 
Mam.  Pertinax  Surly, 

"Will  you  believe  antiquity  ?  records  ? 

I  '11  show  you  a  book,  where  Moses,  and  his  sister, 

And  Solomon,  have  written  of  the  art ; 

Ay,  and  a  treatise  penn'd  by  Adam. 
Sur.  How? 

Mam.  Of  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  in  High  Dutch. 
Sur.  Did  Adam  write,  sir,  in  High  Dutch  ? 
Mam.  He  did, 

Which  proves  it  was  the  primitive  tongue. 
Sur.  "What  paper? 
Mam.  On  cedar-board. 
Sur.  0,  that,  indeed,  they  say, 

"Will  last  'gainst  worms. 
Mam.  'Tis  like  your  Irish  wood 

'G-ainst  cobwebs.     I  have  a  piece  of  Jason's  fleece  too, 

Which  was  no  other  than  a  book  of  alchemy, 

Writ  in  large  sheepskin,  a  good  fat  ram-vellum. 

Such  was  Pythagoras'  thigh,  Pandora's  tub, 

And  all  that  fable  of  Medea's  charms, 

The  manner  of  our  work :  the  bulls,  our  furnace, 

Still  breathing  fire  ;  our  Argent-vive,  the  dragon ; 

The  dragon's  teeth,  mercury  sublimate, 

That  keeps  the  whiteness,  hardness,  and  the  biting : 


280  BEff  JONSON. 

And  they  are  gather' d  into  Jason's  helm 

(The  alembic)  and  then  sow'd  in  Mars  his  field, 

And  thence  sublimed  so  often,  till  they  are  fix'd. 

Both  this,  the  Hesperian  garden,  Cadmus'  story, 

Jove's  shower,  the  boon  of  Midas,  Argus'  eyes, 

Boccace  his  Demogorgon,  thousands  more, 

All  abstract  riddles  of  our  stone. 
PACE  enters. 

How  now  ? 

Do  we  succeed  ?  is  our  day  come  ?  and  holds  it  ? 
Face.  The  evening  will  set  red  upon  you,  sir ; 

You  have  colour  for  it,  crimson :  the  red  ferment 

Has  done  his  office.     Three  hours  hence  prepare  you 

To  see  projection. 
Mam.  Pertinax,  my  Surly, 

Again  I  say  to  thee  aloud,  Be  rich. 

This  day  thou  shalt  have  ingots,  and  to-morrow 

Give  lords  the  affront.     Is  it,  my  Zephyrus,  right  ? 

Blushes  the  bolt's  head? 
Face.  Like  a  wench  with  child,  sir, 

That  were  but  now  discover 'd  to  her  master. 
Mam.  Excellent  witty  Lungs  !    My  only  care  is, 

Where  to  get  stuff  enough  now,  to  project  on. 

This  town  will  not  half  serve  me. 
Face.  No,  sir  ?  buy 

The  covering  off  of  churches. 
Mam.  That  is  true. 
Face.  Yes. 

Let  them  stand  bare,  as  do  their  auditory ; 

Or  cap  them  new  with  shingles. 
Mam.  No ;  good  thatch : 

Thatch  will  lie  light  upon  the  rafters,  Lungs. 

Lungs,  I  will  manumit  thee  from  the  furnace ; 

I  will  restore  thee  thy  complexion,  Puffe, 

Lost  in  the  embers  ;  and  repair  this  brain 

Hurt  with  the  fume  of  the  metals. 
Face.  I  have  blown,  sir, 

Hard  for  your  worship ;  thrown  by  many  a  coal, 

When  'twas  not  beech ;  weigh'd  those  I  put  in,  just, 

To  keep  your  heat  still  even ;  these  blear 'd  eyes 

Have  waked  to  read  your  several  colours,  sir, 


ALCHEMIST.  281 

Of  the  pale  citron,  the  green  lion,  the  crow, 
The  peacock's  tail,  the  plumed  swan 

Mam.  And  lastly, 

Thou  hast  descried  the  flower,  the  sanguis  agni  ? 

Face.  Yes,  sir. 

Mam.  Where 's  master  ? 

Face.  At  his  prayers,  sir,  he, 

Good  man,  he  is  doing  his  devotions 
For  the  success. 

Mam.  Lungs,  I  will  set  a  period 

To  all  thy  labours :  thou  shalt  be  the  master 
Of  my  seraglio :  for  I  do  mean 
To  have  a  list  of  wives  and  concubines 
Equal  with  Solomon,  who  had  the  stone 
Alike  with  me :  and  I  will  make  me  a  back 
"With  the  elixir,  that  shall  be  as  tough 
As  Hercules,  to  encounter  fifty  a  night. 
Thou  art  sure  thou  saw'st  it  blood  ? 

Face.  Both  blood  and  spirit,  sir. 

Mam.  I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up ;  not  stuff  d ; 
Down  is  too  hard :  and  then,  mine  oval  room 
Pill'd  with  such  pictures  as  Tiberius  took 
From  Elephantis,  and  dull  Aretine 
But  coldly  imitated.     Then,  my  glasses 
Cut  in  more  subtle  angles,  to  disperse 
And  multiply  the  figures,  as  I  walk 
Naked  between  my  succubce.     My  mists 
I  '11  have  of  perfume,  vapour'd  'bout  the  room, 
To  lose  ourselves  in ;  and  my  baths,  like  pits, 
To  fall  into ;  from  whence  we  will  come  forth, 
And  roll  us  dry  in  gossamer  and  roses. 
(Is  it  arrived  at  Euby  ?) — "Where  I  spy 
A  wealthy  citizen,  or  rich  lawyer, 
Have  a  sublimed  pure  wife,  unto  that  fellow 
I  '11  send  a  thousand  pound  to  be  my  cuckold. 

Face.  And  I  shall  carry  it  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  '11  have  no  bawds, 

But  fathers  and  mothers.    They  will  do  it  best, 
Best  of  all  others.    And  my  flatterers 
Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines 
That  I  can  get  for  money.     My  meet  fools 
Eloquent  burgesses ;  and  then  my  poets, 


282  BEN  JONSON. 

The  same  that  writ  so  subtly  of  the  fart : 

Whom  I  will  entertain  still  for  that  subject. 

The  few  that  would  give  out  themselves  to  be 

Court  and  town  stallions,  and  eachwhere  belie 

Ladies,  who  are  known  most  innocent  (for  them) 

Those  will  I  beg,  to  make  me  eunuchs  of : 

And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  estrich  tails 

Apiece,  made  in  a  plume,  to  gather  wind. 

"We  will  be  brave,  Puffe,  now  we  have  the  medicine. 

My  meat  shall  all  come  in  in  Indian  shells, 

Dishes  of  agate  set  in  gold,  and  studded 

With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies ; 

The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camels'  heels, 

Boil'd  in  the  spirit  of  Sol,  and  dissolved  pearl, 

(Apicius'  diet  'gainst  the  epilepsy) 

And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber, 

Headed  with  diamant  and  carbuncle. 

My  footboy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmons, 

Knots,  godwits,  lampreys :  I  myself  will  have 

The  beards  of  barbels  served,  instead  of  salads ; 

Oil'd  mushrooms ;  and  the  swelling  unctuous  paps 

Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 

Dress' d  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce ; 

For  which,  I  '11  say  unto  my  cook,  "  There 's  gold ; 

Gro  forth,  and  be  a  knight." 

Face.  Sir,  I'll  go  look 

A  little,  how  it  heightens. 

Mam.  Do. — My  shirts 

I  '11  have  of  taffata-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 
As  cobwebs ;  and,  for  all  my  other  raiment, 
It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 
My  gloves  of  fishes'  and  birds'  skins,  perfumed 
With  gums  of  paradise,  and  eastern  air. 

Sur.  And  do  you  think  to  have  the  stone  with  this  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  do  think  to  have  all  this  with  the  stone. 

Sur.  Why,  I  have  heard,  he  must  be  homofrugi, 
A  pious,  holy,  and  religious  man, 
One  free  from  mortal  sin,  a  very  virgin 

Mam.  That  makes  it Sir,  he  is  so.     But  I  buy  it. 

My  venture  brings  it  me.     He,  honest  wretch, 
A  notable,  superstitious,  good  soul, 


VOLPONE.  283 

Has  worn  his  knees  bare,  and  his  slippers  bald, 
"With  prayer  and  fasting  for  it ;  and,  sir,  let  him 
Do  it  alone,  for  me,  still.     Here  he  comes. 
Not  a  profane  word,  afore  him :  'tis  poison. 

[The  judgement  is  perfectly  overwhelmed  by  the  torrent  of  images, 
words,  and  book-knowledge  with  which  Mammon  confounds  and  stuns 
his  incredulous  hearer.  They  come  pouring  out  like  the  successive  strokes 
of  Nilus.  They  "  doubly  redouble  strokes  upon  the  foe."  Description 
outstrides  proof.  We  are  made  to  believe  effects  before  we  have  testi 
mony  for  their  causes ;  as  a  lively  description  of  the  joys  of  heaven  some 
times  passes  for  an  argument  to  prove  the  existence  of  such  a  place.  If 
there  be  no  one  image  which  rises  to  the  height  of  the  sublime,  yet  the 
confluence  and  assemblage  of  them  all  produces  an  effect  equal  to  the 
grandest  poetry.  Xerxes'  army  that  drank  up  whole  rivers  from  their 
numbers  may  stand  for  single  Achilles.  Epicure  Mammon  is  the  most 
determined  offspring  of  the  author.  It  has  the  whole  "  matter  and  copy 
of  the  father,  eye,  nose,  lip,  the  trick  of  his  frown."  It  is  just  such  a 
swaggerer  as  contemporaries  have  described  old  Ben  to  be.  Meercraft, 
Bobadil,  the  Host  of  the  New  Inn,  have  all  his  "  image  and  superscrip 
tion  ; "  but  Mammon  is  arrogant  pretension  personified.  Sir  Sampson 
Legend,  in  Love  for  Love,  is  such  another  lying  overbearing  character, 
but  he  does  not  come  up  to  Epicure  Mammon.  What  a  "  towering 
bravery"  there  is  in  his  sensuality!  He  affects  no  pleasure  under  a 
sultan.  It  is  as  if  "  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove  in  luxury."] 


YOLPONE,  OE  THE  FOX :  A  COMEDY,  BY  BEN  JONSON. 

YOIPONE,  a  rich  Venetian  nobleman,  who  is  ivithout  children,  feigns  him 
self  to  be  dying,  to  draw  gifts  from  such  as  pay  their  court  to  him  in 
the  expectation  of  becoming  his  heirs.  MOSCA,  his  knavish  confederate, 
persuades  each  of  these  men  in  turn  that  he  is  named  for  the  inherit 
ance,  and  by  this  means  extracts  from  their  credulity  many  costly 
presents. 

VOLPONE,  as  on  his  death-led.    MOSCA;     COEBACCIO,  an  old 

gentleman. 
Mos.  Signior  Corbaccio, 

You  are  very  welcome,  sir. 
Corb.  How  does  your  patron  ? 
Mos.  Troth,  as  he  did,  sir,  no  amends. 
Corb.  What  ?  mends  he  ? 
Mos.  No,  sir,  he  is  rather  worse. 
Corb.  That 's  well.     Where  is  he  ? 
Mos.  Upon  his  couch,  sir,  newly  fallen  asleep. 
Corb.  Does  he  sleep  well  ? 
Mos.  No  wink,  sir,  all  this  night, 

Nor  yesterday ;  but  slumbers. 


284  BEN  JONSON. 

Corl.  Good !  he  shall  take 

Some  counsel  of  physicians :  I  have  brought 
An  opiate  here,  from  mine  own.  doctor — 
Mos.  He  will  not  hear  of  drugs. 
Corl.  Why?  I  myself 

Stood  by,  while  'twas  made ;  saw  all  the  ingredients  j 
And  know  it  cannot  but  most  gently  work. 
My  life  for  his,  'tis  but  to  make  him  sleep. 
Volp.  Ay,  his  last  sleep  if  he  would  take  it. 
Mos.  Sir, 

He  has  no  faith  in  physic. 
Corl.  Say  you,  say  you  ? 

Mos.  He  has  no  faith  in  physic :  he  does  think, 
Most  of  your  doctors  are  the  greatest  danger, 
A  worst  disease  to  escape.    I  often  have 
Heard  him  protest,  that  your  physician 
•    Should  never  be  his  heir. 
Corl.  Not  I  his  heir? 
Mos.  Not  your  physician,  sir. 
Cor  1.  0,  no,  no,  no, 

I  do  not  mean  it. 
Mos.  No,  sir,  nor  their  fees 

He  cannot  brook :  he  says  they  flay  a  man, 
Before  they  kill  him. 
Corl.  Bight,  I  do  conceive  you. 
Mos.  And  then,  they  do  it  by  experiment ; 

For  which  the  law  not  only  doth  absolve  them, 
But  gives  them  great  reward ;  and  he  is  loath 
To  hire  his  death  so. 
Corl.  It  is  true,  thev  kill, 

"With  as  much  licence  as  a  judge. 
Mos.  Nay,  more ; 

For  he  but  kills,  sir,  where  the  law  condemns, 
And  these  can  kill  him  too. 
Corl.  Ay,  or  me, 

Or  any  man.    How  does  his  apoplex  ? 
Is  that  strong  on  him  still  ? 
Mos.  Most  violent. 

His  speech  is  broken,  and  his  eyes  are  set, 

His  face  drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont. 

Corl.  How?  how? 

Stronger  than  he  was  wont  ? 


TOLPOKE.  285 

Mos.  No,  sir ;  his  face 

Drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont. 
Corb.  0,  good. 
Mos.  His  mouth 

Is  ever  gaping,  and  his  eyelids  hang. 
Corb.  Good. 
Mos.  A  freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  his  joints, 

And  makes  the  colour  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 
Corb.  'Tis  good. 

Mos.  His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull. 
Corb.  Good  symptoms  still. 
Mos.  And  from  his  brain — 
Corb.  Ha  ?  how  ?  not  from  his  brain  ? 
Mos.  "S*es,  sir,  and  from  his  brain — 
Corb.  I  conceive  you,  good. 
Mos.  Mows  a  cold  sweat,  with  a  continual  rheum 

Forth  the  resolved  corners  of  his  eyes. 
Corb.  Is  it  possible  ?  yet  I  am  better,  ha ! 

How  does  he  with  the  swimming  of  his  head  ? 
Mos.  0,  sir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy ;  he  now 

Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  left  to  snort : 

Tou  hardly  can  perceive  him  that  he  breathes. 
Corb.  Excellent !  excellent !  sure  I  shall  outlast  him : 

This  makes  me  young  again  a  score  of  years. 
Mos.  I  was  coming  for  you,  sir. 
Corb.  Has  he  made  his  will  ? 

What  has  he  given  me  ? 
Mos.  No,  sir. 
Corb.  Nothing?  ha? 
Mos.  He  has  not  made  his  will,  sir. 
Corb.  0,  0,  0! 

What  then  did  Voltore  the  lawyer  here  ? 
Mos.  He  smelt  a  carcase,  sir,  when  he  but  heard 

My  master  was  about  his  testament ; 

As  I  did  urge  him  to  it  for  your  good — 
Corb.  He  came  unto  him,  did  he  ?  I  thought  so. 
Mos.  Yes,  and  presented  him  this  piece  of  plate. 
Corb.  To  be  his  heir? 
Mos.  I  do  not  know,  sir. 
Corb.  True, 

I  know  it  too, 
Mos.  By  your  own  scale,  sir. 


286  BEN  JONSOW. 

Corb.  Well,  I  shall  prevent  him  yet.     See,  Mosca,  look ; 

Here  I  have  brought  a  bag  of  bright  cecchines, 

Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate. 
Mos.  Tea,  marry,  sir, 

This  is  true  physic,  this  your  sacred  medicine  ; 

No  talk  of  opiates,  to  this  great  elixir. 
Corb.  'Tis  aurum  palpabile,  if  not  potabile. 
Mos.  It  shall  be  minister 'd  to  him  in  his  bowl. 
Corb.  Ay,  do,  do,  do. 
Mos.  Most  blessed  cordial ! 

This  will  recover  him. 
Corb.  Yes,  do,  do,  do. 
Mos.  I  think  it  were  not  best,  sir. 
Corb.  What  ? 
Mos.  To  recover  him. 
Corb.  0,  no,  no,  no ;  by  no  means. 
Mos.  Why,  sir,  this 

Will  work  some  strange  effect  if  he  but  feel  it. 
Corb.  'Tis  true,  therefore  forbear,  I  '11  take  my  venture ; 

Give  me  it  again. 
Mos.  At  no  hand ;  pardon  me ; 

You  shall  not  do  yourself  that  wrong,  sir.     I 

Will  so  advise  you,  you  shall  have  it  all. 
Corb.  How? 
Mos.  All,  sir ;  'tis  your  right,  your  own ;  no  man 

Can  claim  a  part ;  'tis  yours  without  a  rival, 

Decreed  by  destiny. 
Corb.  How,  how,  good  Mosca  ? 
Mos.  I  '11  tell  you,  sir.    This  fit  he  shall  recover. 
Corb.  I  do  conceive  you. 
Mos.  And  on  first  advantage 

Of  his  gain'd  sense,  will  I  reimportune  him 

Unto  the  making  of  his  testament ; 

And  show  him  this. 
Corb.  Good,  good. 
Mos.  'Tis  better  yet, 

Ifyou  will  hear,  sir. 
Corb.  Yes,  with  all  my  heart. 
Mos.  Now  would  I  counsel  you,  make  home  with 


There  frame  a  will ;  whereto  you  shall  inscribe 
My  master  your  sole  heir. 


VOLPONE.  287 

Corb.  And  disinherit 
My  son  ? 

Mos.  0  sir,  the  better ;  for  that  colour 
Shall  make  it  much  more  taking. 

Corb.  O,  but  colour  ? 

Mos.  This  will,  sir,  you  shall  send  it  unto  me. 
Now,  when  I  come  to  enforce  (as  I  will  do) 
Your  cares,  your  watchings,  and  your  many  prayers, 
Tour  more  than  many  gifts,  your  this  day's  present, 
And  last  produce  your  will ;  where  (without  thought, 
Or  least  regard  unto  your  proper  issue, 
A  son  so  brave,  and  highly  meriting) 
The  stream  of  your  diverted  love  hath  thrown  you 
Upon  my  master,  and  made  him  your  heir ; 
He  cannot  be  so  stupid,  or  stone-dead, 
But  out  of  conscience,  and  mere  gratitude 

Corb.  He  must  pronounce  me  his  ? 

Mos.  'Tis  true. 

Corb.  This  plot 

Did  I  think  on  before. 

Mos.  I  do  believe  it. 

Corb.  Do  you  not  believe  it  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  sir. 

Corb.  Mine  own  project. 

Mos.  "Which  when  he  hath  done,  sir — 

Corb.  Publish' d  me  his  heir  ? 

Mos.  And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him — 

Corb.  Ay. 

Mos.  Being  so  lusty  a  man 

Corb.  'Tis  true. 

Mos.  Yes,  sir  — 

Corb.  I  thought  on  that  too.     See  how  he  should  be 
The  very  organ  to  express  my  thoughts ! 

Mos.  You  have  not  only  done  yourself  a  good 

Corb.  But  multiplied  it  on  my  son. 

Mos.  'Tis  right,  sir. 

Corb.  Still  my  invention. 

Mos.  'Las,  sir,  Heaven  knows, 

It  hath  been  all  my  study,  all  my  care 

(I  ev'n  grow  gray  withal)  how  to  work  things — 

Corb.  I  do  conceive,  sweet  Mosca. 


288  BEN  JONSOff. 

Mos.  You  are  he, 

For  whom  I  labour,  here. 

Corl.  Ay,  do,  do,  do : 

I  '11  straight  about  it. 

Mos.  Book  go  with  you,  raven. 

Corb.  I  know  thee  honest. 

Mos.  You  do  lie,  sir — 

Corb.  And 

Mos.  Your  knowledge  is  no  better  than  your  ears,  sir. 

Corb.  I  do  not  doubt  to  be  a  father  to  thee. 

Mos.  Nor  I  to  gull  my  brother  of  his  blessing. 

Corb.  I  may  have  my  youth  restored  to  me ;  why  not  ? 

Mos.  Your  worship  is  a  precious  ass 

Corb.  "What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mos.  I  do  desire  your  worship  to  make  haste,  sir. 

Corb.  'Tis  done,  'tis  done ;  I  go.  [Exit. 

Volp.  0,  I  shall  burst ; 

Let  out  my  sides,  let  out  my  sides 

Mos.  Contain 

Your  flux  of  laughter,  sir :  you  know  this  hope 
Is  such  a  bait  it  covers  any  hook. 

Volp.  0,  but  thy  working,  and  thy  placing  it ! 
I  cannot  hold :  good  rascal,  let  me  kiss  thee : 
I  never  knew  thee  in  so  rare  a  humour. 

Mos.  Alas,  sir,  I  but  do  as  I  am  taught ; 

Follow  your  grave  instructions ;  give  them  words, 
Pour  oil  into  their  ears,  and  send  them  hence. 

Volp.  'Tis  true,  'tis  true.    What  a  rare  punishment 

Is  avarice  to  itself! 
Mos.  Ay,  with  our  help,  sir. 

Volp.  So  many  cares,  so  many  maladies, 
So  many  fears  attending  on  old  age, 
Yea,  death  so  often  call'd  on,  as  no  wish 
Can  be  more  frequent  with  them,  their  limbs  faint, 
Their  senses  dull,  their  seeing,  hearing,  going, 
All  dead  before  them ;  yea,  their  very  teeth, 
Their  instruments  of  eating,  failing  them : 
Yet  this  is  reckon' d  life !    Nay,  here  was  one, 
Is  now  gone  home,  that  wishes  to  live  longer  I 
Peels  not  his  gout,  not  palsy,  feigns  himself 
Younger  by  scores  of  years,  flatters  his  age, 


YOLPONE.  289 

"With  confident  belying  it,  hopes  he  may 
With  charms,  like  -ZEson,  have  his  youth  restored : 
And  with  these  thoughts  so  battens,  as  if  Pate 
Would  be  as  easily  cheated  on  as  he : 
And  all  turns  air  !    Who  's  that  there,  now  ?  a  third ! 

[Another  knocks. 

Mos.  Close  to  your  couch  again :  I  hear  his  voice. 
It  is  Corvino,  our  spruce  merchant. 

Volp.  Dead. 

Mos.  Another  bout,  sir,  with  your  eyes.     Who  's  there  ? 
CORVLNO,  a  Merchant,  enters. 

Mos.  Signior  Corvino  !  come  most  wish'd  for !     O, 
How  happy  were  you,  if  you  knew  it  now ! 

Corv.  Why?  what?  wherein? 

Mos.  The  tardy  hour  is  come,  sir. 

Corv.  He  is  not  dead  ? 

Mos.  Not  dead,  sir,  but  as  good ; 
He  knows  no  man. 

Corv.  How  shall  I  do  then  ? 

Mos.  Why,  sir  ? 

Corv.  I  have  brought  him  here  a  pearl. 

Mos.  Perhaps  he  has 

So  much  remembrance  left,  as  to  know  you,  sir : 
He  still  calls  on  you :  nothing  but  your  name 
Is  in  his  mouth  :  is  your  pearl  orient,  sir  ? 

Corv.  Venice  was  never  owner  of  the  like. 

Volp.  Signior  Corvino. 

Mos.  Hark. 

Volp.  Signior  Corvino. 

Mos.  He  calls  you ;  step  and  give  it  him.     He 's  here,  sir, 
And  he  has  brought  you  a  rich  pearl. 

Corv.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 

Tell  him  it  doubles  the  twelfth  caract. 

Mos.  Sir, 

He  cannot  understand,  his  hearing  's  gone : 
And  yet  it  comforts  him  to  see  you  -. 

Corv.  Say, 

I  have  a  diamond  for  him  too. 

Mos.  Best  shew  it,  sir ; 

Put  it  into  his  hand ;  'tis  only  there 
He  apprehends :  he  has  his  feelings  yet. 


290  BEtf  JONSON. 


See  how  he  grasps  it  ! 

Corv.  Alas,  good  gentleman  ! 
How  pitiful  the  sight  is  ! 

Mos.  Tut,  forget,  sir. 

The  weeping  of  an  heir  should  still  be  laughter, 
Under  a  visor. 

Corv.  Why,  am  I  his  heir  . 

Mos.  Sir,  I  am  sworn,  I  may  not  show  the  will, 
Till  he  be  dead  :  but,  here  has  been  Corbaccio, 
Here  has  been  Voltore,  here  were  others  too, 
I  cannot  number  them,  they  were  so  many, 
All  gaping  here  for  legacies  ;  but  I, 
Taking  the  vantage  of  his  naming  you, 
(Signior  Corvino,  Signior  Corvino)  took 
Paper,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  there  'I  ask'd  him, 
Whom  he  wTould  have  his  heir  ?     Corvino.     Who 
Should  be  executor  ?     Corvino.     And 
To  any  question  he  was  silent  to, 

I  still  interpreted  the  nods,  he  made  [others, 

Through  weakness,  for  consent;  and  sent  home  the 
Nothing  bequeathed  them,  but  to  cry,  and  curse. 

Corv.  O,  my  dear  Mosca  !    Does  he  not  perceive  us  ? 

Mos.  No  more  than  a  blind  harper.     He  knows  no  man, 
No  face  of  friend,  nor  name  of  any  servant, 
Who  it  was  that  fed  him  last,  or  gave  him  drink  ; 
Not  those  he  hath  begotten,  or  brought  up, 
Can  he  remember. 

Corv.  Has  he  children  ? 

Mos.  Bastards, 

Some  dozen,  or  more,  that  he  begot  on  beggars, 
Gypsies,  and  Jews,  and  black-moors,  when  he  was  drunk  : 
•  Knew  you  not  that,  sir  ?     'Tis  the  common  fable, 
The  dwarf,  the  fool,  the  eunuch,  are  all  his  : 
He  's  the  true  father  of  his  family, 
In  all,  save  me  :  but  he  has  given  them  nothing. 

Corv.  That  's  wrell,  that  's  well.  Art  sure  he  does  not  hear  us  ? 

Mos.  Sure,  sir  ?  why  look  you,  credit  your  own  sense. 
The  pox  approach,  and  add  to  your  diseases, 
If  it  would  send  you  hence  the  sooner,  sir, 
For  your  incontinence,  it  hath  deserved  it 
Throughly,  and  throughly,  and  the  plague  to  boot. 


VOLPONE.  291 

4 

(Tou  may  come  near,  sir)  would  you  would  once  close 
Those  filthy  eyes  of  yours  that  flow  with  slime, 
Like  two  frog-pits :  and  those  same  hanging  cheeks, 
Cover' d  with  hide,  instead  of  skin,  (nay,  help,  sir) 
That  look  like  frozen  dish-clouts  set  on  end. 

Corv.  Or,  like  an  old  smoked  wall,  on  which  the  rain 
Ran  down  in  streaks. 

Mos.  Excellent,  sir,  speak  out ; 

You  may  be  louder  yet :  a  culverin 
Discharged  in  his  ear,  would  hardly  bore  it. 

Corv.  His  nose  is  like  a  common  sewer,  still  running. 

Mos.  'Tis  good ;  and  what  his  mouth  ? 

Corv.  A  very  draught. 

Mos.  O,  stop  it  up 

Corv.  By  no  means.  - 

Mos.  Pray  you  let  me. 

Faith  I  could  stifle  him  rarely  with  a  pillow, 
As  well  as  any  woman  that  should  keep  him. 

Corv.  Do  as  you  will,  but  I  '11  begone. 

Mos.  Be  so ; 

It  is  your  presence  makes  him  last  so  long. 

Corv.  I  pray  you  use  no  violence. 

Mos.  No,  sir ;  why  ? 

Why  should  you  be  thus  scrupulous  ?    Pray  you,  sir. 

Corv.  Nay,  at  your  discretion. 

Mos.  "Well,  good  sir,  be  gone. 

Corv.  I  will  not  trouble  him  now  to  take  my  pearl. 

Mos.  Puh,  nor  your  diamond.     "What  a  needless  care 
Is  this  afflicts  you  ?    Is  not  all  here  yours  ? 
Am  not  I  here,  whom  you  have  made  your  creature, 
That  owe  my  being  to  you  ? 

Corv.  Grateful  Mosca ! 

Thou  art  my  friend,  my  fellow,  my  companion, 

My  partner,  and  shall  share  in  all  my  fortunes.    [Exit. 

Volp.  My  divine,  Mosca ! 

Thou  hast  to-day  outgone  thyself. 


T72 


292  PBANCIS  BEAUMONT. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LOYE :  BEING  THE  SECOND  OF  FOUR 
PLAYS,  OB,  MORAL  REPRESENTATIONS,  BY  FRANCIS 
BEAUMONT. 

ViOLANTA,  daughter  to  a  nobleman  of  Milan,  is  with  child  ly  GrEEBABD, 
supposed  to  be  of  mean  descent ;  an  offence,  which  by  the  laws  of  Milan 
is  made  capital  to  both  parties. 

VIOLANTA.     GERRAED. 

Viol.  "Why  does  my  Gerrard  grieve  ? 

Ger.  O  my  sweet  mistress, 

It  is  not  life  (which  by  our  Milan  law 

My  fact  hath  forfeited)  makes  me  thus  pensive ; 

That  I  would  lose  to  save  the  little  finger 

Of  this  your  noble  burthen  from  least  hurt, 

Because  your  blood  is  in  it.     But  since  your  love 

Made  poor  incompatible  me  the  parent 

(Being  we  are  not  married)  your  dear  blood 

Palls  under  the  same  cruel  penalty : 

And  can  Heaven  think  fit  ye  die  for  me  ? 

For  Heaven's  sake  say  I  ravish' d  you ;  I  '11  swear  it, 

To  keep  your  life  and  repute  unstain'd. 

Viol.  O  Gerrard,  thou  art  rny  life  and  faculties, 
And  if  I  lose  thee,  I  '11  not  keep  mine  own ; 
The  thought  of  whom  sweetens  all  miseries. 
"Wouldst  have  me  murder  thee  beyond  thy  death  ? 
Unjustly  scandal  thee  with  ravishment  ? 
It  was  so  far  from  rape,  that  Heaven  doth  know, 
If  ever  the  first  lovers,  ere  they  fell, 
Knew  simply  in  the  state  of  innocence, 
Such  was  this  act,  this,  that  doth  ask  no  blush. 

Ger.  0  !  but  my  rarest  Violanta,  when 

My  lord  Eandulpho,  brother  to  your  father, 
Shall  understand  this,  how  will  he  exclaim, 
That  my  poor  aunt  and  me,  which  his  free  alms 
Hath  nursed,  since  Milan  by  the  duke  of  Mantua, 

Who  now  usurps  it,  was  surprised that  time 

My  father  and  my  mother  both  were  slain, 
"With  my  aunt's  husband,  as  she  says ;  their  states 
Despoil' d  and  seized ;  'tis  past  my  memory, 
But  thus  she  told  me :  only  thus  I  know, 
Since  I  could  understand,  your  honour' d  uncle 
Hath  given  me  all  the  liberal  education 


THE  TEITJMPH  OF  LOVE.  293 

That  his  own  son  might  look  for,  had  he  one ; 
Now  will  he  say,  dost  thou  requite  me  thus  ? 

0  !  the  thought  kills  me. 
Viol.  G-entle,  gentle  Grerrard, 

Be  cheer' d,  and  hope  the  best.     My  mother,  father, 

And  uncle,  love  me  most  indulgently, 

Being  the  only  branch  of  all  their  stocks  : 

But  neither  they,  nor  he  thou  wouldst  not  grieve 

"With  this  unwelcome  news,  shall  ever  hear 

Violanta's  tongue  reveal,  much  less  accuse 

Grerrard  to  be  the  father  of  his  own. 

1  '11  rather  silent  die,  that  thou  mayst  live 

To  see  thy  little  offspring  grow  and  thrive. 

VlOLANTA  is  attended  in  childbed  by  her  mother  ANGELINA. 

Viol.  Mother,  I  'd  not  offend  you ;  might  not  Grerrard 

Steal  in  and  see  me  in  the  evening  ? 
Angel.  Well, 

Bid  him  do  so. 
Viol.  Heaven's  blessing  on  your  heart. 

Do  ye  not  call  child-bearing  travel,  mother  ? 
Angel.  Yes. 
Viol.  It  well  may  be.     The  barefoot  traveller 

That 's  born  a  prince,  and  walks  his  pilgrimage, 

Whose  tender  feet  kiss  the  remorseless  stones 

Only,  ne'er  felt  a  travel  like  to  it. 

Alas,  dear  mother,  you  groan' d  thus  for  me, 

And  yet  how  disobedient  have  I  been ! 
Angel.  Peace,  Yiolanta :  thou  hast  always  been 

Gentle  and  good. 
Viol.  G-errard  is  better,  mother : 

O,  if  you  knew  the  implicit  innocency 

Dwells  in  his  breast,  you  'd  love  him  like  your  prayers. 

I  see  no  reason  but  my  father  might 

Be  told  the  truth,  being  pleased  for  Ferdinand 

To  woo  himself:  and  Grerrard  ever  was 

His  full  comparative ;  my  uncle  loves  him, 

As  he  loves  Ferdinand. 
Angel.  No,  not  for  the  world, 

Since  his  intent  is  cross' d :  loved  Ferdinand 

Thus  ruin'd,  and  a  child  got  out  of  wedlock, 

His  madness  would  pursue  you  both  to  death. 


294     FBANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Viol.  As  you  please,  mother.     I  am  now,  methinks, 
Even  in  the  land  of  ease ;  I  '11  sleep. 

Angel.  Draw  in 

The  bed  nearer  the  fire :  silken  rest 
Tie  all  thy  cares  up1. 

YIOLANTA  describes  how  her  love  for  GEBRAKD  began. 

Viol.  G-errard's  and  my  affection  began 
In  infancy :  my  uncle  brought  him  oft 
In  long  coats  hither. 

The  little  boy  would  kiss  me,  being  a  child, 
And  say  he  loved  me ;  give  me  all  his  toys, 
Bracelets,  rings,  sweetmeats,  all  his  rosy  smiles : 
I  then  would  stand  and  stare  upon  his  eyes, 
Play  with  his  locks,  and  swear  I  loved  him  too ; 
3?or  sure  methought  he  was  a  little  Love, 
He  woo'd  so  prettily  in  innocence, 
That  then  he  warm'd  my  fancy. 


THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY: 
BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

AMINTOB,  a  nolle  gentleman,  promises  marriage  to  ASPATIA,  and  for 
sakes  her  by  the  king's  command  to  wed  EVADKE. — The  grief  of  As- 
PATIA  at  being  forsaken  described. 

This  lady 

"Walks  discontented,  with  her  watery  eyes 
Bent  on  the  earth :  the  unfrequented  woods 
Are  her  delight ;  and  when  she  seeks  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she  with  a  sigh  will  tell 
Her  servants  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in ;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  them,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 
She  carries  with  her  an  infectious  grief 
That  strikes  all  her  beholders,  she  will  sing 
The  mournfulest  things  that  ever  ear  have  heard. 

1  Yiolanta's  prattle  is  so  very  pretty  and  so  natural  in  her  situation, 
that  I  could  not  resist  giving  it  a  place.  Juno  Lucina  was  never  invoked 
with  more  elegance.  Pope  has  been  praised  for  giving  dignity  to  a  game 
of  cards.  It  required  at  least  as  much  address  to  ennoble  a  lying-in. 


THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  £95 

And  sigh,  and  sing  again ;  and  when  the  rest 
Of  our  young  ladies  in  their  wanton  blood, 
Tell  mirthful  tales  in  course  that  fill  the  room 
"With  laughter,  she  will  with  so  sad  a  look 
Bring  forth  a  story  of  the  silent  death 
Of  some  forsaken  virgin,  which  her  grief 
"Will  put  in  such  a  phrase,  that,  ere  she  end, 
She  '11  send  them  weeping  one  by  one  away. 

The  marriage-night  of  AMINTOE  and  EVADI? E. 
EYADNE.     ASPATIA.     DTJLA,  and  oilier  Ladies. 

Evad.  Would  thou  couldst  instil  [To  DULA. 

Some  of  thy  mirth  into  Aspatia. 

Asp.  It  were  a  timeless  smile  should  prove  my  cheek ; 
It  were  a  fitter  hour  for  me  to  laugh, 
"When  at  the  altar  the  religious  priest 
"Were  pacifying  the  offended  powers 
With  sacrifice,  than  now.     This  should  have  been 
My  night,  and  all  your  hands  have  been  employ 'd 
In  giving  me  a  spotless  offering 
To  young  Amintor's  bed,  as  we  are  now 
For  you :  pardon,  Evadne,  would  my  worth 
Were  great  as  yours,  or  that  the  king,  or  he, 
Or  both  thought  so  ;  perhaps  he  found  me  worthless, 
But  till  he  did  so,  in  these  ears  of  mine 
(These  credulous  ears)  he  pour'd  the  sweetest  words 
That  art  or  love  could  frame. 

Evad.  Nay,  leave  this  sad  talk,  madam. 

Asp.  Would  I  could !  then  should  I  leave  the  cause. 
Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse  of  the  dismal  yew. 

Evad.  that's  one  of  your  sad  songs,  madam. 

Asp.  Believe  me,  'tis  a  very  pretty  one. * 

Evad.  How  is  it,  madam  ? 

Asp.  Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse  of  the  dismal  yew  ; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear  ;  say  I  died  true  : 
My  love  was  false,  but  Iivas  firm  from  my  hour  of  birth  ; 
Upon  my  buried  body  lay  lightly  gentle  earth. 
Madam,  good  night ; — may  no  discontent 
Grow  'twixt  your  love  and  you ;  but  if  there  do, 
Inquire  of  me,  and  I  will  guide  your  moan, 
Teach  you  an  artificial  way  to  grieve, 
To  keep  your  sorrow  waking.     Love  your  lord 


296      PBANOIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER, 

ISTo  worse  than  I ;  but  if  you  love  so  well, 

Alas,  you  may  displease  him,  so  did  I. 

This  is  the  last  time  you  shall  look  on  me : 

Ladies,  farewell ;  as  soon  as  I  am  dead, 

Come  all  and  watch  one  night  about  my  hearso ; 

Bring  each  a  mournful  story  and  a  tear 

To  offer  at  it  when  I  go  to  earth : 

With  flattering  ivy  clasp  my  coffin  round, 

Write  on  my  brow  my  fortune,  let  my  bier 

Be  borne  by  virgins  thafc  shall  sing  by  course 

The  truth  of  maids  and  perjuries  of  men. 

jEvad.  Alas,  I  pity  thee.  [AMINTOR  enters. 

Asp.  Go  and  be  happy  in  your  lady's  love ;     [_To  AMINTOE. 
May  all  the  wrongs  that  you  have  done  to  me, 
Be  utterly  forgotten  in  my  death. 
I  '11  trouble  you  no  more,  yet  1  will  take 
A  parting  kiss,  and  will  not  be  denied. 
You  '11  come,  my  lord,  and  see  the  virgins  weep 
When  I  am  laid  in  earth,  though  you  yourself 
Ca*n  know  no  pity :  thus  I  wind  myself 
Into  this  willow  garland,  and  am  prouder, 
That  I  was  once  your  love  (though  now  refused) 
Than  to  have  had  another  true  to  me. 

ASPATIA  wills  Tier  Maidens  to  be  sorrowful,  because  she  is  so. 
ASPATIA.     ANTIPHILA.     OLTMPIAS. 

Asp.  Come,  let 's  be  sad,  my  girls ; 

That  downcast  of  thine  eye,  Olympias, 
Shows  a  fine  sorrow  ;  mark,  Antiphila, 
Just  such  another  was  the  nymph  (Enone, 
When  Paris  brought  home  Helen :  now  a  tear, 
And  then  thou  art  a  piece  expressing  fully 
The  Carthage  queen,  when  from  a  cold  sea  rock, 
Pull  with  her  sorrow,  she  tied  fast  her  eyes 
To  the  fair  Trojan  ships,  and  having  lost  them, 
Just  as  thine  eyes  do,  down  stole  a  tear,  Antiphila. 
What  would  this  wench  do,  if  she  were  Aspatia  ? 
Here  she  would  stand,  till  some  more  pitying  god 
Turn'd  her  to  marble :  'tis  enough,  my  wench  ; 
Show  me  the  piece  of  needle-work  you  wrought. 

Ant.  Of  Ariadne,  madam  ? 

Asp.  Yes  that  piece. 


297 

This  should  be  Theseus  ;  he  has  a  cozening  face ; 
You  meant  him  for  a  man  ? 
Ant.  He  was  so,  madam, 

Asp.  Why  then  'tis  well  enough.     Never  look  back ; 
You  have  a  full  wind,  and  a  false  heart,  Theseus. 
Does  not  the  story  say,  his  keel  was  split, 
Or  his  masts  spent,  or  some  kind  rock  or  other 
Met  with  his  vessel  ? 
Ant.  Not  as  I  remember. 

Asp.  It  should  have  been  so  :  could  the  gods  know  this, 
And  not  of  all  their  number  raise  a  storm  ? 
But  they  are  all  as  ill.  This  false  smile  was  well  express' d, 
Just  such  another  caught  me ;  you  shall  not  go  so,  An- 
In  this  place  work  a  quicksand,  [tiphila, 

And  over  it  a  shallow  smiling  water, 
And  his  ship  ploughing  it,  and  then  a  fear. 
Do  that  fear  to  the  life,  wench. 
Ant.  'Twill  wrong  the  story. 

Asp.  'Twill  make  the  story,  wrong'd  by  wanton  poets, 
Live  long  and  be  believed ;  but  where  's  the  lady  ? 
Ant.  There,  madam. 

Asp.  Fie,  you  have  miss'd  it  here,  Antiphila, 
You  are  much  mistaken,  wench ; 
These  colours  are  not  dull  and  pale  enough, 
To  show  a  soul  so  full  of  misery 
As  this  sad  lady's  was  ;  do  it  by  me, 
Do  it  again  by  me  the  lost  Aspatia, 
And  you  shall  find  all  true  but  the  wild  island. 
I  stand  upon  the  sea  beach  now,  and  think 
Mine  arms  thus,  and  mine  hair  blown  with  the  wind, 
"Wild  as  that  desert,  and  let  all  about  me 
Tell  that  I  am  forsaken,  do  my  face 
(If  thou  hadst  ever  feeling  of  a  sorrow) 
Thus,  thus,  Antiphila,  strive  to  make  me  look 
Like  Sorrow's  monument ;  and  the  trees  about  me, 
Let  them  be  dry  and  leafless ;  let  the  rocks 
Groan  with  continual  surges,  and  behind  me 
Make  all  a  desolation ;  look,  look,  wenches, 
A  miserable  life  of  this  poor  picture. 
Olym.  Dear  madam ! 
Asp.  I  have  done,  sit  down,  and  let  us 

Upon  that  point  fix  all  our  eyes,  that  point  there ; 


298      PBANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Make  a  dnll  silence,  till  you  feel  a  sudden  sadness 
Give  us  new  souls l. 

EvAPNE  implores  forgiveness  q/'AMiNTOR/or  marrying  Mm  while  she 

was  the  King's  Mistress. 
Evad.  0  my  lord. 
Amin.  How  now ! 

Evad.  My  mucli-abused  lord !  [ Kneels. 

Amin.  This  cannot  be. 
Evad.  I  do  not  kneel  to  live,  I  dare  not  hope  it : 

The  wrongs  I  did  are  greater ;  look  upon  me, 

Though  I  appear  with  all  my  faults. 
Amin.  Stand  up. 

This  is  no  new  way  to  beget  more  sorrow : 

Heaven  knows  I  have  too  many  ;  do  not  mock  me ; 

Though  I  am  tame  and  bred  up  with  my  wrongs, 

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

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


THE  MAID'S  TBAGEDY.  299 

Which  are  my  foster-brothers,  I  may  leap 
Like  a  hand- wolf  into  my  natural  wilderness, 
And  do  an  outrage  :  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me. 

~Evad.  My  whole  life  is  so  leprous,  it  infects 

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

Amin.  Sure  I  dazzle : 

There  cannot  be  a  faith  in  that  foul  woman, 
That  knows  no  god  more  mighty  than  her  mis 
chiefs. 

Thou  dost  still  worse,  still  number  011  thy  faults, 
To  press  my  poor  heart  thus.     Can  I  believe 
There  's  any  seed  of  virtue  in  that  woman 
Left  to  shoot  up,  that  dares  go  on  in  sin 
Known,  and  so  known  as  thine  is  ?     O  Evadne ! 
"Would  there  were  any  safety  in  thy  sex, 
That  I  might  put  a  thousand  sorrows  off, 
And  credit  thy  repentance  :  but  I  must  not ; 
Thou  hast  brought  me  to  the  dull  calamity, 
To  that  strange  misbelief  of  all  the  world, 
And  all  things  that  are  in  it,  that  I  fear 
I  shall  fall  like  a  tree,  and  find  my  grave, 
Only  remembering  that  I  grieve. 

Evad.  My  lord, 

Give  me  your  griefs :  you  are  an  innocent, 

A  soul  as  white  as  heaven ;  let  not  my  sins 

Perish  your  noble  youth  :  I  do  not  fall  here 

To  shadow  my  dissembling  with  my  tears, 

As  all  say  women  can,  or  to  make  less 

What  my  hot  will  hath  done,  which  Heaven  and  you 

Knows  to  be  tougher  than  the  hand  of  time 

Can  cut  from  man's  remembrance ;  no,  I  do  not ; 

I  do  appear  the  same,  the  same  Evadne, 

Dress' d  in  the  shames  I  lived  in,  the  same  monster. 

But  these  are  names  of  honour,  to  what  I  am ; 

I  do  present  myself  the  foulest  creature, 

Most  poisonous,  dangerous,  and  despised  of  me^, 

Lerna  e'er  bred,  or  Nilus  ;  I  am  hell, 

Till  you,  my  dear  lord,  shoot  your  light  into  me, 

The  beams  of  your  forgiveness :  I  am  soul-sick, 


300      FEANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHEE. 

And  wither  with  the  fear  of  one  condemn' d, 
Till  I  have  got  your  pardon. 

Amin.  Rise,  Evadne. 

Those  heavenly  powers  that  put  this  good  into  thee, 

Grant  a  continuance  of  it :  I  forgive  thee  ; 

Make  thyself  worthy  of  it,  and  take  heed, 

Take  heed,  Evadne,  this  be  serious ; 

Mock  not  the  powers  above,  that  can  and  dare 

Give  thee  a  great  example  of  their  justice 

To  all  ensuing  eyes,  if  thou  playest 

"With  thy  repentance,  the  best  sacrifice. 

JEvad.  I  have  done  nothing  good  to  win  belief, 

My  life  hath  been  so  faithless  ;  all  the  creatures 

Made  for  heaven's  honours  have  their  ends,  and  good 

All  but  the  cozening  crocodiles,  false  women ;        [ones. 

They  reign  here  like  those  plagues,  those  killing  sores, 

Men  pray  against ;  and  when  they  die,  like  tales 

Ill-told,  and  unbelieved,  they  pass  away 

And  go  to  dust  forgotten :  but,  my  lord, 

Those  short  days  I  shall  number  to  my  rest, 

(As  many  must  not  see  me)  shall,  though  too  late, 

Though  in  my  evening,  yet  perceive  a  will, 

Since  I  can  do  no  good  because  a  woman, 

Beach  constantly  at  something  that  is  near  it ; 

I  will  redeem  one  minute  of  my  age, 

Or  like  another  JN"iobe  I  '11  weep 

Till  I  am  water. 

Aniin.  I  am  now  dissolved : 

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

Though  my  embraces  must  be  far  from  thee. 

Metis  Natures  more  hard  and  subtile  than  Women's. 
How  stubbornly  this  fellow  answer 'd  me ! 
There  is  a  vile  dishonest  trick  in  man, 


PHILASTEB.  301 

More  than  in  women :  all  the  men  I  meet 

Appear  thus  to  me,  are  harsh  and  rude. 

And  have  a  subtility  in  everything, 

Which  love  could  never  know ;  but  we  fond  women 

Harbour  the  easiest  and  smoothest  thoughts 

And  think  all  shall  go  so  ;  it  is  unjust 

That  men  and  women  should  be  match' d  together. 


PHILASTEE ;  OR,  LOYE  LIES  A-BLEEDING :  A  TRAGI- 

COMEDY, 
BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

PHILASTER  tells  the  PKINCESS  AKETHTJSA  how  he  first  found  the  boy 
BELLAEIO. 

I  have  a  boy  sent  by  the  gods, 

Not  yet  seen  in  the  court ;  hunting  the  buck, 

I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain  side, 

Of  which  he  borrow' d  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 

And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears ; 

A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself, 

Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 

Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 

Delighted  me :  but  ever  when  he  turn'd 

His  tender  eyes  upon  them,  he  would  weep, 

As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 

Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 

Dwell  in  his  face,  I  ask'd  him  all  his  story ; 

He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died, 

Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 

"Which  gave  him  roots ;  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 

Which  did  not  stop  their  courses  ;  and  the  sun, 

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

Then  took  he  up  his  garland  and  did  show, 

What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold, 

Did  signify  ;  and  how  all  order 'd  thus, 

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

The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 

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

Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertain' d  him, 

Who  was  as  glad  to  follow ;  and  have  got 

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


302       FEANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

That  ever  master  kept :  him  will  I  send 
To  wait  on  you,  and  bear  our  hidden  love. 

PHILASTEB  prefers  BELLARIO  to  the  service  of  the  PEINCESS  ARETHTJSA. 

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

Sell,  Sir,  you  did  take  me  up  when  I  was  nothing, 
And  only  yet  am  something  by  being  yours  ; 
You  trusted  me  unknown ;  and  that  which  you  are  apt 
To  construe  a  simple  innocence  in  me, 
Perhaps  might  have  been  craft,  the  cunning  of  a  boy 
Harden'd  in  lies  and  theft ;  yet  ventured  you 
To  part  my  miseries  and  me ;  for  which, 
I  never  can  expect  to  serve  a  lady 
That  bears  more  honour  in  her  breast  than  you. 

Phi.  But,  boy,  it  will  prefer  thee ;  thou  art  young,        * 
And  bear'st  a  childish  overflowing  love 
To  them  that  clap  thy  cheeks  and  speak  thee  fair  yet. 
But  when  thy  judgment  comes  to  rule  those  passions, 
Thou  wilt  remember  best  those  careful  friends 
That  place  the  3  in  the  noblest  way  of  life : 
She  is  a  princess  I  prefer  thee  to. 

Bell.  In  that  small  time  that  I  have  seen  the  world, 
I  never  knew  a  man  hasty  to  part 
With  a  servant  he  thought  trusty ;  I  remember, 
My  father  would  prefer  the  boys  he  kept 
To  greater  men  than  he,  but  did  it  not 
Till  they  were  grown  too  saucy  for  himself. 

Phi.  Why,  gentle  boy,  I  find  no  fault  at  all 
In  thy  behaviour. 

Sell.  Sir,  if  I  have  made 

A  fault  of  ignorance,  instruct  my  youth ; 
I  shall  be  willing,  if  not  apt,  to  learn. 
Age  and  experience  will  adorn  my  mind 
With  larger  knowledge :  and  if  I  have  done 
A  wilful  fault,  think  me  not  past  all  hope 
For  once ;  what  master  holds  so  strict  a  hand 
Over  his  boy,  that  he  will  part  with  him 
Without  one  warning  ?   Let  me  be  corrected 
To  break  my  stubbornness  if  it  be  so, 
Bather  than  turn  me  off,  and  I  shall  mend. 


PHILASTEB.  303 

2*hi.  Thy  Love  doth  plead  so  prettily  to  stay, 

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

Alas,  I  do  not  turn  thee  off ;  thou  knowest 

It  is  my  business  that  doth  call  thee  hence, 

And  when  thou  art  with  her  thou  dwell' st  with  nie : 

Think  so,  and  'tis  so ;  and  when  time  is  full, 

That  thou  hast  well  discharged  this  heavy  trust, 

Laid  on  so  weak  a  one,  I  will  again 

"With  joy  receive  thee  ;  as  I  live,  I  will ; 

Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  boy ;  'tis  more  than  time 

Thou  didst  attend  the  princess. 

Sell.  I  am  gone  ; 

But  since  I  am  to  part  with  you,  my  lord, 
And  none  knows  whether  I  shall  live  to  do 
More  service  for  you,  take  this  little  prayer ; 
Heaven  bless  your  loves,  your  fights,  all  your  designs. 
May  sick  men,  if  they  have  your  wish,  be  well ; 
And  Heaven's  hate  those  you  curse,  though  I  be  one. 

BELLAEIO  describes  to  the  PRINCESS  ABETHTJSA  the  manner  of  his 

master  PHILASTEE'S  love  for  her. 

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

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

Tell  me  thy  name. 
Sell.  Bellario. 

Are.  Thou  canst  sing  and  play  ? 
Sell.  If  grief  will  give  me  leave,  madam,  I  can. 
Are.  Alas !  what  kind  of  grief  can  thy  years  know  ? 

Hadst  thou  a  curst  master  when  thou  went'st  to  school  ? 

Thou  art  not  capable  of  any  other  grief; 

Thy  brows  and  cheeks  are  smooth  as  waters  be, 

"When  no  breath  troubles  them :  believe  me,  boy, 

Care  seeks  out  wrinkled  brows,  and  hollow  eyes, 

And  builds  himself  caves  to  abide  in  them. 

Come,  sir,  tell  me  truly,  does  your  lord  love  me  ? 
Sell.  Love,  madam  ?  I  know  not  what  it  is. 
Are.  Canst  thou  know  grief,  and  never  yet  knew'st  love  ? 

Thou  art  deceived,  boy.     Does  he  speak  of  me 

As  if  he  wish'd  me  well  ? 
Sell.  If  it  be  love, ' 

To  forget  all  respect  of  his  own  friends, 


304     TEANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  TLETCHEE. 

In  thinking  of  your  face ;  if  it  be  love, 

To  sit  cross-arm' d  and  sigh  away  the  day, 

Mingled  with  starts,  crying  your  name  as  loud 

And  hastily,  as  men  in  the  streets  do  fire ; 

If  it  be  love  to  weep  himself  away. 

When  he  but  hears  of  any  lady  dead, 

Or  kill'd,  because  it  might  have  been  your  chance; 

If  when  he  goes  to  rest  (which  will  not  be) 

'Twixt  every  prayer  he  says  to  name  you  once, 

As  others  drop  a  bead,  be  to  be  in  love ; 

Then,  madam,  I  dare  swear  he  loves  you. 

Are.  O  you  are  a  cunning  boy,  and  taught  to  lie 
For  your  lord's  credit ;  but  thou  know'st  a  lie 
That  bears  this  sound,  is  welcomer  to  me 
Than  any  truth  that  says  he  loves  me  not. 

PHILASTEK  is  jealous  O/BELLAEIO  with  the  PEINCESS. 

Sell.  Health  to  you,  my  lord ; 

The  princess  doth  commend  her  love,  her  life, 
And  this  unto  you. 

PU.  O  Bellario, 

Now  I  perceive  she  loves  me,  she  does  show  it 
In  loving  thee,  my  boy ;  she  has  made  thee  brave. 

Sell.  My  lord,  she  has  attired  me  past  my  wish, 
Past  my  desert,  more  fit  for  her  attendant, 
Though  far  unfit  for  me  who  do  attend. 

PJii.  Thou  art  grown  courtly,  boy.     0  let  all  women 
That  love  black  deeds  learn  to  dissemble  here. 
Here  by  this  paper  she  does  write  to  me 
As  if  her  heart  were  mines  of  adamant 
To  all  the  world  besides,  but  unto  me 
A  maiden  snow  that  melted  with  my  looks. 
Tell  me,  my  boy,  how  doth  the  princess  use  thee  ? 
For  I  shall  guess  her  love  to  me  by  that. 

Sell.  Scarce  like  her  servant,  but  as  if  I  were 
Something  allied  to  her ;  or  had  preserved 
Her  life  three  times  by  my  fidelity ; 
As  mothers  fond  do  use  their  only  sons ; 
As  I  'd  use  one  that 's  left  unto  iny  trust, 
For  whom  my  life  should  pay  if  he  met  harm, 
So  she  does  use  me. 

PA*.  Why  this  is  wondrous  well : 

Eut  what  kind  language  does  she  feed  thee  with  ? 


PHILASTEE.  305 

Sell.  Why,  she  does  tell  me,  she  will  trust  my  youth 
With  all  her  loving  secrets,  and  does  call  me 
Her  pretty  servant,  bids  me  weep  no  more 
For  leaving  you ;  she  '11  see  my  services 
[Regarded :  and  such  words  of  that  soft  strain, 
That  I  am  nearer  weeping  when  she  ends 
Than  ere  she  spake. 

PH.  This  is  much  better  still. 

Sell.  Are  you  ill,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  HI?    No,  Bellario. 

Sell.  Methinks  your  words 

Fall  not  from  off  your  tongue  so  evenly, 
Nor  is  there  in  your  looks  that  quietness, 
That  I  was  wont  to  see. 

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

Sell.  Yes. 

Phi.  And  she  does  clap  thy  cheeks  ? 

Sell.  She  does,  my  lord. 

Phi  And  she  does  kiss  thee,  boy,  ha  ? 

Sell.  How,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  She  kisses  thee  ? 

Sell.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Come,  come,  I  know  she  does. 

Sell.  No,  by  my  life. 

Ay  now  I  see  why  my  disturbed  thoughts 
Were  so  perplex' d  when  first  I  went  to  her; 
My  heart  held  augury.     You  are  abused, 
Some  villain  has  abused  you ;  I  do  see 
Whereto  you  tend ;  fall  rocks  upon  his  head, 
That  put  this  to  you ;  'tis  some  subtle  train 
To  bring  that  noble  frame  of  yours  to  naught. 

Phi.  Thou  think' st  I  will  be  angry  with  thee.     Come, 
,    Thou  shalt  know  all  my  drift.     I  hate  her  more, 
Than  I  love  happiness,  and  placed  thee  there 
To  pry  with  narrow  eyes  into  her  deeds. 
Hast  thou  discover 'd  ?  is  she  fallen  to  lust, 
As  I  would  wish  her  ?    Speak  some  comfort  to  me. 

Sell.  My  lord,  you  did  mistake  the  boy  you  sent : 
Had  she  a  sin  that  way,  hid  from  the  world, 
I  would  not  aid 

Her  base  desires ;  but  what  I  came  to  know 

x 


306     PBANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  PLETCHEB. 

As  servant  to  her,  I  would  not  reveal, 

To  make  my  life  last  ages. 
Phi.  O  my  heart ! 

This  is  a  salve  worse  than  the  main  disease. 

Tell  me  thy  thoughts  ;  for  I  will  know  the  least 

That  dwells  within  thee,  or  will  rip  thy  heart 

To  know  it ;  I  will  see  thy  thoughts  as  plain 

As  I  do  know  thy  face. 
Sell.  Why,  so  you  do. 

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

As  chaste  as  ice ;  but  were  she  foul  as  hell, 

And  I  did  know  it,  thus ;  the  breath  of  kings, 

The  points  of  swords,  tortures,  nor  bulls  of  brass, 

Should  draw  it  from  me. 
Phi.  Then  it  is  no  time 

To  dally  with  thee  ;  I  will  take  thy  life, 

For  I  do  hate  thee ;  I  could  curse  thee  now. 
Sell.  If  you  do  hate,  you  could  not  curse  me  worse ; 

The  gods  have  not  a  punishment  in  store 

Greater  for  me  than  is  your  hate. 
Phi.  Pie,  fie, 

So  young  and  so  dissembling!   fear'st  thou  not 
death  ? 

Can  boys  contemn  that  ? 
Sell.  O,  what  boy  is  he 

Can  be  content  to  live  to  be  a  man, 

That  sees  the  best  of  men  thus  passionate, 

Thus  without  reason  ? 

Phi.  0,  but  thou  dost  not  know  what  'tis  to  die, 
Bell.  Yes,  I  do  know,  my  lord ! 

'Tis  less  than  to  be  born ;  a  lasting  sleep, 

A  quiet  resting  from  all  jealousy ; 

A  thing  we  all  pursue ;  I  know  besides 

It  is  but  giving  over  of  a  game 

That  must  be  lost. 
Phi.  But  there  are  pains,  false  boy, 

For  perjured  souls ;  think  but  on  these,  and  then 

Thy  heart  will  melt,  and  thou  wilt  utter  all. 
Sell.  May  they  fall  all  upon  me  whilst  I  live, 

If  I  be  perjured,  or  have  ever  thought 

Of  that  you  charge  me  with ;  if  I  be  false, 


PHILASTEE.  307 

Send  me  to  suffer  in  those  punishments 
You  speak  of;  kill  me. 

PM.  O,  what  should  I  do  ? 

Why,  who  can  but  believe  him  ?    He  does  swear 
So  earnestly,  that  if  it  were  not  true, 
The  gods  would  not  endure  him.     Bise,  Bellario ; 
Thy  protestations  are  so  deep,  and  thou 
Dost  look  so  truly  when  thou  utter 'st  them, 
That  though  I  know  them  false,  as  were  my  hopes, 
I  cannot  urge  thee  further ;  but  thou  wert 
To  blame  to  injure  me,  for  I  must  love 
Thy  honest  looks,  and  take  no  revenge  upon 
Thy  tender  youth :  a  love  from  me  to  thee 
Is  firm  whate'er  thou  dost :  it  troubles  me 
That  I  have  call'd  the  blood  out  of  thy  cheeks, 
That  did  so  well  become  thee :  but,  good  boy, 
Let  me  not  see  thee  more  ;  something  is  done 
That  will  distract  me,  that  will  make  me  mad, 
If  I  behold  thee ;  if  thou  tender' st  me, 
Let  me  not  see  thee. 

Sell.  I  will  fly  as  far 

As  there  is  morning,  ere  I  give  distaste 

To  that  most  honour 'd  mind.   But  through  these  tears, 

Shed  at  my  hopeless  parting,  I  can  see 

A  world  of  treason  practised  upon  you, 

And  her,  and  me.     Earewell  for  evermore ; 

If  you  shall  hear  that  sorrow  struck  me  dead, 

And  after  find  me  loyal,  let  there  be 

A  tear  shed  from  you  in  my  memory, 

And  I  shall  rest  at  peace. 

BELLABIO,  discovered  to  be  a  woman,  confesses  the  motive  for  her  disguise 

to  have  been  love  for  PEINCE  PHILASTEE. 
My  father  would  oft  speak 
Tour  worth  and  virtue,  and  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised,  but  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found,  till  sitting  in  my  window, 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god' 
I  thought  (but  it  was  you)  enter  our  gates ; 
My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 
As  I  had  puff'd  it  forth,  and  suck'd  it  in 


308  TRANCIS  BEATTMQffT  AKD  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Like  breath ;  then  was  I  call'd  away  in  haste 

To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man 

Heaved  from  a  sheepcot  to  a  seeptre,  raised 

So  high  in  thoughts  as  I ;  you  left  a  kiss 

Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 

Prom  you  for  ever ;  I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  ahove  singing ;  after  you  were  gone, 

I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  search' d 

What  stirr'd  it  so,    Alas  !  I  found  it  love, 

Yet  far  from  lust,  for  could  I  have  but  lived, 

In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end, 

For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 

"With  a  feign' d  pilgrimage,  and  dress' d  myself 

In  habit  of  a  boyy  and,  for  I  knew 

My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 

Of  having  you.     And  understanding  well, 

That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex, 

I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow 

By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 

Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known, 

Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men*s  eyes, 

For  other  than  I  seem'd ;  that  I  might  ever 

Abide  with  you :  then  sate  I  by  the  fount 

Where  first  you  took  me  up1. 

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

Donne  has  a  copy  of  verses  addressed  to  his  mistress,  dissuading  her 
from  a  resolution,  which  she  seems  to  have  taken  up  from  some  of  these 
scenical  representations,  of  following  him  abroad  as  a  page.  It  is  so 
earnest,  so  weighty,  so  rich,  in  poetry,  in  sense,  in  wit,  and  pathos,  that 
I  have  thought  fit  to  insert  it,  as  a  solemn  close  in  future  to  all  such  sickly 
fancies  as  he  there  deprecates.  The  story  of  his  romantic  and  unfortu? 
nate  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  Sir  George  Moore,  the  lady  here  sup 
posed  to  be  addressed,  may  be  read  in  Walton's  Lives. 


PHILASTEB.  309 

Natural  Antipathies. 

Nature,  that  loves  not  to  be  questioned 
Why  she  did  this,  or  that,  but  has  her  ends, 


By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview, 

By  all  desires  which  thereof  did  ensue, 

By  our  long  striving  hopes,  by  that  remorse 

Which  my  words'  masculine  persuasive  force 

Begot  in  thee,  and  by  the  memory 

Of  nurts,  which  spies  and  rivals  threaten' d  me, 

I  calmly  beg.     But  by  thy  father's  wrath, 

By  all  pains  which  want  and  divorcement  hath, 

I  conjure  thee  j  and  all  the  oaths,  which  I 

And  thou  have  sworn  to  seal  joint  constancy, 

I  here  unswear,  and  overswear  them  thus  : 

Thou  shalt  not  love  by  means  so  dangerous. 

Temper,  O  fair  love,  love's  impetuous  rage  j 

Be  my  true  mistress,  not  my  feigned  page. 

I  '11  go,  and,  by  thy  kind  leave,  leave  behind 

Thee,  only  worthy  to  nurse  in  my  mind 

Thirst  to  come  back ;  O,  if  thou  die  before, 

My  soul  from  other  lands  to  thee  shall  soar. 

Thy  (else  almighty)  beauty  cannot  move 

Bage  from  the  seas,  nor  thy  love  teach  them  love, 

Nor  tame  wild  Boreas'  harshness ;  thou  hast  read 

How  roughly  he  in  pieces  shivered 

The  fair  Orithea,  whom  he  swore  he  loved. 

fall  ill  or  good,  'tis  madness  to  have  proved 

Dangers  unurged ;  feed  on  this  flattery, 

That  -absent  lovers  one  in  the  other  be. 

Dissemble  nothing,  not  a  boy,  nor  change 

Thy  body's  habit,  nor  mind  j  be  not  strange 

To  thyself  only.     AH  will  spy  in  thy  face 

A  blushing  womanly  discovering  grace. 

Richly  clothed  apes  are  called  apes,  and  as  soon 

Eclipsed  as  bright  we  call  the  moon  the  moon. 

Men  of  France,  changeable  camelions, 

Spittles  of  diseases,  shops  of  fashions, 

Lives'  fuellers,  and  the  lightest  company 

Of  players  which  upon  the  world's  stage  be, 

Will  too  too  quickly  know  thee  ;  and,  alas ! 

The  indifferent  Italian,  as  we  pass 

His  warm  land,  well  content  to  think  thee  page, 

Will  hunt  thee  with  such  lust,  and  hideous  rage, 

As  Lot's  fair  guests  were  vex'd.     But  none  of  these 

Nor  spongy  Aydroptique  Dutch  shall  thee  displease, 

If  thou  stay  here.    O  stay  here ;  for,  for  thee 


310      FBANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

And  knows  she  does  well,  never  gave  the  world 
Two  things  so  opposite,  so  contrary, 
As  he  and  I  am :  if  a  bowl  of  blood 
Drawn  from  this  arm  of  mine  would  poison  thee, 
A  draught  of  his  would  cure  thee. 
Interest  in  Virtue. 

Why,  my  lord,  are  you  so  moved  at  this  ? 

When  any  falls  from  virtue,  I  am  distract, 
I  have  an  interest  in  't. 


CUPID'S  REVENGE :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  FRANCIS  BEAU- 
MONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

LETJCIPPTJS,  the  King's  Son,  takes  to  mistress  BACH  A,  a  Widow ;  but 
being  questioned  by  Ms  Father,  to  preserve  her  honour,  swears  that  she 
is  chaste.  The  old  King  admires  her,  and  on  the  credit  of  that  oath, 
while  his  Son  is  absent,  marries  her.  LETTCIPPTTS,  ivhen  he  discovert 
the  dreadful  consequences  of  the  deceit  which  he  had  used  to  his  father , 
counsels  his  friend  ISMENTJS  never  to  speak  a  falsehood  in  any  case. 

Leu.  My  sin,  Ismenus,  has  wrought  all  this  ill : 
And  I  beseech  thee  to  be  warn'd  by  me, 
And  do  not  lie,  if  any  man  should  ask  thee 
But  how  thou  dost,  or  what  o'clock  'tis  now, 
Be  sure  thou  do  not  lie,  make  no  excuse 
For  him  that  is  most  near  thee :  never  let 
The  most  officious  falsehood  'scape  thy  tongue ; 
For  they  above,  that  are  entirely  truth, 
Will  make  that  seed  which  thou  hast  sown  of  lies, 
Yield  miseries  a  thousand  fold 
Upon  thine  head,  as  they  have  done  on  mine. 

England  is  only  a  worthy  gallery, 
To  walk  in  expectation,  till  from  thence 
Our  greatest  king  call  thee  to  his  presence. 
When  I  am  gone,  dream  me  some  happiness ; 
Nor  let  thy  looks  our  long-hid  love  confess  ; 
Nor  praise,  nor  dispraise  me,  nor  bless  nor  curse, 
Openly  love's  force ;  nor  hi  bed  fright  thy  nurse 
With  midnights'  startings,  crying  out,  O,  O, 
Nurse,  O,  my  love  is  skin,  I  saw  him  go 
O'er  the  white  Alps  alone ;  I  saw  him,  I, 
Assail'd,  fight,  taken,  stabb'd,  bleed,  fall,  and  die. 
Augur  me  better  chance,  except  dread  Jove 
Think  it  enough  for  me  to  have  had  thy  love. 


CTJPID'S  EEVENGE.  311 

LEUCIPPTJS  and  Ms  wicked  Mother-in-law,  BACHA,  are  left  alone  together 

for  the  first  time  after  her  marriage  ivith  the  King,  his  father. 
Sack.  He  stands 

As  if  lie  grew  there,  with  his  eyes  on  earth. 
Sir,  you  and  I,  when  we  were  last  together, 
Kept  not  this  distance,  as  we  were  afraid 
Of  masting  by  ourselves. 
Leu.  Madam,  'tis  true, 
Heaven  pardon  it. 
Each.  Amen,  sir :  you  may  think 

That  I  have  done  you  wrong  in  this  strange  marriage. 
Leu.  'Tis  past  now. 
'Bach.  But  it  was  no  fault  of  mine : 

The  world  had  call'd  me  mad,  had  I  refused 
The  king ;  nor  laid  I  any  train  to  catch  him ; 
It  was  your  own  oaths  did  it. 
Leu.  'Tis  a  truth, 

That  takes  my  sleep  away ;  but  would  to  Heaven, 
If  it  had  so  been  pleased,  you  had  refused  him ; 
Though  I  had  gratified  that  courtesy 
"With  having  you  myself:  but  since  'tis  thus, 
I  do  beseech  you  that  you  will  be  honest 
[From  henceforth ;  and  not  abuse  his  credulous  age, 
"Which  you  may  easily  do.     As  for  myself, 
What  I  can  say,  you  know,  alas,  too  well, 
Is  tied  within  me  ;  here  it  will  sit  like  lead, 
But  shall  offend  no  other ;  it  will  pluck  me 
Back  from  my  entrance  into  any  mirth, 
As  if  a  servant  came  and  whisper 'd  with  me 
Of  some  friend's  death  :  but  I  will  bear  myself 
To  you,  with  all  the  due  obedience 
A  son  owes  to  a  mother ;  more  than  this 
Is.  not  in  me,  but  I  must  leave  the  rest 
To  the  just  gods,  who  in  their  blessed  time. 
"When  they  have  given  me  punishment  enough 
For  my  rash  sin,  will  mercifully  find 
As  unexpected  means  to  ease  my  grief 
As  they  did  now  to  bring  it. 
Bach.  Grown  so  godly  ? 

This  must  not  be,  and  I  will  be  to  you 
No  other  than  a  natural  mother  ought ; 
And  for  my  honesty,  so  you  will  swear 


312     FBANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Never  to  urge  me,  I  shall  keep  it  safe 

Prom  any  other. 

Leu.  Bless  me,  I  should  urge  you ! 
Bach.  Nay,  but  swear  then,  that  I  may  be  at  peace, 

Por  I  do  feel  a  weakness  in  myself 

That  can  deny  you  nothing ;  if  you  tempt  me, 

I  shall  embrace  sin  as  it  were  a  friend. 

And  run  to  meet  it. 
Leu.  If  you  knew  how  far 

It  were  from  me,  you  would  not  urge  an  oath. 

But  for  your  satisfaction,  when  I  tempt  you 


Bach.  Swear  not.     I  cannot  move  him.     This  sad  talk 

Of  things  past  help,  does  not  become  us  well. 

Shall  I  send  one  for  my  musicians,  and  we  '11  dance  ? 
Leu.  Dance,  madam  ? 
Bach.  Yes,  a  lavolta. 
Leu.  I  cannot  dance,  madam. 
Bach.  Then  let 's  be  merry. 
Leu.  I  am  as  my  fortunes  bid  me. 

Do  not  you  see  me  sour  ? 
Bach.  Yes. 

And  why  think  you  I  smile  ? 
Leu.  I  am  so  far  from  any  joy  myself, 

I  cannot  fancy  a  cause  of  mirth. 
Bach.  I  '11  tell  you.    "We  are  alone. 
Leu.  Alone! 
Bach.  Yes. 

Leu.  'Tis  true :  what  then  ? 
Bach.  What  then? 

You  make  my  smiling  now  break  into  laughter : 

"What  think  you  is  to  be  done  then  ? 
Leu.  "We  should  pray  to  Heaven  for  mercy. 
Bach.  Pray  t  that  were  a  way  indeed 

To  pass  the  time. 

Leu.  I  dare  not  think  I  understand  you. 
Bach.  I  must  teach  you  then.     Come  kiss  me. 
Leu.  Kiss  you  ? 
Bach.  Yes,  be  not  ashamed : 

You  did  it  not  yourself;  I  will  forgive  you. 
Leu.  Keep,  you  displeased  gods,  the  due  respect 

I  ought  to  bear  unto  this  wicked  woman, 

Aa  she  is  now  my  mother :  haste  within  me, 


CTTPID'S  EEVENGE.  313 

Lest  I  add  sins  to  sins,  till  no  repentance 
Will  cure  me. 

Jlach.  Leave  these  melancholy  moods, 

That  I  may  swear  thee  welcome  on  thy  lips 
A  thousand  times. 

Leu.  Pray  leave  this  wicked  talk : 

You  do  not  know  to  what  my  father's  wrong 
May  urge  me. 

Bach.  I'am  careless,  and  do  weigh 

The  world,  my  life,  and  all  my  after-hopes, 
Nothing  without  thy  love :  mistake  me  not, 
Thy  love,  as  I  have  had  it,  free  and  open 
As  wedlock  is  within  itself;  what  say  you  ? 

Leu.  Nothing. 

Bach.  Pity  me,  behold  a  duchess 

Kneels  for  thy  mercy.     "What  answer  will  you  give  ? 

Leu.  They  that  can  answer  must  be  less  amazed 
Than  I  am  now :  you  see  my  tears  deliver 
My  meaning  to  you. 

Bach.  Shall  I  be  contemn' d  ? 

Thou  art  a  beast,  worse  than  a  savage  beast, 
To  let  a  lady  kneel. 

Leu.  'Tis  your  will,  Heaven :  but  let  me  bear  me 
Like  myself,  however  she  does. 

Bach.  How  fond  was  I 

To  beg  thy  love  !    I  '11  force  thee  to  my  will. 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  I  can  make  the  king 
Dote  as  my  list  ?  yield  quickly,  or,  by  Heaven, 
I  '11  have  thee  kept  in  prison  for  my  purpose. 

Leu.  All  you  have  named,  but  making  of  me  sin 
With  you,  you  may  command,  but  never  that : 
Say  what  you  will,  I  '11  hear  you  as  becomes  me : 
If  you  speak,  I  will  not  follow  your  counsel, 
Neither  will  I  tell  the  world  to  your  disgrace, 
But  give  you  the  just  honour 
That  is  due  from  me  to  my  father's  wife. 

Bach.  Lord,  how  full  of  wise  formality  you  're  grown 
Of  late !  but  you  were  telling  me, 
You  could  have  wish'd  that  I  had  married  you ; 
If  you  will  swear  so  yet,  I  '11  make  away 
The  king. 

Leu.  You  are  a  strumpet. 


314  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Bach.  Nay  I  care  not 

For  all  your  railings :  they  will  batter  walls 
And  take  in  towns  as  soon  as  trouble  me : 
Tell  him ;  I  care  not ;  I  shall  undo  you  only, 
"Which  is  no  matter. 

Leu.  I  appeal  to  you, 

Still,  and  for  ever,  that  are  and  cannot  be  other. — 

Madam,  I  see  'tis  in  your  power 

To  work  your  will  on  him :  and  I  desire  you 

To  lay  what  trains  you  will  for  my  wish'd  death, 

But  suffer  him  to  find  his  quiet  grave 

In  peace ;  alas,  htf  never  did  you  wrong ; 

And  farther  I  beseech  you  pardon  me 

For  the  ill  word  I  gave  you,  for  however 

You  may  deserve,  it  became  not  me 

To  call  you  so,  but  passion  urges  me  [ever. 

I  know  not  whither ;  my  heart  break  now  and  ease  me 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.    BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

CLOEIN,  a  Shepherdess,  watching  by  the  Grave  of  her  Lover,  is  found  ly 
a  Satyr. 

Clor.  Hail,  holy  earth,  whose  cold  arms  do  embrace 
The  truest  man  that  ever  fed  his  flocks 
By  the  fat  plains  of  fruitful  Thessaly. 
Thus  I  salute  thy  grave,  thus  do  I  pay 
My  early  vows,  and  tribute  of  mine  eyes, 
To  thy  still  loved  ashes :  thus  I  free 
Myself  from  all  ensuing  heats  and  fires 
Of  love :  all  sports,  delights,  and  jolly  games, 
That  shepherds  hold  full  dear,  thus  put  I  off. 
Now  no  more  shall  these  smooth  brows  be  begirt 
With  youthful  coronals,  and  lead  the  dance. 
No  more  the  company  of  fresh  fair  maids 
And  wanton  shepherds  be  to  me  delightful : 
Nor  the  shrill  pleasing  sound  of  merry  pipes 
Under  some  shady  dell,  when  the  cool  wind 
Plays  on  the  leaves :  all  be  far  away, 
Since  thou  art  far  away,  by  whose  dear  side 
How  often  have  I  sat  crown' d  with  fresh  flowers 
For  summer's  queen,  whilst  every  shepherd's  boy 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHEEDESS.  315 

Puts  on  his  lusty  green,  with  gaudy  hook, 

And  hanging  script  of  finest  cordevan ! 

But  thou  art  gone,  and  these  are  gone  with  thee, 

And  all  are  dead  but  thy  dear  memory : 

That  shall  out-live  thee,  and  shall  ever  spring, 

"Whilst  there  are  pipes,  or  jolly  shepherds  sing. 

And  here  will  I,  in  honour  of  thy  love, 

Dwell  by  thy  grave,  forgetting  all  those  joys 

That  former  times  made  precious  to  mine  eyes, 

Only  remembering  what  my  youth  did  gain 

In  the  dark  hidden  virtuous  use  of  herbs. 

That  will  I  practise,  and  as  freely  give 

All  my  endeavours,  as  I  gain'd  them  free. 

Of  all  green  wounds  I  know  the  remedies 

In  men  or  cattle,  be  they  stung  with  snakes, 

Or  charm' d  with  powerful  words  of  wicked  art ; 

Or  be  they  love-sick,  or  through  too  much  heat 

Grown  wild,  or  lunatic ;  their  eyes,  or  ears, 

Thicken' d  with  misty  film  of  dulling  rheum : 

These  I  can  cure,  such  secret  virtue  lies 

In  herbs  applied  by  a  virgin's  hand. 

My  meat  shall  be  what  these  wild  woods  afford, 

Berries  and  chestnuts,  plantains,  on  whose  cheeks 

The  sun  sits  smiling,  and  the  lofty  fruit 

Pull'd  from  the  fair  head  of  the  straight-grown  pine. 

On  these  I  '11  feed  with  free  content  and  rest, 

When  night  shall  blind  the  world,  by  thy  side  bless' d. 

A  Satyr  enters. 

Satyr.  Thorough  yon  same  bending  plain 
That  flings  his  arms  down  to  the  main, 
And  through  these  thick  woods  have  I  run, 
"Whose  bottom  never  kiss'd  the  sun. 
Since  the  lusty  spring  began, 
All  to  please  my  master  Pan, 
Have  I  trotted  without  rest 
To  get  him  fruit ;  for  at  a  feast 
He  entertains  this  coming  night 
His  paramour  the  Syrinx  bright : 
But  behold  a  fairer  sight ! 
By  that  heavenly  form  of  thine, 
Brightest  fair,  thou  art  divine, 
Sprung  from  great  immortal  race 


316  JOHN  FLETCHEB, 

Of  the  gods,  for  in  thy  face 
Shines  more  awful  majesty, 
Than  dull  weak  mortality 
Dare  with  misty  eyes  behold, 
And  live :  therefore  on  this  mould 
Lowly  do  I  bend  my  knee 
In  worship  of  thy  deity. 
Deign  it,  goddess,  from  my  hand 
To  receive  whate'er  this  land 
Prom  her  fertile  wqmb  doth  send 
Of  her  choice  fruits ;  and  but  lend 
Belief  to  that  the  Satyr  tells, 
Fairer  by  the  famous  wells 
To  this  present  day  ne'er  grew, 
Never  better,  nor  more  true. 
Here  be  grapes,  whose  lusty  blood 
Is  the  learned  poet's  good ; 
Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 
The  head  of  Bacchus ;  nuts  more  brown 
Than  the  squirrels'  teeth  that  crack  them, 
Deign,  O  fairest  fair,  to  take  them, 
For  these,  black-eyed  Driope 
Hath  oftentimes  commanded  me 
"With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb. 
See  how  well  the  lusty  time 
Hath  deck'd  their  rising  cheeks  in  red, 
Such  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 
Here  be  berries  for  a  queen, 
Some  be  red,  some  be  green ; 
These  are  of  that  luscious  meat 
The  great  god  Pan  himself  doth  eat : 
All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield, 
The  hanging  mountain,  or  the  field, 
I  freely  offer,  and  ere  long 
Will  bring  you  more,  more  sweet  and  strong ; 
Till  when,  humbly  leave  I  take, 
Lest  the  great  Pan  do  awake, 
That  sleeping  lies  in  a  deep  glade, 
Under  a  broad  beech's  shade. 
I  must  go,  I  must  run, 

Swifter  than  the  fiery  sun.  [Exit, 

Clor.  And  all  my  fears  go  with  thee. 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHEBDESS.  317 

What  greatness,  or  what  private  hidden  power, 

Is  there  in  me  to  draw  submission 

From  this  rude  man  and  beast  ?  sure  I  am  mortal ; 

The  daughter  of  a  shepherd ;  he  was  mortal, 

And  she  that  bore  me  mortal ;  prick  my  hand 

And  it  will  bleed ;  a  fever  shakes  me,  and 

The  self-same  wind  that  makes  the  young  lambs  shrink, 

Makes  me  a-cold :  my  fear  says  I  am*  mortal : 

Yet  I  have  heard  (my  mother  told  it  me) 

And  now  I  do  believe  it,  if  I  keep 

My  virgin  flower  uncropp'd,  pure,  chaste,  and  fair ; 

No  goblin,  wood-god,  fairy,  elf,  or  fiend, 

Satyr,  or  other  power  that  haunts  the  groves, 

Shall  hurt  iny  body,  or  by  vain  illusion 

Draw  me  to  wander  after  idle  fires, 

Or  voices  calling  me  in  dead  of  night 

To  make  me  follow,  and  so  tole  me  on 

Through  mire,  and  standing  pools,  to  find  my  ruin. 

Else  why  should  this  rough  thing,  who  never  knew 

Manners  nor  smooth  humanity,  whose  heats 

Are  rougher  than  himself,  and  more  misshapen, 

Thus  mildly  kneel  to  me  ?    Sure  there 's  a  power 

In  that  great  name  of  Virgin,  that  binds  fast 

All  rude  uncivil  bloods,  all  appetites 

That  break  their  confines.     Then,  strong  Chastity, 
Be  thou  my  strongest  guard ;  for  here  I  '11  dwell 

In  opposition  against  fate  and  hell. 

PEEIGOT  and  AMOEET  appoint  to  meet  at  the  Virtuous  Well. 
Peri.  Stay,  gentle  Amoret,  thou  fair-brow' d  maid, 

Thy  shepherd  prays  thee  stay,  that  holds  thee  dear, 

Equal  with  his  soul's  good. 
Amo.  Speak,  I  give 

Thee  freedom,  shepherd,  and  thy  tongue  be  still 

The  same  it  ever  was,  as  free  from  ill, 

As  he  whose  conversation  never  knew 

The  court  or  city,  be  thou  ever  true. 
Peri.  When  I  fall  off  from  my  affection, 

Or  mingle  my  clean  thoughts  with  ill  desires, 

[First  let  our  great  god  cease  to  keep  my  flocks, 

That  being  left  alone  without  a  guard, 

The  wolf,  or  winter's  rage,  summer's  great  heat, 

And  want  of  water,  rots,  or  what  to  us 


318  JONN  FLETCHEB. 

Of  ill  is  yet  unknown,  full  speedily, 
And  in  their  general  ruin,  let  me  feel. 

Amo.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  shepherd,  wish  not  so : 
I  do  believe  thee,  'tis  as  hard  for  me 
To  think  thee  false,  and  harder  than  for  thee 
To  hold  me  foul. 

Peri.  O  you  are  fairer  far 

Than  the  chaste  blushing  morn,  or  that  fair  star 
That  guides  the  wandering  seamen  through  the  deep, 
Straighter  than  straightest  pine  upon  the  steep 
Head  of  an  aged  mountain,  and  more  white 
Than  the  new  milk  we  strip  before  daylight 
Prom  the  full-freighted  bags  of  our  fair  nocks. 
5Tour  hair  more  beauteous  than  those  hanging  locks 
Of  young  Apollo. 

Amo.  Shepherd,  be  not  lost : 

You  are  sail'd  too  far  already  from  the  coast 
Of  our  discourse. 

Peri.  Did  you  not  tell  me  once 

I  should  not  love  alone,  I  should  not  lose 
Those  many  passions,  vows,  and  holy  oaths, 
I  've  sent  to  Heaven  ?  did  you  not  give  your  hand, 
Ev'n  that  fair  hand,  in  hostage  ?     Do  not  then 
Give  back  again  those  sweets  to  other  men, 
You  yourself  vow'd  were  mine. 

Amo.  Shepherd,  so  far  as  maiden's  modesty 

May  give  assurance,  I  am  once  more  thine. 
Once  more  I  give  my  hand ;  be  ever  free 
Prom  that  great  foe  to  faith,  foul  jealousy. 

Peri.  I  take  it  as  my  best  good ;  and  desire, 
For  stronger  confirmation  of  our  love, 
To  meet  this  happy  night  in  that  fair  grove, 
"Where  all  true  shepherds  have  rewarded  been 
For  their  long  service.     Say,  sweet,  shall  it  hold  ? 

Amo.  Dear  friend,  you  must  not  blame  me  if  I  make 
A  doubt  of  what  the  silent  night  may  do. — 
Maids  must  be  fearful. 

Peri.  0,  do  not  wrong  my  honest  simple  truth ; 
Myself  and  my  affections  are  as  pure 
As  those  chaste  flames  that  burn  before  the  shrine 
Of  the  great  Dian :  only  my  intent 
To  draw  you  thither,  was  to  plight  our  troths, 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHEEDESS  319 

With  interchange  of  mutual  chaste  embraces, 
And  ceremonious  tying  of  ourselves. 
For  to  that  holy  wood  is  consecrate 
A  Virtuous  Well,  about  whose  flowery  banks 
The  nimble-footed  fairies  dance  their  rounds 
By  the  pale  moonshine,  dipping  oftentimes 
Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 
iFrom  dying  flesh,  and  dull  mortality. 
By  this  fair  fount  hath  many  a  shepherd  sworn 
Aid  given  away  his  freedom,  many  a  troth 
Been  plight,  which  neither  envy  nor  old  time 
Could  ever  break,  with  many  a  chaste  kiss  given 
In  hope  of  coming  happiness :  by  this 
Fresh  fountain  many  a  blushing  maid 
'  Hath  crown' d  the  head  of  her  long-loved  shepherd 
With  gaudy  flowers,  whilst  he  happy  sung 
Lays  of  his  love  and  dear  captivity. 
There  grow  all  herbs  fit  to  cool  looser  flames 
Our  sensual  parts  provoke ;  chiding  our  bloods, 
And  quenching  by  their  power  those  hidden  sparks 
That  else  would  break  out,  and  provoke  our  sense 
To  open  fires — so  virtuous  is  that  place. 
Then,  gentle  shepherdess,  believe  and  grant ; 
In  troth  it  fits  not  with  that  face  to  scant 
Tour  faithful  shepherd  of  those  chaste  desires 
He  ever  aim'd  at. 
Amo.  Thou  hast  prevail' d ;  farewell ;  this  coming  night 

Shall  crown  thy  chaste  hopes  with  long-wish' d  delight. — 

THENOT,  admiring  the  constancy  of  CLOEIN  to  Tier  dead  lover ^  rejects 

the  suit  of  CLOE. 

Cloe.  Shepherd,  I  pray  thee  stay ;  where  hast  thou  been, 
Or  whither  goest  thou  ?     Here  be  woods  as  green 
As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet, 
As  where  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Pace  of  the  curled  streams,  with  flowers  as  many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any. 
Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells, 
Arbours  o'ergrown  with  woodbines,  caves  and  dells, 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  whilst  I  sit  by  and  sing 
Or  gather  rushes  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love, 
How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove,  .^ 


320  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 
How  s,he  convey 'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmus,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 
Gilding  the  mountains  with  her  brother's  light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest. 
The.  Far  from  me  are  these 

Hot  flashes,  bred  from  wanton  heat  and  ease. 

I  have  forgot  what  love  and  loving  meant ; 

Rhymes,  songs,  and  merry  rounds,  that  oft  are  sent 

To  the  soft  ears  of  maids,  are  strange  to  me ; 

Only  I  live  to  admire  a  chastity, 

That  neither  pleasing  age,  smooth  tongue,  or  gold, 

Could  ever  break  upon,  so  pure  a  mould 

Is  that  her  mind  was  cast  in ;  'tis  to  her 

I  only  am  reserved ;  she  is  my  form  I  stir 

By,  breathe  and  move,  'tis  she  and  only  she 

Can  make  me  happy,  or  give  me  misery. 

Cloe.  Good  shepherd,  may  a  stranger  crave  to  know 
To  whom  this  dear  observance  you  do  owe  ? 

The.  You  may,  and  by  her  virtue  learn  to  square 
And  level  out  your  life ;  for  to  be  fair 
And  nothing  virtuous,  only  fits  the  eye 
Of  gaudy  youth  and  swelling  vanity. 
Then  know,  she 's  call'd  the  Virgin  of  the  Grove, 
She  that  hath  long  since  buried  her  chaste  love, 
And  now  lives  by  his  grave,  for  whose  dear  soul 
She  hath  vow'd  herself  into  the  holy  roll 
Of  strict  virginity ;  'tis  her  I  so  admire, 
Not  any  looser  blood,  or  new  desire. — 

THENOT  loves  CLOEIN,  yet  fears  to  gain  Ms  suit. 

Clor.  Shepherd,  how  earnest  thou  hither  to  this  place  ? 
No  way  is  trodden ;  all  the  verdant  grass 
The  spring  shot  up,  stands  yet  unbruised  here 
Of  any  foot,  only  the  dappled  deer 
Far  from  the  feared  sound  of  crooked  horn 
Dwells  in  this  fastness. 

The.  Chaster  than  the  morn, 

I  have  not  wander 'd,  or  by  strong  illusion 
Into  this  virtuous  place  have  made  intrusion : 
But  hither  am  I  come  (believe  me,  fair,) 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  823 

To  seek  you  out,  of  whose  great  good  the  air 
Is  full,  and  strongly  labours,  whilst  the  sound 
Breaks  against  heaven,  and  drives  into  a  stound 
The  amazed  shepherd,  that  such  virtue  can 
Be  resident  in  lesser  than  a  man. 

Clor.  If  any  art  I  have,  or  hidden  skill, 

May  cure  thee  of  disease,  or  fester' d  ill, 
"Whose  grief  or  greenness  to  another's  eye 
May  seem  unpossible  of  remedy, 
I  dare  yet  undertake  it. 

The.  'Tis  no  pain 

I  suffer  through  disease,  no  beating  vein 
Conveys  infection  dangerous  to  the  heart, 
No  part  imposthumed,  to  be  cured  by  art, 
This  body  holds,  and  yet  a  feller  grief 
Than  ever  skilful  hand  did  give  relief 
Dwells  on  my  soul,  and  may  be  heal'd  by  you, 
Fair  beauteous  virgin. 

Clor.  Then,  shepherd,  let  me  sue 

To  know  thy  grief ;  that  man  yet  never  knew 
The  way  to  health,  that  durst  not  show  his  sore. 

The.  Then,  fairest,  know  I  love  you. 

Clor.  Swain,  no  more. 

Thou  hast  abused  the  strictness  of  this  place, 

And  offer' d  sacrilegious  foul  disgrace 

To  the  sweet  rest  of  these  interred  bones ; 

For  fear  of  whose  ascending,  fly  at  once, 

Thou  and  thy  idle  passions,  that  the  sight 

Of  death  and  speedy  vengeance  may  not  fright 

Thy  very  soul  with  horror. 

The  Let  me  not, 

Thou  all  perfection !  merit  such  a  blot 
For  my  true  zealous  faith. 

Clor.  Darest  thou  abide 

To  see  this  holy  earth  at  once  divide 
And  give  her  body  up  ?  for  sure  it  will, 
If  thou  pursuest  with  wanton  flames  to  fill 
This  hallow' d  place ;  therefore  repent  and  go, 
"Whilst  I  with  praise  appease  his  ghost  below ; 
That  else  would  tell  thee,  what  it  were  to  be 
A  rival  in  that  virtuous  love  that  he 
Embraces  yet. 

Y 


322  JOHN  TLETCHEB. 

The.  'Tis  not  the  white  or  red 

Inhabits  in  your  cheek,  that  thus  can  wed 
My  mind  to  adoration ;  nor  your  eye, 
Though  it  he  full  and  fair,  your  forehead  high, 
And  smooth  as  Pelops'  shoulder ;  not  the  smile, 
Lies  watching  in  those  dimples  to  beguile 
The  easy  soul ;  your  hands  and  fingers  long 
"With  veins  enamel' d  richly ;  nor  your  tongue, 
Though  it  spoke  sweeter  than  Avon's  harp  ; 
Your  hair,  wove  into  many  a  curious  warp, 
Able  in  endless  error  to  enfold 
The  wandering  soul ;  nor  the  true  perfect  mould 
Of  all  your  body,  which  as  pure  doth  show 
In  maiden  whiteness  as  the  .Alpsian  snow : 
All  these,  were  but  your  constancy  away, 
"Would  please  me  less  than  a  black  stormy  day 
The  wretched  seaman  toiling  through  the  deep. 
But  whilst  this  honour' d  strictness  you  dare  keep, 
Though  all  the  plagues  that  e'er  begotten  were 
In  the  great  womb  of  air,  were  settled  here, 
In  opposition,  I  would,  like  the  tree, 
Shake  off  those  drops  of  weakness,  and  be  free, 
Even  in  the  arm  of  danger. 

Clor.  Wouldst  thou  have 

Me  raise  again,  fond  man !  from  silent  grave 
Those  sparks  that  long  ago  were  buried  here 
With  my  dead  friend's  cold  ashes  ? 

The.  Dearest  dear, 

I  dare  not  ask  it,  nor  you  must  not  grant. 
Stand  strongly  to  your  vow,  and  do  not  faint. 
Remember  how  he  loved  you ;  and  be  still 
The  same,  opinion  speaks  you ;  let  not  will, 
And  that  great  god  of  women,  appetite, 
Set  up  your  blood  again ;  do  not  invite 
Desire  and  Eancy  from  their  long  exile, 
To  set  them  once  more  in  a  pleasing  smile. 
Be  like  a  rock  made  firmly  up  'gainst  all 
The  power  of  angry  heaven,  or  the  strong  fall 
Of  Neptune's  battery ;  if  ye  yield,  I  die 
To  all  affection :  'tis  that  loyalty, 
Ye  tie  unto  this  grave,  I  so  admire ; 
And  yet  there  's  something  else  I  would  desire 


THE  PAITHFUL  SHEP^EEDESS.  323 

If  you  would  hear  me,  but  withal  deny. 

0  Pan,  what  an  uncertain  destiny 
Hangs  over  all  my  hopes !  I  will  retire ; 
For  if  I  longer  stay,  this  double  fire 
Will  lick  my  life  up. 

Clor.  The  gods  give  quick  release 

And  happy  cure  unto  thy  hard  disease. 

The  GOD  of  ihe  KIVEE  rises  with  AMOEET  in  Ms  arms,  whom  the  sullen 
Shepherd  has  flung  wounded  into  his  spring. 

River  God.  "What  powerful  charms  my  streams  do  bring 
Back  again  unto  their  spring, 
With  such  force,  that  I  their  god, 
Three  times  striking  with  my  rod, 
Could  not  keep  them  in  their  ranks  ? 
My  fishes  shoot  into  the  banks ; 
There 's  not  one  that  stays  and  feeds ; 
All  have  hid  them  in  the  weeds. 
Here 's  a  mortal  almost  dead 
Fallen  into  my  river-head, 
Hallow'd  so  with  many  a  spell, 
That  till  now  none  ever  fell. 
'Tis  a  female  young  and  clear, 
Cast  in  by  some  ravisher. 
See  upon  her  breast  a  wound, 
On  which  there  is  no  plaster  bound. 
Yet  she  's  warm,  her  pulses  beat ; 
'Tis  a  sign  of  life  and  heat. 
If  thou  be'st  a  virgin  pure, 

1  can  give  a  present  cure. 
Take  a  drop  into  thy  wound 
Prom  my  watery  locks,  more  round 
Than  orient  pearl,  and  far  more  pure 
Than  unchaste  flesh  may  endure. 
See,  she  pants,  and  from  her  flesh 
The  warm  blood  gusheth  out  afresh. 
She  is  an  unpolluted  maid ; 

I  must  have  this  bleeding  stay'd. 
From  my  banks  I  pluck  this  flower 
With  holy  hand,  whose  virtuous  power 
Is  at  once  to  heal  and  draw. 
The  blood  returns.     I  never  saw 

r2 


324  JOHtf  FLETCHEB. 

A  fairer  mortal.     Now  doth  "break 

Her  deadly  slumber.     Virgin,  speak. 
Amo.  Who  hath  restored  my  sense,  given  me  new  breath, 

And  brought  me  back  out  of  the  arms  of  death  ? 
River  God.  I  have  heal'd  thy  wounds. 
Amo.  Ah  me ! 
River  God.  Fear  not  him  that  succour 'd  thee. 

I  am  this  fountain's  god;  below 

My  waters  to  a  river  grow, 

And  'twixt  two  banks  with  osiers  set, 

That  only  prosper  in  the  wet, 

Through  the  meadows  do  they  glide, 

"Wheeling  still  on  every  side, 

Sometimes  winding  round  about, 

To  find  the  evenest  channel  out ; 

And  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me, 

Leaving  mortal  company, 

In  the  cool  streams  shaft  thou  lie, 

Free  from  harm  as  well  as  I. 

I  will  give  thee  for  thy  food, 

No  fish  that  useth  in  the  mud, 

But  trout  and  pike  that  love  to  swim 

Where  the  gravel  from  the  brim 

Through  the  pure  streams  may  be  seen. 

Orient  pearl,  fit  for  a  queen, 

Will  I  give  thy  love  to  win, 

And  a  shell  to  keep  them  in. 

Not  a  fish  in  all  my  brook 

That  shall  disobey  thy  look, 

But  when  thou  wilt,  come  sliding  by, 

And  from  thy  white  hand  take  a  fly. 

And  to  make  thee  understand, 

How  I  can  my  waves  command, 

They  shall  bubble  whilst  I  sing  . 

Sweeter  than  the  silver  spring.  [Sings. 

Do  not  fear  to  put  thy  feet 
Naked  in  the  rivers  sweet : 
Think  not  leach,  or  newt,  or  toad, 
Will  bite  thy  foot,  when  thou  hast  trod  ; 
Nor  let  the  water  rising  high, 
A.S  thou  wadest  in,  make  thee  cry 
A.nd  sob,  but  ever  live  with  me, 
And  not  a  wave  shall  trouble  thee. 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  325 

Amo.  Immortal  power,  that  rulest  this  holy  flood ; 

I  know  myself  unworthy  to  be  woo'd 

By  thee,  a  god :  for  ere  this,  but  for  thee, 

I  should  have  shown  my  weak  mortality. 

Besides,  by  holy  oath  betwixt  us  twain, 

I  am  betrothed  unto  a  shepherd  swain, 

Whose  comely  face,  I  know,  the  gods  above 

May  make  me  leave  to  see,  but  not  to  love. 
River  God.  May  he  prove  to  thee  as  true. — 

Fairest  virgin,  now  adieu ; 

I  must  make  my  waters  fly, 

Lest  they  leave  their  channels  dry, 

And  beasts  that  come  unto  the  spring 

Miss  their  morning's  watering : 

Which  I  would  not,  for  of  late 

All  the  neighbour  people  sate 

On  my  banks,  and  from  the  fold 

Two  white  lambs  of  three  weeks  old 

Offer' d  to  my  deity : 

For  which  this  year  they  shall  be  free 

From  raging  floods,  that  as  they  pass 

Leave  their  gravel  in  the  grass : 

Nor  shall  their  meads  be  overflown, 

When  their  grass  is  newly  mown. 
Amo.  For  thy  kindness  to  me  shown, 

Never  from  thy  banks  be  blown 

Any  tree,  with  windy  force, 

Cross  thy  streams  to  stop  thy  course : 

May  no  beast  that  comes  to  drink, 

With  his  horns  cast  down  thy  brink ; 

May  none  that  for  thy  fish  do  look, 

Cut  thy  banks  to  dam  thy  brook : 

Barefoot  may  no  neighbour  wade 

In  thy  cool  streams,  wife  nor  maid, 

When  the  spawn  on  stones  do  lie, 

To  wash  their  hemp,  and  spoil  the  fry. 
River  God.  Thanks,  virgin ;  I  must  down  again ; 

Thy  wound  will  put  thee  to  no  pain : 

Wonder  not  so  soon  'tis  gone ; 

A  holy  hand  was  laid  upon. 

[If  all  the  parts  of  this  Play  had  been  in  unison  with  these  innocent 
scenes,  and  sweet  lyric  intermixtures,  it  had  been  a  Poem  fit  to  vie  with 


326  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Comus  or  the  Arcadia,  to  have  been  put  into  the  hands  of  hoys  and  virgins, 
to  have  made  matter  for  young  dreams,  like  the  loves  of  Hermia  and  Ly- 
sander.  But  a  spot  is  on  the  face  of  this  moon. — Nothing  short  of  in 
fatuation  could  have  driven  Fletcher  upon  mixing  up  with  this  blessed 
ness  such  an  ugly  deformity  as  Cloe,  the  wanton  shepherdess.  Coarse 
words  do  but  wound  the  ears ;  but  a  character  of  lewdness  affronts  the 
mind.  Female  lewdness  at  once  shocks  nature  and  morality.  If  Cloe 
was  meant  to  set  ofFClorin  by  contrast,  Fletcher  should  have  known  that 
such  weeds  by  juxtaposition  do  not  set  off",  but  kill  sweet  flowers.] 


THE  FALSE  ONE :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  FLETCHEE. 

PTOLEMY,  King  of  Egypt,  presents  to  CAESAR  the  head  O/TOMPEY.  C^SAE 
rebukes  the  Egyptians  for  their  treachery  and  ingratitude. 

C^SAR,  ANTONY,  DOLABELLA,  SCEVA,  Bomans ;  PTOLEMY, 
PHOTINTJS,  ACHILLAS,  Egyptians. 

Pho.  Hail,  conqueror  and  head  of  all  the  world, 
Now  this  head  's  off. 

C<es.  Ha! 

Pho.  Do  not  shun  me,  Caesar. 

Erom  kingly  Ptolemy  I  bring  this  present, 
The  crown  and  sweat  of  thy  Pharsalian  labour ; 
The  goal  and  mark  of  high  ambitious  honour. 
Before,  thy  victory  had  no  name,  Caesar ; 
Thy  travail  and  thy  loss  of  blood  no  recompence ; 
Thou  dream' dst  of  being  worthy  and  of  war ; 
And  all  thy  furious  conflicts  were  but  slumbers ; 
Here  they  take  life,  here  they  inherit  honour, 
Grow  fix'd  and  shoot  up  everlasting  triumphs. 
Take  it  and  look  upon  thy  humble  servant, 
With  noble  eyes  look  on  the  princely  Ptolemy, 
That  offers  with  this  head,  most  mighty  Caesar, 
"What  thou  wouldst  once  have  given  for  't,  all  Egypt. 

Ach.  Nor  do  not  question  it,  most  royal  conqueror, 
Nor  disesteem  the  benefit  that  meets  thee, 
Because  'tis  easily  got,  it  comes  the  safer. 
Yet  let  me  tell  thee,  most  imperious  Caesar, 
Though  he  opposed  no  strength  of  swords  to  win  this, 
Nor  labour' d  through  no  showers  of  darts  and  lances, 
Yet  here  he  found  a  fort  that  faced  him  strongly, 
An  inward  war :  he  was  his  grandsire's  guest, 
Eriend  to  his  father,  and  when  he  was  expell'd 
And  beaten  from  this  kingdom  by  strong  hand, 
And  had  none  left  him  to  restore  his  honour, 


THE  FALSE  ONE.  327 

No  hope  to  find  a  friend  in  such  a  misery ; 
Then  in  stepp'd  Pompey,  took  his  feeble  fortune, 
Strengthen'd  and  cherish' d  it,  and  set  it  right  again. 
This  was  a  love  to  Caesar ! 
See.  Give  me  hate,  gods. 
Pho.  This  Caesar  may  account  a  little  wicked ; 

But  yet  remember,  if  thine  own  hands,  conqueror, 
Had  fallen  upon  him,  what  it  had  been  then  ; 
If  thine  own  sword  had  touch' d  his  throat,  what  that  way ; 
He  was  thy  son-in-law ;  there  to  be  tainted 
Had  been  most  terrible :  let  the  worst  be  render 'd, 
"We  have  deserved  for  keeping  thy  hands  innocent. 
CCGS.  O  Sceva,  Sceva,  see  that  head ;  see,  captains, 

The  head  of  godlike  Pompey. 
See.  He  was  basely  ruin'd, 

But  let  the  gods  be  grieved  that  suffer 'd  it, 
And  be  you  Caesar. 
Goes.  O  thou  conqueror, 

Thou  glory  of  the  world  once,  now  the  pity, 
Thou  awe  of  nations,  wherefore  didst  thou  fall  thus  ? 
What  poor  fate  follow 'd  thee  and  pluck' d  thee  on 
To  trust  thy  sacred  life  to  an  Egyptian ! 
The  life  and  light  of  Home  to  a  blind  stranger, 
That  honourable  war  ne'er  taught  a  nobleness, 
Nor  worthy  circumstance  show'd  what  a  man  was  ; 
That  never  heard  thy  name  sung  but  in  banquets 
And  loose  lascivious  pleasures  ;  to  a  boy, 
That  had  no  faith  to  comprehend  thy  greatness, 
No  study  of  thy  life  to  know  thy  goodness  : 
And  leave  thy  nation,  nay,  thy  noble  friend, 
Leave  him  distrusted,  that  in  tears  falls  with  thee, 
In  soft  relenting  tears  ?     Hear  me,  great  Pompey, 
If  thy  great  spirit  can  hear,  I  must  task  thee : 
Thou  hast  most  unnobly  robb'd  me  of  my  victory, 
My  love  and  mercy. 
Ant.  O,  how  brave  these  tears  show ! 

How  excellent  is  sorrow  in  an  enemy ! 
Dol.  Grlory  appears  not  greater  than  this  goodness. 
Cces.  Egyptians,  dare  you  think  your  high  pyramids, 
Built  to  out-dure  the  sun  as  you  suppose, 
Where  your  unworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes, 
Are  monuments  fit  for  him  ?     No,  brood  of  Nilus, 


328  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven, 

No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories 

But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness ; 

To  which  I  leave  him.     Take  the  head  away, 

And  with  the  body  give  it  noble  burial. 

Your  earth  shall  now  be  bless' d  to  hold  a  Roman, 

Whose  braveries  all  the  world's  earth  cannot  balance — 

You  look  now,  king, 

And  you  that  have  been  agents  in  this  glory, 

For  our  especial  favour  ? 

Ptol.  We  desire  it. 

Oces.  And  doubtless  you  expect  rewards  ? — 
I  forgive  you  all :  that 's  recompence. 
You  are  young  and  ignorant ;  that  pleads  your  pardon  ; 
And  fear,  it  may  be,  more  than  hate  provoked  ye. 
Your  ministers  I  must  think  wanted  judgment, 
And  so  they  err'd ;  I  am  bountiful  to  think  this, 
Believe  me,  most  bountiful ;  be  you  most  thankful ; 
That  bounty  share  amongst  you  :  if  I  knew 
What  to  send  you  for  a  present,  king  of  Egypt, 
I  mean,  a  head  of  equal  reputation,  [sister's1, 

And  that  you  loved,  though  it  were  your  brightest 
(But  her  you  hate)  I  would  not  be  behind  you. 

Ptol.  Hear  me,  great  Caesar. 

Odes.  I  have  heard  too  much  : 

And  study  not  with  smooth  shows  to  invade 
My  noble  mind  as  you  have  done  my  conquest. 
Ye  are  poor  and  open :  I  must  tell  you  roundly, 
That  man  that  could  not  recompense  the  benefits, 
The  great  and  bounteous  services  of  Pompey, 
Can  never  dote  upon  the  name  of  Caesar. 
Though  I 

Had  hated  Pompey,  and  allow' d  his  ruin, 
Hasty  to  please  in  blood  are  seldom  trusty : 
And  but  I  stand  environ' d  with  my  victories, 
]$y  fortune  never  failing  to  befriend  me, 
My  noble  strengths  and  friends  about  my  person, 
I  durst  not  try  you,  nor  expect  a  courtesy 
Above  the  pious  love  you  show'd  to  Pompey. 
You  have  found  me  merciful  in  arguing  with  you ; 
Swords,  hangmen,  fires,  destruction  of  all  natures, 
1  Cleopatra. 


LOVE'S  PILGRIMAGE.  329 

Demolislmieiits  of  kingdoms,  and  whole  ruins, 
Are  wont  to  be  my  orators.     Turn  to  tears, 
You  wretched  and  poor  seeds  of  sun-burnt  Egypt : 
And  now  you  have  found  the  nature  of  a  conqueror, 
That  you  cannot  decline  with  all  your  flatteries, 
That  where  the  day  gives  light  will  be  himself  still, 
Know  how  to  meet  his  worth  with  human  courtesies. 
Gro,  and  embalm  the  bones  of  that  great  soldier ; 
Howl  round  about  his  pile,  fling  on  your  spices, 
Make  a  Sabaean  bed,  and  place  this  phoenix 
Where  the  hot  sun  may  emulate  his  virtues, 
And  draw  another  Pompey  from  his  ashes 
Divinely  great,  and  fix  him  'mongst  the  worthies. 

Ptol  We  Will  do  aU. 

Cces.  You  have  robb'd  him  of  those  tears 

His  kindred  and  his  friends  kept  sacred  for  him, 

The  virgins  of  their  funeral  lamentations  ; 

And  that  kind  earth  that  thought  to  cover  him, 

His  country's  earth,  will  cry  out  'gainst  your  cruelty, 

And  weep  unto  the  ocean  for  revenge, 

Till  Nilus  raise  his  seven  heads  and  devour  you. 

My  grief  has  stopp'd  the  rest :  when  Pompey  lived, 

He  used  you  nobly ;  now  he  is  dead,  use  him  so. 


LOVE'S  PILGKIMAGTE :  A  COMEDY,  BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

LEOCADIA  leaves  her  father 's  house,  disguised  in  man's  apparel,  to  travel 
in  search  of  MAEK  ANTONIO,  to  whom  she  is  contracted,  but  has  been 
deserted  by  him.  When  at  length  she  meets  with  him,  she  finds,  that 
by  a  precontract  he  is  the  husband  of  THEODOSIA.  In  this  extremity, 
PHILIPPO,  brother  to  THEODOSIA,  offers  LEOCADIA  marriage. 

PHILIPPO.    LEOCADIA. 

Phi.  Will  you  not  hear  me  ? 

Leo.  I  have  heard  so  much, 

Will  keep  me  deaf  for  ever.     No,  Mark  Antonio, 
After  thy  sentence  I  may  hear  no  more ; 
Thou  hast  pronounced  me  dead. 

Phi.  Appeal  to  reason ; 

She  will  reprieve  you  from  the  power  of  grief, 
Which  rules  but  in  her  absence  ;  hear  me  say 
A  sovereign  message  from  her,  which  in  duty, 
And  love  to  your  own  safety,  you  ought  hear. 


330  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

"Why  do  you  strive  so  ?  whither  would  you  fly  ? 
You  cannot  wrest  yourself  away  from  care, 
You  may  from  counsel ;  you  may  shift  your  place, 
But  not  your  person ;  and  another  clime 
Makes  you  no  other. 

Leo.  0! 

Phi.  For  passion's  sake, 

(Which  I  do  serve,  honour,  and  love  in  you) 
If  you  will  sigh,  sigh  here ;  if  you  would  vary 
A  sigh  to  tears,  or  out-cry,  do  it  here. 
No  shade,  no  desert,  darkness,  nor  the  grave, 
Shall  be  more  equal  to  your  thoughts  than  I. 
Only  but  hear  me  speak. 

Leo.  What  would  you  say  ? 

Phi.  That  which  shall  raise  your  heart,  or  pull  down  mine, 
Quiet  your  passion,  or  provoke  mine  own : 
We  must  have  both  one  balsam,  or  one  wound. 
For  know,  loved  fair, 
I  have  read  you  through, 
And  with  a  wondering  pity  look'd  on  you. 
I  have  observed  the  method  of  your  blood, 
And  waited  on  it  ev'n  with  sympathy 
Of  a  like  red  and  paleness  in  mine  own. 
I  knew  which  blush  was  anger's,  which  was  love's, 
Which  was  the  eye  of  sorrow,  which  of  truth, 
And  could  distinguish  honour  from  disdain 
In  every  change :  and  you  are  worth  my  study. 
I  saw  your  voluntary  misery 
Sustain' d  in  travel ;  a  disguised  maid, 
Wearied  with  seeking,  and  with  finding  lost, 
Neglected  where  you  hoped  most,  or  put  by ; 
I  saw  it,  and  have  laid  it  to  my  heart, 
And  though  it  were  my  sister  which  was  righted, 
Yet  being  by  your  wrong,  I  put  off  nature, 
Could  not  be  glad,  where  I  most  bound  to  triumph : 
My  care  for  you  so  drown' d  respect  of  her. 
Nor  did  I  only  apprehend  your  bonds, 
But  studied  your  release :  and  for  that  day 
Have  I  made  up  a  ransom,  brought  you  a  health, 
Preservative  'gainst  chance  or  injury, 
Please  you  apply  it  to  the  grief;  myself. 

Leo.  Ah! 


LOVE'S  PILGRIMAGE.  331 

Phi.  Nay,  do  not  think  me  less  than  such  a  cure ; 
Antonio  was  not,  and  'tis  possible 
Philippo  may  succeed.     My  blood  and  house 
Are  as  deep-rooted,  and  as  fairly  spread, 
As  Mark  Antonio's ;  and  in  that,  all  seek, 
Fortune  hath  given  him  no  precedency ; 
As  for  our  thanks  to  Nature,  I  may  burn 
Incense  as  much  as  he ;  I  ever  durst 
"Walk  with  Antonio  by  the  self-same  light 
At  any  feast,  or  triumph,  and  ne'er  cared 
Which  side  my  lady  or  her  woman  took 
In  their  survey ;  I  durst  have  told  my  tale  too, 
Though  his  discourse  new  ended. 

Leo.  My  repulse 

Phi.  Let  that  not  torture  you  which  makes  me  happy, 
Nor  think  that  conscience,  fair,  which  is  no  shame ; 
'Twas  no  repulse,  it  was  your  dowry  rather : 
For  then  methought  a  thousand  graces  met 
To  make  you  lovely,  and  ten  thousand  stories 
Of  constant  virtue,  which  you  then  out-reach' d, 
In  one  example  did  proclaim  you  rich  : 
Nor  do  I  think  you  wretched  or  disgraced 
After  this  suffering,  and  do  therefore  take 
Advantage  of  your  need ;  but  rather  know, 
You  are  the  charge  and  business  of  those  powers, 
Who,  like  best  tutors,  do  inflict  hard  tasks 
Upon  great  natures,  and  of  noblest  hopes ; 
Bead  trivial  lessons  and  half-lines  to  slags : 
They  that  live  long,  and  never  feel  mischance, 
Spend  more  than  half  their  age  in  ignorance. 

Leo.  'Tis  well  you  think  so, 

Phi.  You  shall  think  so  too ; 

You  shall,  sweet  Leocadia,  and  do  so. 

Leo.  Grood  sir,  no  more ;  you  have  too  fair  a  shape 
To  play  so  foul  a  part  in,  as  the  Tempter. 
Say  that  I  could  make  peace  with  fortune ;  who, 
Who  should  absolve  me  of  my  vow  yet ;  ha  ? 
My  contract  made  ? 

Phi.  Your  contract  ? 

Leo.  Yes,  my  contract. 

Am  I  not  his  ?  his  wife  ? 

Phi.  Sweet,  nothing  less. 


332  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Leo.  I  have  no  name  then. 

Phi.  Truly  then  you  have  not. 

How  can  you  be  his  wife,  who  was  before 
Another's  husband  ? 

Leo.  O  !  though  he  dispense 

With  his  faith  given,  I  cannot  with  mine. 

Phi.  You  do  mistake,  clear  soul ;  his  precontract 
Doth  annul  yours,  and  you  have  given  no  faith 
That  ties  you,  in  religion,  or  humanity : 
You  rather  sin  against  that  greater  precept, 
To  covet  what 's  another's  ;  sweet,  you  do, 
Believe  me,  who  dare  not  urge  dishonest  things. 
Remove  that  scruple  therefore,  and  but  take 
Your  dangers  now  into  your  judgment's  scale, 
And  weigh  them  with  your  safeties.    Think  but  whither 
Now  you  can  go  ;  what  you  can  do  to  live  ; 
How  near  you  have  barr'd  all  pqrts  to  your  own  succour, 
Except  this  one  that  I  here  open,  love. 
Should  you  be  left  alone,  you  were  a  prey 
To  the  wild  lust  of  any,  who  would  look 
Upon  this  shape  like  a  temptation, 
And  think  you  want  the  man  you  personate ; 
Would  not  regard  this  shift,  which  love  put  on, 
,  As  virtue  forced,  but  covet  it  like  vice : 
So  should  you  live  the  slander  of  each  sex, 
And  be  the  child  of  error  and  of  shame ; 
And  which  is  worse,  even  Mark  Antonio 
Would  be  call' d  just,  to  turn  a  wanderer  off, 
And  fame  report  you  worthy  his  contempt : 
Where,  if  you  make  new  choice,  and  settle  here 
There  is  no  further  tumult  in  this  flood, 
Each  current  keeps  his  course,  and  all  suspicions 
Shall  return  honours.     Came  you  forth  a  maid  ? 
Gro  home  a  wife.     Alone,  and  in  disguise  ? 
Gro  home  a  waited  Leocadia. 
Go  home,  and,  by  the  virtue  of  that  charm, 
Transform  all  mischiefs  as  you  are  transform' d, 
Turn  your  offended  father's  wrath  to  wonder, 
And  all  his  loud  grief  to  a  silent  welcome ; 
Unfold  the  riddles  you  have  made. — What  say  you  ? 
Now  is  the  time ;  delay  is  but  despair ; 
If  you  be  changed,  let  a  kiss  tell  me  so. 


30KDUCA.  333 

Leo.  1  am ;  but  how,  I  rather  feel  than  know. 

[This  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  if  not  the  most  shining  scenes  in 
Fletcher.  .All  is  sweet,  natural,  and  unforced.  It  is  a  copy  which  we 
may  suppose  Massinger  to  have  profited  by  the  studying.] 


BONDUCA :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

BcxNDTJCA,  the  British  Queen,  taking  occasion  from  a  Defeat  of  the  Romans 
to  impeach  their  Valour,  is  rebuked  by  CAEATACH. 

BOKDUCA,  CARATACH,  HENGO,  NENKIUS,  Soldiers. 

Son.  The  hardy  Romans  !  0  ye  gods  of  Britain, 

The  rust  of  arms,  the  blushing  shame  of  soldiers ! 
Are  these  the  men  thai  conquer  by  inheritance  ? 
The  fortune-makers  ?  these  the  Julians, 
That  with  the  sun  measure  the  end  of  Nature, 
Making  the  world  but  one  Rome  and  one  Caesar  ? 
Shame,  how  they  flee  !  Caesar's  soft  soul  dwells  in  them ; 
Their  mothers  got  them  sleeping,  pleasure  nursed  them, 
Their  bodies  sweat  with  sweet  oils,  love's  allurements, 
Not  lusty  arms.     Dare  they  send  these  to  seek  us, 
These  Roman  girls  ?     Is  Britain  grown  so  wanton  ? 
Twice  we  have  beat  them,  Nennius,  scatter' d  them, 
And  through  their  big-boned  Germans,  on  whose  pikes 
The  honour  of  their  actions  sits  in  triumph, 
Made  themes  for  songs  to  shame  them :  and  a  woman, 
A  woman  beat  them,  Nennius ;  a  weak  woman, 
A  woman  beat  these  Romans. 

Car.  So  it  seems.     A  man  would  shame  to  talk  so. 

Son.  "Who  's  that  ? 

Car.  I. 

Son.  Cousin,  do  you  grieve  at  my  fortunes  ? 

Car.  No,  Bonduca, 

If  I  grieve,  'tis  at  the  bearing  of  your  fortunes ; 
You  put  too  much  wind  to  your  sail :  discretion 
And  hardy  valour  are  the  twins  of  honour, 
And,  nursed  together,  make  a  conqueror ; 
Divided,  but  a  talker.     'Tis  a  truth, 
That  Rome  has  fled  before  us  twice,  and  routed. 
A  truth  we  ought  to  crown  the  gods  for,  lady, 
And  not  our  tongues.     A  truth  is  none  of  ours, 
Nor  in  our  ends,  more  than  the  noble  bearing : 


334  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

For  then  it  leaves  to  be  a  virtue,  lady, 

And  we  that  have  been  victors,  beat  ourselves, 

"When  we  insult  upon  our  honour's  subject. 

Son.  My  valiant  cousin,  is  it  foul  to  say 
What  liberty  and  honour  bid  us  do, 
And  what  the  gods  allow  us  ? 

Car.  No,  Bonduca, 

So  what  we  say  exceed  not  v/hat  we  do. 
Ye  call  the  Romans  fearful,  fleeing  Romans, 
And  Roman  girls,  the  lees  of  tainted  pleasures : 
Does  this  become  a  doer  ?  are  they  such  ? 

Son.  They  are  no  more. 

Car.  "Where  is  your  conquest  then  ? 

Why  are  your  altars  crown' d  with  wreaths  of  flowers, 

The  beasts  with  gilt  horns  waiting  for  the  fire  ? 

The  holy  Druids  composing  songs 

Of  everlasting  life  to  Victory  ? 

Why  are  these  triumphs,  lady  ?  for  a  may-game  ? 

For  hunting  a  poor  herd  of  wretched  Romans  ? 

Is  it  no  more  ?  shut  up  your  temples,  Britons, 

And  let  the  husbandman  redeem  his  heifers ; 

Put  out  our  holy  fires  ;  no  timbrel  ring ; 

Let 's  home  and  sleep  ;  for  such  great  overthrows 

A  candle  burns  too  bright  a  sacrifice ; 

A  glow-worm's  tail  too  full  of  flame.     O  Nennius, 

Thou  hadst  a  noble  uncle  knew  a  Roman, 

And  how  to  speak  to  him,  how  to  give  him  weight 

In  both  his  fortunes. 

Son.  By  the  gods,  I  think 

Te  dote  upon  these  Romans,  Caratach. 

Car.  Witness  these  wounds,  I  do ;  they  were  fairly  given. 
I  love  an  enemy,  I  was  born  a  soldier ; 
And  he  that  in  the  head  of  his  troop  defies  me, 
Bending  my  manly  body  with  his  sword, 
I  make  a  mistress.     Yellow-tressed  Hymen 
Ne'er  tied  a  longing  virgin  with  more  joy, 
Than  I  am  married  to  that  man  that  wounds  me : 
And  are  not  all  these  Romans  P     Ten  struck  battles 
I  suck'd  these  honour 'd  scars  from,  and  all  Roman. 
Ten  years  of  bitter  nights  and  heavy  marches, 
When  many  a  frozen  storm  sung  through  my  cuirass, 
And  made  it  doubtful  whether  that  or  I 


BOKDUCA.  335 

"Were  the  more  stubborn  metal,  have  I  wrought  through, 

And  all  to  try  these  Eomans.     Ten  times  a  night 

I  have  swum  the  rivers,  when  the  stars  of  Home 

Shot  at  me  as  I  floated,  and  the  billows 

Tumbled  their  watery  ruins  on  my  shoulders, 

Charging  my  batter' d  sides  with  troops  of  agues, 

And  still  to  try  these  Eomans  ;  whom  I  found 

(And  if  I  lie,  my  wounds  be  henceforth  backward, 

And  be  you  witness,  gods,  and  all  my  dangers) 

As  ready,  and  as  full  of  that  I  brought 

(Which  was  not  fear  nor  flight)  as  valiant, 

As  vigilant,  as  wise,  to  do  and  suffer, 

Ever  advanced  as  forward  as  the  Britons ; 

Their  sleeps  as  short,  their  hopes  as  high  as  ours ; 

Ay,  and  as  subtle,  lady.     'Tis  dishonour, 

And  follow' d  will  be  impudence,  Bonduca, 

And  grow  to  no  belief,  to  taint  these  Eomans. 

Have  I  not  seen  the  Britons  — 

Bon.  What? 

Car.  Dishearten' d, 

Eun,  run,  Bonduca,  not  the  quick  rack  swifter, 

The  virgin  from  the  hated  ravisher 

Not  half  so  fearful ; — not  a  flight  drawn  home, 

A  round  stone  from  a  sling,  a  lover's  wish, 

E'er  made  that  haste  that  they  have.     By  heavens, 

I  have  seen  these  Britons  that  you  magnify, 

Eun  as  they  would  have  out-run  time,  and  roaring, 

Basely  for  mercy,  roaring ;  the  light  shadows, 

That  in  a  thought  scur  o'er  the  fields  of  corn, 

Halted  on  crutches  to  them. 

Bon.  O  ye  powers, 

What  scandals  do  I  suffer ! 

Car.  Yes,  Bonduca, 

I  have  seen  thee  run  too,  and  thee,  Nennius ; 
Tea,  run  apace,  both ;  then  when  Penyus, 
The  Eoman  girl,  cut  through  your  armed  carts, 
And  drove  them  headlong  on  you  down  the  hill : 
Then  when  he  hunted  you  like  Britain-foxes, 
More  by  the  scent  than  sight ;  then  did  I  see 
These  valiant  and  approved  men  of  Britain, 
Like  boding  owls,  creep  into  tods  of  ivy, 
And  hoot  their  fears  to  one  another  nightly. 


336  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Nen.  And  what  did  you  then,  Caratach  ? 

Car.  I  fled  too, 

But  not  so  fast ;  your  jewel  'had  been  lost  then, 

Young  Hengo  there  ;  he  trash' d  me,  Nennius : 

Eor  when  your  fears  out-run  him,  then  stepp'd  I, 

And  in  the  head  of  all  the  Roman's  fury 

Took  him,  and,  with  my  tough  belt  to  my  back, 

I  buckled  him  ;  behind  him,  my  sure  shield ; 

And  then  I  follow' d.     If  I  say  I  fought 

Five  times  in  bringing  oif  this  bud  of  Britain, 

I  lie  not,  Nennius.     Neither  had  ye  heard 

Me  speak  this,  or  ever  seen  the  child  more, 

But  that  the  son  of  Virtue,  Penyus, 

Seeing  me  steer  through  all  these  storms  of  danger, 

My  helm  still  in  my  hand  (my  sword),  my  prow 

Turn'd  to  my  foe  (my  face),  he  cried  out  nobly, 

"  Gro  Briton,  bear  thy  lion's  whelp  oif  safely ;  * 

Thy  manly  sword  has  ransom' d  thee :  grow  strong, 

And  let  me  meet  thee  once  again  in  arms : 

Then  if  thou  stand' st,  thou  art  mine."    I  took  his  offer, 

And  here  I  am  to  honour  him. 


THE  BLOODY  BEOTHEE ;  OE,  EOLLO :  A  TEAGEDY, 
BY  JOHN  FLETCHEE. 

EOLLO,  Duke  of  Normandy,  a  bloody  tyrant^  puts  to  death  his  tutor 
BALDWiKjjfor  too  freely  reproving  him  for  Ms  crimes ;  but  afterwards 

falls  in  love  with  EDITH,  daughter  to  the  man  he  has  slain.  She  makes 
a  shoio  of  returning  his  love,  and  invites  him  to  a  banquet ;  her  design 
being  to  train  him  there,  that  she  may  Mil  him;  but,  overcome  by  his 

Jlatteries,  and  real  or  dissembled  remorse,  she  faints  in  her  resolution. 

EOLLO.    EDITH. 
Rol.  What  bright  star,  taking  beauty's  form  upon  her, 

In  all  the  happy  lustre  of  heaven's  glory, 

Has  dropp'd  down  from  the  sky  to  comfort  me  ? 

Wonder  of  Nature,  let  it  not  profane  thee ; 

My  rude  hand  touch  thy  beauty,  nor  this  kiss, 

The  gentle  sacrifice  of  love  and  sendee, 

Be  offer 'd  to  the  honour  of  thy  sweetness. 
Edi.  My  gracious  lord,  no  deity  dwells  here, 

Nor  nothing  of  that  virtue  but  obedience ; 

The  servant  to  your  will  affects  no  flattery. 


THE  BLOODY  BEOTHEE.  337 

2lol.  Can  it  be  flattery  to  swear  those  eyes 

Are  Love's  eternal  lamps  he  fires  all  hearts  with  ? 

That  tongue  the  smart  string  to  his  bow  ?  those  sighs 

The  deadly  shafts  he  sends  into  our  souls  ? 

0,  look  upon  me  with  thy  spring  of  beauty. 
Edi.  Your  grace  is  full  of  game. 
Rol.  By  heaven,  my  Edith, 

Thy  mother  fed  on  roses  when  she  bred  thee. 

The  sweetness  of  the  Arabian  wind  still  blowing 

Upon  the  treasures  of  perfumes  and  spices, 

In  all  their  pride  and  pleasures,  call  thee  mistress. 
Edi.  "Will  it  please  you  sit,  sir  ? 
Sol.  So  you  please  sit  by  me. 

Fan-  gentle  maid,  there  is  no  speaking  to  thee : 

The  excellency  that  appears  upon  thee 

Ties  up  my  tongue :  pray  speak  to  me. 
Edi.  Of  what,  sir? 
JRol.  Of  any  thing,  any  thing  is  excellent. 

Will  you  take  my  directions  ?  speak  of  love  then ; 

Speak  of  thy  fair  self,  Edith ;  and  while  thou  speak' st, 

Let  me  thus  languishing  give  up  myself,  wench 
Edi.  He  has  a  strange  cunning  tongue.    AVhy  do  you  sigh, 

How  masterly  he  turns  himself  to  catch  me  !          [sir  ? 
Rol.  The  way  to  paradise,  my  gentle  maid, 

Is  hard  and  crooked ;  scarce  repentance  finding, 

"With  all  her  holy  helps,  the  door  to  enter. 

Give  me  thy  hand ;  what  dost  thou  feel  ? 
Edi.  Tour  tears,  sir ; 

You  weep  extremely ;  strengthen  me  now,  justice. 

"Why  are  these  sorrows,  sir  ? 
Eol..  Thou  wilt  never  love  me, 

If  I  should  tell  thee  ;  yet  there 's  no  way  left 

Ever  to  purchase  this  blest  paradise, 

But  swimming  thither  in  these  tears. 
Edi.  I  stagger. 

jRoZ.  Are  they  not  drops  of  blood  ? 
Edi.  No. 
Bol.  They  are  for  blood  then, 

For  guiltless  blood ;  and  they  must  drop,  my  Edith, 

They  must  thus  drop,  till  I  have  drown'd  my  mischiefs. 
Edi.  If  this  be  true,  I  have  no  strength  to  touch  him. 
JRol.  I  prithee  look  upon  me,  turn  not  from  me  ; 

2 


338  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Alas  !  I  do  confess  I  am  made  of  mischiefs, 
Begot  with  all  man's  miseries  upon  me : 
But  see  my  sorrows,  maid,  and  do  not  thou, 
Whose  only  sweetest  sacrifice  is  softness, 
Whose  true  condition,  tenderness  of  nature 

Edi.  My  anger  melts ;  0,  I  shall  lose  my  justice ! 

Hoi.  Do  not  thou  learn  to  kill  with  cruelty, 
As  I  have  done,  to  murder  with  thine  eyes, 
(Those  blessed  eyes)  as  I  have  done  with  malice. 
When  thou  hast  wounded  me  to  death  with  scorn, 
(As  I  deserve  it,  lady)  for  my  true  love, 
When  thou  hast  loaden  me  with  earth  for  ever, 
Take  heed  my  sorrows,  and  the  stings  I  suffer, 
Take  heed  my  nightly  dreams  of  death  and  horror 
Pursue  thee  not :  no  time  shall  tell  thy  griefs  then, 
Nor  Shall  an  hour  of  joy  add  to  thy  beauties. 
Look  not  upon  me  as  I  kill'd  thy  father, 
As  I  was  smear' d  in  blood,  do  not  thou  hate  me ; 
But  thus  in"  whiteness  of  my  wash'd  repentance, 
In  my  heart's  tears  and  truth  of  love  to  Edith, 
In  my  fair  life  hereafter. 

Edi.  He  will  fool  me. 

Rol.  0,  with  thine  angel  eyes  behold  and  bless  me : 
On  Heaven  we  call  for  mercy  and  obtain  it, 
To  justice  for  our  right  on  earth  and  have  it ; 
Of  thee  I  beg  for  love,  save  me,  and  give  it. 

Edi.  Now,  Heaven,  thy  help,  or  I  am  gone  for  ever ! 
His  tongue  has  turn'd  me  into  melting  pity. 


THIEEEY  AND  THEODOEET :  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  JOHN  FLETCHEE. 

TFIEERT,  King  of  France,  being  childless,  is  foretold  by  an  Astrologer, 
that  he  shall  have  Children  if  he  sacrifice  the  first  Woman  that  he  shall 
meet  at  sun-rise  coming  out  of  the  Temple  of  Diana.  He  waits  before 
the  Temple,  and  the  first  Woman  he  sees  proves  to  be  his  own  Wife 
OBDELLA. 

THIEBRY.    MAETEL,  a  Nobleman. 
Mart.  Your  grace  is  early  stirring. 
Thier.  How  can  he  sleep 

Whose  happiness  is  laid  up  in  an  hour 

He  knows  comes  stealing  towards  him  ?    0,  Martel ! 


THIEEEY  AND  THEODOEET,  339 

t 

Is  it  possible  the  longing  bride,  whose  wishes 

Out-run  her  fears,  can  on  that  day  she  is  married 

Consume  in  slumbers ;  or  his  arms  rust  in  ease, 

That  hears  the  charge,  and  sees  the  honour 'd  purchase 

Beady  to  gild  his  valour  ?     Mine  is  more, 

A  power  above  these  passions ;  this  day  Prance, 

France,  that  in  want  of  issue  withers  with  us, 

And  like  an  aged  river,  runs  his  head 

Into  forgotten  ways,  again  I  ransom, 

And  his  fair  course  turn  right. 

Mart.  Happy  woman,  that  dies  to  do  these  things ! 

Thier.  The  gods  have  heard  me  now,  and  those  that  scorn' d 
Mothers  of  many  children  and  blest  fathers  [me, 

That  see  their  issue  like  the  stars  unnumber'd, 
Their  comfort  more  than  them,  shall  in  my  praises 
!N  ow  teach  their  infant  songs ;  and  tell  their  ages 
Prom  such  a  son  of  mine,  or  such  a  queen, 
That  chaste  Ordella  brings  me. 

Mart.  The  day  wears, 

And  those  that  have  been  offering  early  prayers, 
Are  now  returning  homeward. 

Thier.  Stand  and  mark  then. 

Mart.  Is  it  the  first  must  suffer  ? 

Thier.  The  first  woman. 

Mart.  "What  hand  shall  do  it,  sir  ? 

Thier.  This  hand,  Martel : 

Por  who  less  dare  presume  to  give  the  gods 
An  incense  of  this  offering  ? 

Mart.  Would  I  were  she, 

Por  such  a  way  to  die,  and  such  a  blessing, 
Can  never  crown  my  parting. 
Here  comes  a  woman. 

OEDELLA  comes  out  from  the  Temple,  veiled. 

Thier.  Stand  and  behold  her  then. 

Mart.  I  think  a  fair  one. 

Thier.  Move  not  whilst  I  prepare  her :  may  her  peace, 
Like  his  whose  innocence  the  gods  are  pleased  with, 
And  offering  at  their  altars,  gives  his  soul 
Par  purer  than  those  fires,  pull  heaven  upon  her ;      • 
You  holy  powers,  no  human  spot  dwell  in  her ; 
No  love  of  any  thing,  but  you  and  goodness, 
Tie  her  to  earth ;  fear  be  a  stranger  to  her, 

z2 


340  JOHK  FLETCHEB. 

i 

And  all  weak  blood's  affections,  but  thy  hope, 
Let  her  bequeathe  to  women :  hear  me,  Heaven, 
Give  her  a  spirit  masculine  and  noble, 
Fit  for  yourselves  to  ask,  and  me  to  offer. 
0,  let  her  meet  my  blow,  dote  on  her  death ; 
And  as  a  wanton  vine  bows  to  the  pruner, 
That  by  his  cutting  off  more  may  increase, 
So  let  her  fall  to  raise  me  fruit.     Hail,  woman ! 
The  happiest  and  the  best  (if  the  dull  will 
Do  not  abuse  thy  fortune)  France  e'er  found  yet. 
Ordel.  She 's  more  than  dull,  sir,  less  and  worse  than  woman, 
That  may  inherit  such  an  infinite 
As  you  propound,  a  greatness  so  near  goodness, 
And  brings  a  will  to  rob  her. 
Thier.  Tell  me  this  then, 

Was  there  e'er  woman  yet,  or  may  be  found, 
That  for  fair  fame,  unspotted  memory, 
For  virtue's  sake,  and  only  for  its  self  sake, 
Has,  or  dare  make  a  story  ? 

Ordel.  Many  dead,  sir,  living  I  think  as  many. 

Thier.  Say  the  kingdom 

May  from  a  woman's  will  receive  a  blessing, 
The  king  and  kingdom,  not  a  private  safety ; 
A  general  blessing,  lady. 

Ordel.  A  general  curse  light  on  her  heart  denies  it. 

Thier.  Full  of  honour ; 

And  such  examples  as  the  former  ages 
Were  but  dim  shadows  of  and  empty  figures. 

Ordel.  You  strangely  stir  me,  sir,  and  were  my  weakness 
In  any  other  flesh  but  modest  woman's, 
You  should  not  ask  more  questions ;  may  I  do  it  ? 

Thier.  You  may,  and  which  is  more,  you  must. 

Ordel.  I  joy  in  it, 

Above  a  moderate  gladness ;  sir,  you  promise 
It  shall  be  honest. 

Thier.  As  ever  time  discover' d. 

OrdeL  Let  it  be  what  it  may  then,  what  it  dare, 
I  have  a  mind  will  hazard  it. 

Shier.  But  hark  ye, 

What  may  that  woman  merit,  makes  this  blessing  ? 

Ordel.  Only  her  duty,  sir. 

Thier.  'Tis  terrible. 


THIEBBY  AND  THEODOBET,  341 

Or  del.  'Tis  so  much  the  more  noble. 

Tkier.  'Tis  full  of  fearful  shadows. 

Ordel.  So  is  sleep,  sir, 

Or  any  thing  that 's  merely  ours  and  mortal ; 
"We  were  begotten  gods  else :  but  those  fears, 
Peeling  but  once  the  fires  of  nobler  thoughts, 
Ely,  like  the  shapes  of  clouds  we  form,  to  nothing. 

Tliier.  Suppose  it  death. 

Ordel.  I  do. 

Thier.  And  endless  parting 

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

"With  youth,  strength,  pleasure,  people,  time,  nay,  reason : 

For  in  the  -silent  grave,  no  conversation1, 

No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 

No  careful  father's  counsel,  nothing 's  heard, 

Nor  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 

Dust  and  an  endless  darkness :  and  dare  you,  woman, 

Desire  this  place  ? 

Ordel.  'Tis  of  all  sleeps  the  sweetest ; 

Children  begin  it  to  us,  strong  men  seek  it, 
And  kings  from  height  of  all  their  painted  glories 
Fall  like  spent  exhalations  to  this  centre : 
And  those  are  fools  that  fear  it,  or  imagine, 
A  few  unhandsome  pleasures,  or  life's  profits, 
Can  recompense  this  place ;  and  mad  that  stay  it, 
Till  age  blow  out  their  lights,  or  rotten  humours 
Bring  them  dispersed  to  the  earth. 

Thier.  Then  you  can  suffer  ? 

Ordel.  As  willingly  as  say  it. 

Thier.  Martel,  a  wonder ! 

Here  is  a  woman  that  dares  die.     Yet  tell  me, 
Are  you  a  wife  ? 

Ordel.  I  am,  sir. 

Thier.  And  have  children  ?    She  sighs  and  weeps. 

Ordel.  O,  none,  sir. 

Thier.  Dare  you  venture, 

Eor  a  poor  barren  praise  you  ne'er  shall  hear, 
To  part  with  these  sweet  hopes  ? 

Ordel.  With  all  but  Heaven, 

And  yet  die  full  of  children ;  he  that  reads  me 

1  There  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom,  in  the 
grave  whither  thou  goest.    Ecclesiastes. 


842  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

"When  I  am  ashes,  is  my  son  in  wishes : 

And  those  chaste  dames  that  keep  my  memory, 

Singing  my  yearly  requiems,  are  my  daughters. 

Thier.  Then  there  is  nothing  wanting  but  my  knowledge, 
And  what  I  must  do,  lady. 

Ordel.  You  are  the  king,  sir, 

And  what  you  do  1  '11  suffer,  and  that  blessing 
That  you  desire,  the  gods  shower  on  the  kingdom. 

TJiier.  Thus  much  before  I  strike  then,  for  I  must  kill  you ; 
The  gods  have  will'd  it  so,  they  have  made  the  blessing 
Must  make  France  young  again,  and  me  a  man. 
Keep  up  your  strength  still  nobly. 

Ordel.  Tear  me  not. 

Thier.  And  meet  death  like  a  measure. 

Ordel.  I  am  stedfast. 

Tliier.  Thou  shalt  be  sainted,  woman,  and  thy  tomb 
Cut  out  in  crystal  pure  and  good  as  thou  art ; 
And  on  it  shall  be  graven  every  age 
Succeeding  peers  of  France  that  rise  by  thy  fall, 
Till  thou  liest  there  like  old  and  fruitful  Nature. 
Barest  thou  behold  thy  happiness  ? 

Ordel.  I  dare,  sir.     [Pulls  off  her  veil ;  he  lets  fall  his  sword. 

Thier.  Ha! 

Mart.  O,  sir,  you  must  not  do  it. 

Thier.  No,  I  dare  not. 

There  is  an  angel  keeps  that  paradise, 
A  fiery  angel,  friend :  0  virtue,  virtue, 
Ever  and  endless  virtue ! 

Ordel.  Strike,  sir,  strike ; 

And  if  in  my  poor  death  fair  France  may  merit, 
Give  me  a  thousand  blows,  be  killing  me 
A  thousand  days. 

Thier.  First  let  the  earth  be  barren, 

And  man  no  more  remember 'd.     Rise,  Ordella, 

The  nearest  to  thy  Maker,  and  the  purest 

That  ever  dull  flesh  show'd  us  — 0,  my  heart-strings1 ! 

1  I  have  always  considered  this  to  be  the  finest  scene  in  Fletcher,  and 
Ordella  the  most  perfect  idea  of  the  female  heroic  character,  next  to  Ca- 
lantha  in  the  Broken  Heart  of  Ford,  that  has  been  embodied  in  fiction. 
She  is  a  piece  of  sainted  nature.  Yet  noble  as  the  whole  scene  is,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  manner  of  it,  compared  with  Shakspeare's  finest 
scenes,  is  slow  and  languid.  Its  motion  is  circular,  not  progressive.  Each 


THIEEEY  AND  THEODOEET.  343 

MAETEL  relates  to  THIEEET  the  manner  of  OEDELLA'S  death. 

Mart.  The  grieved  Ordella,  (for  all  other  titles 
But  take  away  from  that)  having  from  me, 
Prompted  \)j  your  last  parting  groan,  inquired 
What  drew  it  from  you,  arid  the  cause  soon  learn' d ; 
For  she  whom  barbarism  could  deny  nothing, 
"With  such  prevailing  earnestness  desired  it, 
'Twas  not  in  me,  though  it  had  been  my  death, 
To  hide  it  from  her ;  she,  I  say,  in  whom 
All  was,  that  Athens,  Home,  or  warlike  Sparta, 
Have  register 'd  for  good  in  their  best  women, 
But  nothing  of  their  ill ;  knowing  herself 
Mark'd  out,  (I  know  not  by  what  power,  but  sure 
A  cruel  one)  to  die,  to  give  you  children ; 
Having  first  with  a  settled  countenance 
Look' d  up  to  heaven,  and  then  upon  herself, 
(It  being  the  next  best  object)  and  then  smiled, 
As  if  her  joy  in  death  to  do  you  service, 
Would  break  forth,  in  despite  of  the  much  sorrow 
She  show'd  she  had  to  leave  you ;  and  then  taking 
Me  by  the  hand,  this  hand  which  I  must  ever 
Love  better  than  I  have  done,  since  she  touch' d  it, 
"  Gro,"  said  she,  "to  my  lord,  (and  to  go  to  him 
Is  such  a  happiness  I  must  not  hope  for) 
And  tell  him  that  he  too  much  prized  a  trifle 
Made  only  worthy  in  his  love,  and  her 
Thankful  acceptance,  for  her  sake  to  rob 
The  orphan  kingdom  of  such  guardians,  as 
Must  of  necessity  descend  from  him ; 
And  therefore  in  some  part  of  recompense 

line  revolves  on  itself  in  a  sort  of  separate  orbit.  They  do  not  join  into 
one  another  like  a  running  hand.  Every  step  that  we  go  we  are  stopped 
to  admire  some  single  object,  like  walking  in  beautiful  scenery  with  a 
guide.  This  slowness  I  shall  elsewhere  have  occasion  to  remark  as  cha 
racteristic  of  Fletcher.  Another  striking  difference  perceivable  between 
Fletcher  and  Shakspeare,  is  the  fondness  of  the  former  for  unnatural  and 
violent  situations,  Hke  that  in  the  scene  before  us.  He  seems  to  have 
thought  that  nothing  great  could  be  produced  in  an  ordinary  way.  The 
chief  incidents  in  the  Wife  for  a  Month,  in  Cupid's  Revenge,  in  the 
Double  Marriage,  and  in  many  more  of  his  tragedies,  show  this.  Shak 
speare  had  nothing  of  this  contortion  in  his  mind,  none  of  that  craving 
after  romantic  incidents,  and  nights  of  strained  and  improbable  virtue, 
which  I  think  always  betrays  an  imperfect  moral  sensibility; 


344  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

Of  his  much  love,  and  to  show  to  the  world 

That  'twas  not  her  fault  only,  but  her  fate, 

That  did  deny  to  let  her  be  the  mother 

Of  such  most  certain  blessings  ;  yet  for  proof, 

She  did  not  envy  her,  that  happy  her, 

That  is  appointed  to  them  ;  her  quick  end 

Should  make  way  for  her : ' '  which  no  sooner  spoke, 

But  in  a  moment  this  too  ready  engine 

Made  such  a  battery  in  the  choicest  castle 

That  ever  Nature  made  to  defend  life, 

That  straight  it  shook  and  sunk. 


WIT  WITHOUT  MONEY:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

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

VALENTINE'S  Uncle.     MERCHANT,  who  has  his  Mortgage. 

Mler.  When  saw  you  Valentine  ? 

Unc.  Not  since  the  horse-race. 

He  's  taken  up  with  those  that  woo  the  widow. 

Mer.  How  can  he  live  by  snatches  from  such  people  ? 
He  bore  a  worthy  mind. 

Unc.  Alas,  he  's  sunk, 

His  means  are  gone,  he  wants ;  and,  which  is  worse, 
Takes  a  delight  in  doing  so. 

Mer.  That 's  strange. 

Unc.  Runs  lunatic  if  you  but  talk  of  states  ; 

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

Mer.  This  is  something  dangerous. 

Unc.  No  gentlemen,  that  has  estate,  to  use  it 

In  keeping  house  or  followers :  for  those  ways 
He  cries  against  for  eating  sins,  dull  surfeits, 
Cramming  of  serving-men,  mustering  of  beggars, 
Maintaining  hospitals  for  kites  and  curs, 
Grounding  their  fat  faiths  upon  old  country  proverbs, 
"  God  bless  the  founders : "  these  he  would  have  ventured 
Into  more  manly  uses,  wit  and  carriage ; 


WIT  WITHOUT  MONET.  345 

And  never  thinks  of  state  or  means,  the  ground-works : 
Holding  it  monstrous,  men  should  feed  their  bodies, 
And  starve  their  understandings. 

VALENTINE  joins  them. 
Vol.  Now  to  your  business,  uncle. 
Unc.  To  your  state  then. 

Vol.  'Tis  gone,  and  I  am  glad  on 't,  name  't  no  more, 
"Tis  that  I  pray  against,  and  Heaven  has  heard  me ; 
I  tell  you,  sir,  I  am  more  fearful  of  it, 
(I  mean,  of  thinking  of  more  lands  or  livings)    . 
Than  sickly  men  are  of  travelling  on  Sundays, 
For  being  quell' d  with  carriers  ;  out  upon  't ; 
Caveat  emptor ;  let  the  fool  out-sweat  it, 
That  thinks  ne  has  got  a  catch  on  't. 
Unc.  This  is  madness, 

To  be  a  wilful  beggar. 
Vol.  I  am  mad' then, 

And  so  I  mean  to  be ;  will  that  content  you  ? 
How  bravely  now  I  live !  how  jocund ! 
How  near  the  first  inheritance !  without  fears ! 
How  free  from  title  troubles  ! 
Unc.  And  from  means  too ! 

Vol.  Means 

Why,  all  good  men 's  my  means ;  my  wit 's  my  plough ; 
The  town  's  my  stock,  tavern 's  my  standing-house, 
(And  all  the  world  know,  there  's  no  want)  :  all  gentle- 
That  love  society,  love  me ;  all  purses  [men, 
That  wit  and  pleasure  opens,  are  my  tenants ; 
Every  man's  clothes  fit  me ;  the  next  fair  lodging 
Is  but  my  next  remove ;  and  when  I  please 
To  be  more  eminent,  and  take  the  air, 
A  piece  is  levied,  and  a  coach  prepared, 
And  I  go  I  care  not  whither ;  what  need  state  here  ? 
Unc.  But  say  these  means  were  honest,  will  they  last,  sir  ? 
Vol.  Far  longer  than  your  jerkin,  and  wear  fairer. 
Your  mind 's  enclosed,  nothing  lies  open  nobly ; 
Tour  very  thoughts  are  hinds,  that  work  on  nothing 
But  daily  sweat  and  trouble :  were  my  way 
So  full  of  dirt  as  this  ('tis  true)  I  'd  shift  it. 
Are  my  acquaintance  graziers  ?     But,  sir,  know ; 
No  man  that  I  'm  allied  to  in  my  living, 
But  makes  it  equal  whether  his  own  use 


346  JOHN  TLETCHEE. 

Or  my  necessity  pull  first ;  nor  is  this  forced, 
But  the  mere  quality  and  poisure  of  goodness, 
And  do  you  think  I  venture  nothing  equal  ? 

TTnc.  You  pose  me,  cousin. 

Vol.  What 's  my  knowledge,  uncle  ? 

Is  't  not  worth  money  ?  what 's  my  understanding  ? 

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

Making  men,  some  to  speak,  that  too  much  phlegm 

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

Their  peace,  and  put  their  tongues  to  pensions :  some 

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

Are  nothing,  uncle  ?  besides  these  ways,  to  teach 

The  way  of  nature,  a  manly  love,  community 

To  all  that  are  deservers,  not  examining 

How  much  or  what 's  done  for  them ;  it  is  wicked. 

Are  not  these  ways  as  honest,  as  persecuting 

The  starved  inheritance  with  musty  corn, 

The  very  rats  were  fain  to  run  away  from  ? 

Or  selling  rotten  wood  by  the  pound,  like  spices, 

"Which  gentlemen  do  after  burn  by  the  ounces  ? 

Do  not  I  know  your  way  of  feeding  beasts 

"With  grains,  and  windy  stuff,  to  blow  up  butchers  ? 

Tour  racking  pastures,  that  have  eaten  up 

As  many  singing  shepherds,  and  their  issues, 

As  Andalusia  breeds  ?     These  are  authentic. 

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

Unless  it  were,  to  sell  your  state  that  hour, 

And  (if  'twere  possible)  to  spend  it  then  too ; 

For  all  your  beans  in  Bumnillo :  now  you  know  me. 

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


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN :  A  TKAGHEDY, 
BY  JOHN  FLETCHER'. 

Three  QUEENS,  whose  Lords  were  slain  and  their  bodies  denied  burial  by 
CBEON  the  cruel  King  of  Thebes,  seek  redress  from  THESEUS,  Duke  of 
Athens,  on  the  day  of  his  marriage  with  HIPPOLITA,  Queen  of  the 

1  Fletcher  is  said  to  have  been  assisted  in  this  Play  by  Shakspeare. 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  347 

Amazons.  The  first  QUEEN  falls  down  at  the  feet  of  THESETTS  ;  the 
second  at  the  feet  of  HIPPOUTA,  his  bride;  and  the  third  implores  the 
mediation  of  EMILIA,  his  sister. 

1st  Qu.  to  Thes.  For  pity's  sake,  and  true  gentility- 
Hear  and  respect  me. 

2nd  Qu.  to  Hip.  For  your  mother's  sake, 

And  as  you  wish  your  womb  may  thrive  with  fair  ones, 
Hear  and  respect  me. 

3rd  Qu.  to  Emil.  Now  for  the  love  of  him  whom  Jove  hath 
The  honour  of  your  bed,  and  for  the  sake  [mark'd 

Of  clear  virginity,  be  advocate 
For  us  and  our  distresses :  this  good  deed 
Shall  raze  you  out  of  the  book  of  trespasses 
All  you  are  set  down  there. 

Tkes.  Sad  lady,  rise. 

Sip.  Stand  up. 

JSmil.  No  knees  to  me. 

What  woman  I  may  stead,  that  is  distress' d, 
Does  bind  me  to  her. 

Thes.  What 's  your  request  ?    Deliver  you  for  all. 

1st  Qu.  We  are  three  queens,  whose  sovereigns  fell  before 
The  wrath  of  cruel  Creon ;  who  endure 
The  beaks  of  ravens,  talons  of  the  kites, 
And  pecks  of  crows,  in  the  foul  field  of  Thebes. 
He  will  not  suffer  us  to  burn  their  bones, 
To  urn  their  ashes,  nor  to  take  the  offence 
Of  mortal  loathsomeness  from  the  blest  eye 
Of  holy  Phoabus,  but  infects  the  winds 
With  stench  of  our  slain  lords.     O  pity,  duke, 
Thou  purger  of  the  earth,  draw  thy  fear'd  sword 
That  does  good  turns  to  the  world ;  give  us  the  bones 
Of  our  dead  kings,  that  we  may  chapel  them ; 
And,  of  thy  boundless  goodness,  take  some  note 
That  for  our  crowned  heads  we  have  no  roof, 
Save  this  which  is  the  lion's  and  the  bear's, 
And  vault  to  every  thing. 

Thes.  Pray  you,  kneel  not. 

I  was  transported  with  your  speech,  and  suffer 'd 
Your  knees  to  wrong  themselves :  I  have  heard  the 

fortunes 

Of  your  dead  lords,  which  gives  me  such  lamenting, 
As  wakes  my  vengeance  and  revenge  for  them. 


348  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

King  Capaneus  was  your  lord :  the  day 
That  he  should  marry  you,  at  such  a  season 
As  now  it  is  with  me,  I  met  your  groom ; 
By  Mars's  altar,  you  were  that  time  fair, 
Not  Juno's  mantle  fairer  than  your  tresses, 
Nor  in  more  bounty  spread  her.   Your  wheaten  wreath 
"Was  then  not  thrash' d  nor  blasted :  Fortune  at  you 
Dimpled  her  cheek  with  smiles :  Hercules,  our  kinsman, 
(Then  weaker  than  your  eyes)  laid  by  his  club  ; 
He  tumbled  down  upon  his  Nemean  hide, 
And  swore  his  sinews  thaw'd.     0  grief,  and  time, 
Fearful  consumers,  you  will  all  devour ! 
1st  Qu.  0,  I  hope  some  god, 

Some  god  hath  put  his  mercy  in  your  manhood, 
Whereto  he  '11  infuse  power,  and  press  you  forth 
Our  undertaker. 
Thes.  0,  no  knees,  none,  widow ; 

Unto  the  helmeted  Bellona  use  them, 
And  pray  for  me  your  soldier. 
Troubled  I  am. 
2nd  Qu.  Honour' d  Hippolita, 

Most  dreaded  Amazonian,  that  hast  slain 

The  scythe-tusk' d  boar;  that  with  thy  arm,  as  strong 

As  it  is  white,  wast  near  to  make  the  male 

To  thy  sex  captive,  but  that  this  thy  lord, 

Born  to  uphold  creation  in  that  honour 

First  Nature  styled  it  in,  shrunk  thee  into 

The  bound  thou  wast  o'ernowing,  at  once  subduing 

Thy  force  and  thy  affection :  Soldieress, 

That  equally  canst  poise  sternness  with  pity, 

"Who  now  I  know  hast  much  more  power  on  him 

Than  ever  he  had  on  thee,  who  owest  his  strength 

And  his  love  too  ;  who  is  a  servant  for 

The  tenor  of  the  speech :  dear  glass  of  ladies, 

Bid  him  that  we,  whom  naming  war  doth  scorch, 

Under  the  shadow  of  his  sword  may  cool  us : 

Require  him  he  advance  it  o'er  our  heads ; 

Speak  it  in  a  woman's  key,  like  such  a  woman 

As  any  of  us  three ;  weep  ere  you  fail  \  lend  us  a  knee, 

But  touch  the  ground  for  us  no  longer  time 

Than  a  dove's  motion  when  the  head 's  pluck' d  off: 

Tell  him  if  he  in  the  blood-sized  field  lay  swoln, . 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  349 

Showing  the  sun  his  teeth,  grinning  at  the  moon, 
"What  you  would  do. 

Hip.  Poor  lady,  say  no  more  ; 

I  had  as  lieve  trace  this  good  action  with  you, 
As  that  whereto  I  'm  going,  and  never  yet 
"Went  I  so  willingly  away.     My  lord  is  taken 
Heart-deep  with  your  distress ;  let  him  consider ; 
I  '11  speak  anon. 

3rd  Qu.  to  Emil.  0,  my  petition  was 

Set  down  in  ice,  which  by  hot  grief  uncandied 
Melts  into  drops,  so  sorrow  wanting  form 
Is  press' d  with  deeper  matter. 

Emil.  Pray  stand  up  : 

Tour  grief  is  written  in  your  cheek. 

3rd  Qu.  0  woe ! 

You  cannot  read  it  there ;  there  through  my  tears, 
Like  wrinkled  pebbles  in  a  glassy  stream, 
You  may  behold  them.     Lady,  lady,  alack ! 
He  that  will  all  the  treasures  know  of  the  earth, 
Must  know  the  centre  too ;  he  that  will  fish 
For  my  least  minnow,  let  him  lead  his  line 
To  catch  one  at  my  heart.     O  pardon  me ; 
Extremity,  that  sharpens  sundry  wits, 
Makes  me  a  fool. 

Emil.  Pray  you,  say  nothing,  pray  you ; 

Who  cannot  feel,  nor  see  the  rain,  being  in  it, 

Knows  neither  wet,  nor  dry  ;  if  that  you  were 

The  ground-piece  of  some  painter,  I  would  buy  you 

To  instruct  me  against  a  capital  grief  indeed, 

Such  heart-pierced  demonstration ;  but  alas  ! 

Being  a  natural  sister  of  our  sex, 

Your  sorrow  beats  so  ardently  upon  me, 

That  it  shall  make  a  counter-reflect  against 

My  brother's  heart,  and  warm  it  to  some  pity, 

Though  it  were  made  of  stone  :  pray  have  good  comfort, 

Thes.  Forward  to  the  temple,  leave  not  out  a  jot 
Of  the  sacred  ceremony. 

1st  Qu.  O,  this  celebration 

Will  longer  last,  and  be  more  costly  than 
Your  suppliants'  war.     Eemember  that  your  fame 
Knolls  in  the  ear  of  the  world :  what  you  do  quickly, 
Is  not  done  rashly ;  your  first  thought  is  more 


350  JOHN  FLETCHEE. 

Than  others'  labour' d  meditance ;  your  premeditating 

More  than  their  actions ;  but,  0  Jove,  your  actions, 

Soon,  as  they  move,  as  osprays  do  the  fish, 

Subdue  before  they  touch.     Think,  dear  duke,  think, 

What  beds  our  slain  kings  have. 
2nd  Qu.  What  griefs  our  beds, 

That  our  dear  lords  have  none. 
3rd  Qu.  None  fit  for  the  dead : 

Those  that  with  cords,  knives,  drams,  precipitance, 

Weary  of  this  world's  light,  have  to  themselves 

Been  death's  most  horrid  agents,  human  grace 

Affords  them  dust  and  shadow. 
1st  Qu.  But  our  lords 

Lie  blistering  'fore  the  visitating  sun, 

And  were  good  kings  when  living. 
Thes.  It  is  true,  and  I  will  give  you  comfort, 

To  give  your  dead  lords  graves : 

The  which  to  do  must  make  some  work  with  Creon. 
1st  Qu.  And  that  work  presents  itself  to  the  doing : 

Now  'twill  take  form,  the  heats  are  gone  to-morrow, 

Then  bootless  toil  must  recompense  itself 

With  its  own  sweat ;  now  he  's  secure, 

Not  dreams  we  stand  before  your  puissance, 

Rinsing  our  holy  begging  in  our  eyes 

To  make  petition  clear. 
2nd  Qu.  Now  you  may  take  him 

Drunk  with  his  victory. 
3rd  Qu.  And  his  army  full 

Of  bread  and  sloth. 
TJies.  Artesis,  that  best  knowest 

How  to  draw  out,  fit  to  this  enterprise, 

The  primest  for  this  proceeding,  and  the  number 

To  carry  such  a  business  forth ;  and  levy 

Our  worthiest  instruments,  whilst  we  despatch 

This  grand  act  of  our  life,  this  daring  deed 

Of  fate  in  wedlock. 
1st  Qu.  Dowagers,  take  hands ; 

Let  us  be  widows  to  our  woes ;  delay 

Commends  us  to  a  famishing  hope. 
All  Farewell. 
2nd  Qu.  We  come  unseasonably.     But  when  could  grief 

Cull  forth,  as  unpang'd  judgment  can,  fit'st  time 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN  351 

Tor  best  solicitation  ? 

TJies.  Why,  good  ladies, 

This  is  a  service,  whereto  I  am  going, 
Greater  than  any  was ;  it  more  imports  me 
Than  all  the  actions  that  I  have  foregone, 
Or  futurely  can  cope. 

1st  Qu.  The  more  proclaiming 

Our  suit  shall  be  neglected,  when  her  arms, 

Able  to  lock  Jove  from  a  synod,  shall 

By  warranting  moonlight  corslet  thee.    0,  when 

Her  twining  cherries  shall  their  sweetness  fall 

Upon  thy  tasteful  lips,  what  wilt  thou  think 

Ol  rotten  kings,  or  blubber 'd  queens  ?  what  care 

For  what  thou  feel'st  not  ?  what  thou  feel'st  being  able 

To  make  Mars  spurn  his  drum.     0,  if  thou  couch 

But  one  night  with  her,  every  hour  in  it  will 

Take  hostage  of  thee  for  a  hundred,  and 

Thou  shalt  remember  nothing  more,  than  what 

That  banquet  bids  thee  to. 

Hip.  Though  much  unliking 

You  should  be  so  transported,  as  much  sorry 

I  should  be  such  a  suitor,  yet  I  think 

Did  I  not  by  the  abstaining  of  my  joy 

"Which  breeds  a  deeper  longing,  cure  their  surfeit 

That  craves  a  present  medicine,  I  should  pluck 

All  ladies'  scandal  on  me.     Therefore,  sir, 

As  I  shall  here  make  trial  of  my  prayers, 

Either  presuming  them  to  have  some  force, 

Or  sentencing  for  aye  their  vigour  dumb, 

Prorogue  this  business  we  are  going  about,  and  hang 

Your  shield  afore  your  heart,  about  that  neck 

Which  is  my  fee,  and  which  I  freely  lend 

To  do  these  poor  queens  service. 

All  Qu's.  to  Emil.  0,  help  now ; 
Our  cause  cries  for  your  knee. 

JEmil.  If  you  grant  not 

My  sister  her  petition  in  that  force, 

With  that  celerity  and  nature  which 

She  makes  it  in,  from  henceforth  I  '11  not  dare 

To  ask  you  any  thing,  nor  be  so  hardy 

Ever  to  take  a  husband. 

TJies.  Pray  stand  up. 


352  JOHN  TLETCHEE. 

I  am  entreating  of  myself  to  do 

That  which  you  kneel  to  have  me :  Perithous, 

Lead  on  the  bride  ;  get  you  and  pray  the  gods 

For  success  and  return ;  omit  not  any  thing 

In  the  pretended  celebration ;  queens, 

Follow  your  soldier  (as  before)  ;  hence  you, 

And  at  the  banks  of  Anly  meet  us  with 

The  forces  you  can  raise,  where  we  shall  find 

The  moiety  of  a  number,  for  a  business 

More  bigger  look  't.     Since  that  our  theme  is  haste, 

I  stamp  this  kiss  upon  thy  currant  lip ; 

Sweet,  keep  it  as  my  token.     Set  you  forward, 

For  I  will  see  you  gone.  — 

HIPPOLITA  and  EMILIA  discoursing  of  the  friendship  between  PERITHOUS 
and  THESEUS,  EMILIA  relates  a  parallel  instance  of  the  love  between 
herself  and  FLAVIA  being  girls. 

Emit.  I  was  acquainted 

Once  with  a  time,  when  I  enjoy 'd  a  playfellow ; 
You  were  at  wars,  when  she  the  grave  enrich' d, 
Who  made  too  proud  the  bed,  took  leave  of  the  moon 
(Which  then  look'd  pale  at  parting)  when  our  count 
"Was  each  eleven. 

Hip.  'Twas  Flavia. 

Mmil.  Yes. 

You  talk  of  Perithous  and  Theseus'  love ; 

Theirs  has  more  ground,  is  more  maturely  season' d, 

More  buckled  with  strong  judgment,  and  their  needs 

The  one  of  the  other  may  be  said  to  water 

Their  intertangled  roots  of  love  ;  but  I 

And  she  (I  sigh  and  spoke  of)  were  things  innocent, 

Loved  for  we  did,  and  like  the  elements, 

That  know  not  what,  nor  why,  yet  do  effect 

Rare  issues  by  their  operance,  our  souls 

Did  so  to  one  another ;  what  she  liked, 

Was  then  of  me  approved ;  what  not  condemn' d, 

No  more  arraignment ;  the  flower  that  I  would  pluck, 

And  put  between  my  breasts,  (0,  then  but  beginning 

To  swell  about  the  bosom)  she  would  long 

Till  she  had  such  another,  and  commit  it 

To  the  like  innocent  cradle,  where  phoenix-like 

They  died  in  perfume :  on  my  head  no  toy 

But  was  her  pattern ;  her  affections  pretty, 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  353 

Though  happily  hers  careless  were,  I  follow' d 
For  my  most  serious  decking ;  had  mine  ear 
Stolen  some  new  air,  or  at  adventure  humm'd  on 
From  musical  coinage,  why  it  was  a  note 
Whereon  her  spirits  would  sojourn  (rather  dwell  on) 
And  sing  it  in  her  slumbers ;  this  rehearsal 
(Which  every  innocent  wots  well)  comes  in 
Like  old  Importment's  bastard,  has  this  end : 
That  the  true  love  'tween  maid  and  maid  may  be 
More  than  in  sex  dividual. 

PALAMON  and  AECITE,  repining  at  their  hard  condition,  in  "being  made 
captives  for  life  in  Athens,  derive  consolation  from  the  enjoyment  of 
each  other's  company  in  prison. 

Pal.  How  do  you,  noble  cousin  ? 

Arc.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 

Pal.  Why  strong  enough  to  laugh  at  misery, 

And  bear  the  chance  of  war  yet ;  we  are  prisoners 
I  fear  for  ever,  cousin. 

Arc.  I  believe  it, 

And  to  that  destiny  have  patiently 
Laid  up  my  hour  to  come. 

Pal.  O  cousin  Arcite, 

Where  is  Thebes  now  ?  where  is  our  noble  country  ? 
Where  are  our  friends  and  kindreds  ?  never  more 
Must  we  behold  those  comforts,  never  see 
The  hardy  youths  strive  for  the  games  of  honour, 
Hung  with  the  painted  favours  of  their  ladies 
Like  tall  ships  under  sail ;  then  start  amongst  them, 
And  as  an  east  wind  leave  them  all  behind  us 
Like  lazy  clouds,  whilst  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
Even  in  the  wagging  of  a  wanton  leg, 
Out-stripp'd  the  people's  praises,  won  the  garlands 
Ere  they  have  time  to  wish  them  ours.     0,  never 
Shall  we  two  exercise,  like  twins  of  honour, 
Our  arms  again,  and  feel  our  fiery  horses 
Like  proud  seas  under  us ;  our  good  swords  now, 
(Better  the  red-eyed  god  of  war  ne'er  wore) 
B-avish'd  our  sides,  like  age,  must  run  to  rust, 
Ajid  deck  the  temples  of  those  gods  that  hate  us ; 
These  hands  shall  never  draw  them  out  like  lightning 
To  blast  whole  armies  more. 

Arc.  No,  Palamon, 

2  A 


354  JOHN  PLETCHEE. 

Those  nopes  are  prisoners  with  us ;  here  we  are, 
And  here  the  graces  of  our  youths  must  wither 
Like  a  too  timely  spring ;  here  age  must  find  us, 
And  (which  is  heaviest)  Palamon,  unmarried ; 
The  sweet  embraces  of  a  loving  wife 
Loaden  with  kisses,  arm'd  with  thousand  Cupids, 
Shall  never  clasp  our  necks,  no  issue  know  us, 
No  figures  of  ourselves  shall  we  e'er  see, 
To  glad  our  age,  and  like  young  eagles  teach  them 
Boldly  to  gaze  against  bright  arms,  and  say 
"  Remember  what  your  fathers  were,  and  conquer." 
The  fak-eyed  maids  shall  weep  our  banishments, 
And  in  their  songs  curse  ever-blinded  Fortune, 
Till  she  for  shame  see  what  a  wrong  she  has  done 
To  youth  and  nature.     This  is  all  our  world : 
"We  shall  know  nothing  here,  but  one  another ; 
Hear  nothing,  but  the  clock  that  tells  our  woes. 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it : 
Summer  shall  come,  and  with  her  all  delights, 
But  dead-cold  winter  must  inhabit  here  still. 

Pal.  'Tis  too  true,  Arcite.     To  our  Theban  hounds, 
That  shook  the  aged  forest  with  their  echoes, 
No  more  now  must  we  halloo,  no  more  shake 
Our  pointed  javelins,  whilst  the  angry  swine 
Flies  like  a  Parthian  quiver  from  our  rages, 
Struck  with  our  well-steel' d  darts.    All  valiant  uses 
(The  food  and  nourishment  of  noble  minds) 
In  us  two  here  shall  perish :  we  shall  die 
(Which  is  the  curse  of  honour)  lastly 
Children  of  grief  and  ignorance. 

Are.  Yet,  cousin, 

Even  from  the  bottom  of  these  miseries, 
From  all  that  fortune  can  inflict  upon  us, 
I  see  two  comforts  rising,  two  mere  blessings, 
If  the  gods  please  to  hold  here ;  a  brave  patience, 
And  the  enjoying  of  our  griefs  together. 
"Whilst  Palamon  is  with  me,  let  me  perish 
If  I  think  this  our  prison. 

Pal.  Certainly 

'Tis  a  main  goodness,  cousin,  that  our  fortunes 
"Were  twined  together ;  'tis  most  true,  two  souls 
I*ut  in  two  noble  bodies,  let  them  sufier 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  355 

The  gall  of  hazard,  so  they  grow  together, 

"Will  never  sink ;  they  must  not ;  say  they  could, 

A  willing  man  dies  sleeping,  and  all 's  done. 

Arc.  Shall  we  make  worthy  uses  of  this  place 
That  all  men  hate  so  much  ? 

Pal.  How,  gentle  cousin  ? 

Arc.  Let 's  think  this  prison  holy  sanctuary, 
To  keep  us  from  corruption  of  worse  men ; 
"We  are  young,  and  yet  desire  the  ways  of  honour, 
That  liberty  and  common  conversation, 
The  poison  of  pure  spirits,  might  (like  women) 
"Woo  us  to  wander  from.     "What  worthy  blessing 
Can  be,  but  our  imaginations 

May  make  it  ours  ?    And  here,  being  thus  together, 
"We  are  an  endless  mine  to  one  another ; 
"We  are  one  another's  wife,  ever  begetting 
New  births  of  love ;  we  are  father,  friends,  acquaintance ; 
We  are,  in  one  another,  families ; 
I  am  your  heir,  and  you  are  mine.     This  place 
Is  our  inheritance ;  no  hard  oppressor 
Dare  take  this  from  us ;  here  with  a  little  patience 
"We  shall  live  long,  and  loving ;  no  surfeits  seek  us ; 
The  hand  of  war  hurts  none  here,  nor  the  seas 
Swallow  their  youth.     Were  we  at  liberty, 
A  wife  might  part  us  lawfully,  or  business ; 
Quarrels  consume  us ;  envy  of  ill  men 
Crave  our  acquaintance ;  I  might  sicken,  cousin, 
Where  you  should  never  know  it,  and  so  perish 
Without  your  noble  hand  to  close  mine  eyes, 
Or  prayers  to  the  gods :  a  thousand  chances, 
Were  we  from  hence,  would  sever  us. 

Pal.  You  have  made  me 

(I  thank  you,  cousin  Arcite)  almost  wanton 

With  my  captivity :  what  a  misery 

Is  it  to  five  abroad,  and  every  where ! 

'Tis  like  a  beast  methinks !   I  find  the  court  here, 

I  'm  sure  a  more  content ;  and  all  those  pleasures, 

That  woo  the  wills  of  men  to  vanity, 

I  see  through  now ;  and  am  sufficient 

To  tell  the  world,  'tis  but  a  gaudy  shadow, 

That  old  Time,  as  he  passes  by,  takes  with  him. 

What,  had  we  been  old  in  the  court  of  Creon, 


356  PHILIP  MASSINGEB. 

Where  sin  is  justice,  lust  and  ignorance 
The  virtues  of  the  great  ones  ?  Cousin  Arcite, 
Had  not  the  loving  gods  found  this  place  for  us, 
We  had  died,  as  they  do,  ill  old  men,  unwept, 
And  had  their  epitaphs,  the  people's  curses. 

[This  scene  bears  indubitable  marks  of  Fletcher :  the  two  which  pre 
cede  it  give  strong  countenance  to  the  tradition  that  Shakspeare  had  a 
hand  in  this  Play.  The  same  judgment  may  be  formed  of  the  death  of 
Arcite,  and  some  other  passages,  not  here  given.  They  have  a  luxuriance 
in  them  which  strongly  resembles  Shakspeare' s  manner  in  those  parts  of 
his  plays,  where,  the  progress  of  the  interest  being  subordinate,  the  poet 
was  at  leisure  for  description.  I  might  fetch  instances  from  Troilus  and 
Timon.  That  Fletcher  should  have  copied  Shakspeare' s  manner  through 
so  many  entire  scenes  (which  is  the  theory  of  Mr.  Steevens)  is  not  very 
probable,  that  he  could  have  done  it  with  such  facility  is  to  me  not  cer 
tain.  His  ideas  moved  slow ;  his  versification,  though  sweet,  is  tedious ; 
it  stops  every  moment ;  he  lays  line  upon  line,  making  up  one  after 
the  other,  adding  image  to  image  so  deliberately  that  we  see  where  they 
join  :  Shakspeare  mingles  every  thing,  he  runs  line  into  line,  embarrasses 
sentences  and  metaphors ;  before  one  idea  has  burst  its  shell,  another  is 
hatched  and  clamorous  for  disclosure.  If  Fletcher  wrote  some  scenes  in 
imitation,  why  did  he  stop  ?  or  shall  we  say  that  Shakspeare  wrote  the 
other  scenes  in  imitation  of  Fletcher  ?  that  he  gave  Shakspeare  a  curb  and 
a  bridle,  and  that  Shakspeare  gave  him  a  pair  of  spurs  :  as  Blackmore  and 
Lucan  are  brought  in  exchanging  gifts  in  the  Battle  of  the  Books  ?] 


THE  CITY  MADAM :  A  COMEDY,  BY  PHILIP  MASSINGKER. 

LUKE,  from  a  state  of  indigence  and  dependence  is  suddenly  raised  into 
immense  affluence  by  a  deed  of  gift  of  the  estates  of  his  brother  SIK 
JOHN  FRUGAL,  a  merchant,  retired  from  the  world.  He  enters,  from 
taking  a  swrvey  of  his  new  riches. 

Luke.  Twas  no  fantastic  object,  but  a  truth ; 
A  real  truth,  no  dream.     I  did  not  slumber  j 
And  could  wake  ever  with  a  brooding  eye 
To  gaze  upon  it !  it  did  endure  the  touch  j 
I  saw,  and  felt  it.     Yet  what  I  beheld 
And  handled  oft,  did  so  transcend  belief 
(My  wonder  and  astonishment  pass'd  o'er) 
I  faintly  could  give  credit  to  my  senses. 
Thou  dumb  magician,  that  without  a  charm        [To  the 
Didst  make  my  entrance  easy,  to  possess  key. 

What  wise  men  wish  and  toil  for !     Hermes'  moly ; 
Sibylla's  golden  bough ;  the  great  elixir, 
Imagined  only  by  the  alchymist,. 


CITY  MADAM.  357 

Compared  with  thee,  are  shadows ;  thou  the  substance 
And  guardian  of  felicity.     No  marvel, 
My  brother  made  thy  place  of  rest  his  bosom, 
Thou  being  the  keeper  of  his  heart,  a  mistress 
To  be  hugg'd  ever.     In  by-corners  of 
This  sacred  room,  silver,  in  bags  heap'd  up, 
Like  billets  saw'd  and  ready  for  the  fire, 
Unworthy  to  hold  fellowship  with  bright  gold, 
That  flow'd  about  the  room,  conceal' d  itself. 
There  needs  no  artificial  light ;  the  splendour 
Makes  a  perpetual  day  there,  night  and  darkness 
By  that  still-burning  lamp  for  ever  banish' d. 
But  when,  guided  by  that,  my  eyes  had  made 
Discovery  of  the  caskets,  and  they  open'd, 
Each  sparkling  diamond  from  itself  shot  forth 
A  pyramid  of  flames,  and  in  the  roof 
Pix'd  it  a  glorious  star,  and  made  the  place 
Heaven's  abstract,  or  epitome :  rubies,  sapphires, 
And  ropes  of  orient  pearl,  these  seen,  I  could  not 
But  look  on  gold  with  contempt :  and  yet  I  found, 
"What  weak  credulity  could  have  no  faith  in, 
A  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  redeem' d  this  day ;  which  is  not  in 
The  unthrift's  power ;  there  being  scarce  one  shire 
In  Wales  or  England,  where  my  moneys  are  not 
Lent  out  at  usury,  the  certain  hook 
To  draw  in  more. 

The  extravagance  of  the  City  Madams  aping  court  fashions  reprehended. 
LUKE,  having  come  into  the  possession  of  his  brother  SIB  JOHN  FEU  GAL'S 
estates.   Lady,  toife  to  SIK  JOHN  FEU  GAL,  and  two  daughter^  m  homely 
attire. 
Luke.  Save  you,  sister 

I  now  dare  style  you  so.     You  were  before 

Too  glorious  to  be  look'd  on:  now  you  appear 

Like  a  city  matron,  and  my  pretty  nieces 

Such  things 

As  they  were  born  and  bred  there.     Why  should  you 

The  fashions  of  court  ladies,  whose  high  titles        [ape 

And  pedigrees  of  long  descent  give  warrant 


358  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

For  their  superfluous  bravery  ?  'twas  monstrous. 
Till  now  you  ne'er  look'd  lovely. 

Lady.  Is  this  spoken 
In  scorn  ? 

Luke.  Pie,  no ;  with  judgment.     I  make  good 

My  promise,  and  now  show  you  like  yourselves, 
In  your  own  natural  shapes. 

Lady.  We  acknowledge 

We  have  deserved  ill  from  you1,  yet  despair  not, 
Though  we  're  at  your  disposure,  you  '11  maintain  us 
Like  your  brother's  wife  and  daughters. 

Lulce.  'Tis  my  purpose. 

Lady.  And  not  make  us  ridiculous. 

Luke.  Admired  rather, 

As  fair  examples  for  our  proud  city  dames 

And  their  proud  brood  to  imitate.     Hear 

G-ently,  and  in  gentle  phrase  I  '11  reprehend 

Tour  late  disguised  deformity. 

Tour  father  was 

An  honest  country  farmer,  G-oodman  Humble, 

By  his  neighbours  ne'er  call'd  master.    Did  your  pride 

Descend  from  him  ?  but  let  that  pass.    Tour  fortune, 

Or  rather  your  husband's  industry,  advanced  you 

To  the  rank  of  merchant's  wife.     He  made  a  knight, 

And  your  sweet  mistress-ship  ladyfied,  you  wore 

Satin  on  solemn  days,  a  chain  of  gold, 

A  velvet  hood,  rich  borders,  and  sometimes 

A  dainty  miniver  cap,  a  silver  pin 

Headed  with  a  pearl  worth  threepence ;  and  thus  far 

Tou  were  privileged,  and  no  man  envied  it ; 

It  being  for  the  city's  honour  that 

There  should  be  distinction  between 

The  wife  of  a  patrician  and  a  plebeian. 

But  when  the  height 

And  dignity  of  London's  blessings  grew 

Contemptible,  and  the  name  lady  mayoress 

Became  a  by-word,  and  you  scorn' d  the  means 

By  which  you  were  raised  (my  brother's  fond  indulgence 

Giving  the  reins  to  it)  and  no  object  pleased  you 

But  the  glittering  pomp  and  bravery  of  the  court ; 

•  In  his  dependent  state  they  had  treated  him  very  cruelly :  they  are 
now  dependent  on  him. 


CITY  MADAM.  359 

"What  a  strange,  nay,  monstrous  metamorphosis  fol 
low' d  ! 

No  English  workman  then  could  please  your  fancy ; 
The  French  and  Tuscan  dress,  your  whole  discourse ; 
This  bawd  to  prodigality  entertain' d, 
To  buz  into  your  ears,  what  shape  this  countess 
Appear' d  in,  the  last  mask ;  and  how  it  drew 
The  young  lord's  eyes  upon  her :  and  this  usher 
Succeeded  in  the  eldest  'prentice's  place, 
To  walk  before  you.     Then,  as  I  said, 
(The  reverend  hood  cast  off)  your  borrow' d  hair, 
Powder' d  and  curl'd,  was  by  your  dresser's  art 
Form'd  like  a  coronet,  hang'd  with  diamonds, 
And  the  richest  orient  pearl :  your  carkanets, 
That  did  adorn  your  neck,  of  equal  value ; 
Your  Hungerland  bands,  and  Spanish  Quellio  ruffs : 
Great  lords  and  ladies  feasted,  to  survey 
Embroider'd  petticoats ;  and  sickness  feign' d, 
That  your  nightrails  of  forty  pounds  a-piece 
Might  be  seen  with  envy  of  the  visitants : 
Bich  pantables  in  ostentation  shown, 
And  roses  worth  a  family.     You  were  served 
In  plate ; 

Stirr'd  not  a  foot  without  a  coach ;  and  going 
To  church,  not  for  devotion,  but  to  show 
Your  pomp,  you  were  tickled  when  the  beggars  cried 
Heaven  save  your  honour !     This  idolatry 
Paid  to  a  painted  room.     And,  when  you  lay 
In  childbed,  at  the  christening  of  this  nm'nT, 
I  well  remember  it,  as  you  had  been 
An  absolute  princess  (since  they  have  no  more), 
Three  several  chambers  hung :  the  first  with  arras, 
And  that  for  waiters ;  the  second,  crimson  satin, 
For  the  meaner  sort  of  guests ;  the  third  of  scarlet 
Of  the  rich  Tyrian  dye :  a  canopy 
To  cover  the  brat's  cradle ;  you  in  state, 
Like  Pompey's  Julia. 
Lady.  No  more,  I  pray  you. 
Luke ,  Of  this  be  sure  vou  shall  not.     I  '11  cut  off 
Whatever  is  exorbitant  in  you, 
Or  in  your  daughters ;  and  reduce  you  to 
Your  natural  forms  and  habits ;  not  in  revenge 


360  PHILIP  MASSINGEE. 

Of  your  base  usage  of  me ;  but  to  fright 
Others  by  your  example. 

[This  bitter  satire  against  the  city  women  for  aping  the  fashions  of  the 
court  ladies  must  have  been  peculiarly  gratifying  to  the  females  of  the 
Herbert  family  and  the  rest  of  Massinger's  patrons  and  patronesses.] 


A  NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  PHILIP  MASSINGffiR. 

OVEEEEACH,  (a  cruel  extortioner)  treats  about  marrying  his  daughter 
with  LOED  LOVELL. 

LOYELL.     OVEEEEACH. 

Over.  To  my  wish  we  are  private. 

I  come  not  to  make  offer  wit'h  my  daughter 

A  certain  portion ;  that  were  poor, and  trivial : 

In  one  word  I  pronounce  all  that  is  mine, 

In  lands  or  leases,  ready  coin  or  goods, 

"With  her,  my  lord,  comes  to  you ;  nor  shall  you  have 

One  motive  to  induce  you  to  believe 

I  live  too  long,  since  every  year  I  '11  add 

Something  unto  the  heap,  which  shall  be  yours  too. 

Lov.  You  are  a  right  kind  father. 

Over.  You  shall  have  reason 

To  think  me  such.     How  do  you  like  this  seat  ? 
It  is  well- wooded  and  well- water 'd,  the  acres 
Fertile  and  rich :  would  it  not  serve  for  change, 
To  entertain  your  friends  in  a  summer's  progress  ? 
What  thinks  my  noble  lord  ? 

Lov.  'Tis  a  wholesome  air, 

And  well-built,  and  she1,  that  is  mistress  of  it, 
Worthy  the  large  revenue. 

Over.  She  the  mistress  ? 

It  may  be  so  for  a  time :  but  let  my  lord 

Say  only  that  he  but  like^it,  and  would  have  it ; 

I  say,  ere  long  'tis  his. 

Lov.  Impossible. 

Over.  You  do  conclude  too  fast ;  not  knowing  me, 
Nor  the  engines  that  I  work  by.     'Tis  not  alone 
The  lady  Allworth's  lands :  but  point  oat  any  man's 
In  all  the  shire,  and  say  they  lie  convenient 
1  The  Lady  AUworth. 


A  FEW  WAT  TO  PAT  OLD  DEBTS.          361 

And  useful  for  your  lordship ;  and  once  more 
I  say  aloud,  they  are  yours. 

Lov.  I  dare  not  own 

What 's  by  unjust  and  cruel  means  extorted : 
My  fame  and  credit  are  more  dear  to  me, 
Than  so  to  expose  them  to  be  censured  by 
The  public  voice. 

Over.  You  run,  my  lord,  no  hazard : 
Tour  reputation  shall  stand  as  fair 
In  all  good  men's  opinions  as  now ; 
Nor  can  my  actions,  though  condemn' d  for  ill, 
Cast  any  foul  aspersion  upon  yours. 
For  though  I  do  contemn  report  myself, 
As  a  mere  sound ;  I  still  will  be  so  tender 
Of  what  concerns  you  in  all  points  of  honour, 
That  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  your  fame, 
Nor  your  unquestioned  integrity, 
Shall  e'er  be  sullied  with  one  taint  or  spot 
That  may  take  from  your  innocence  and  candour. 
All  my  ambition  is  to  have  my  daughter 
Bight  honourable ;  which  my  lord  can  make  her : 
And  might  I  live  to  dance  upon  my  knee 
A  young  lord  Lovell,  born  by  her  unto  you, 
I  write  nil  ultra  to  my  proudest  hopes. 
As  for  possessions  and  annual  rents, 
Equivalent  to  maintain  you  in  the  port 
Your  noble  birth  and  present  state  require, 
I  do  remove  that  burden  from  your  shoulders, 
And  take  it  on  mine  own :  for  though  I  ruin 
The  country  to  supply  your  riotous  waste, 
The  scourge  of  prodigals  (want)  shall  never  find  you. 

Lov.  Are  you  not  frighted  with  the  imprecations 
And  curses  of  whole  families,  made  wretched 
By  your  sinister  practices  ? 

Over,  Yes,  as  rocks  are 

When  foaming  billows  split  themselves  against 
Their  flinty  ribs ;  or  as  the  moon  is  moved, 
When  wolves,  with  hunger  pined,  howl  at  her  bright- 
I  am  of  a  solid  temper,  and,  like  these,  [ness. 

Steer  on  a  constant  course :  with  mine  own  sword, 
It  call'd  into  the  field,  I  can  make  that  right, 
Which  fearful  enemies  murmur 'd  at  as  wrong. 


362  PHILIP  MASSINGEE. 

Now,  for  those  other  peddling  complaints, 

Breathed  out  in  bitterness  ;  as,  when  they  call  me 

Extortioner,  tyrant,  cormorant,  or  intruder 

On  my  poor  neighbour's  right,  or  grand  encloser 

Of  what  was  common  to  my  private  use ; 

Nay,  when  my  ears  are  pierced  with  widows'  cries, 

And  undone  orphans  wash  with  tears  my  threshold ; 

I  only  think  what  'tis  to  have  my  daughter 

Bight  honourable ;  and  'tis  a  powerful  charm, 

Makes  me  insensible  of  remorse  or  pity, 

Or  the  least  sting  of  conscience. 

Lov.  I  admire 

The  toughness  of  your  nature. 

Over.  'Tis  for  you, 

My  lord,  and  for  my  daughter,  I  am  marble. 


THE  PICTUEE :  A  TBAGH-COMEDY, 
BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

MATTHIAS,  a  knight  of  Bohemia,  going  to  the  wars ;  in  parting  with  his 
wife,  shows  her  substantial  reasons  why  he  should  go. 

MATTHIAS.     SOPHIA. 

Mat.  Since  we  must  part,  Sophia,  to  pass  further 
Is  not  alone  impertinent,  but  dangerous. 
"We  are  not  distant  from  the  Turkish  camp 
Above  five  leagues ;  and  who  knows  but  some  party 
Of  his  Timariots,  that  scour  the  country, 
May  fall  upon  us  ?     Be  now,  as  thy  name 
Truly  interpreted1  hath  ever  spoke  thee, 
"Wise  and  discreet ;  and  to  thy  understanding 
Marry  thy  constant  patience. 

Soph.  You  put  me,  sir, 

To  the  utmost  trial  of  it. 

Mat.  Nay,  no  melting : 

Since  the  necessity,  that  now  separates  us, 
"We  have  Jong  since  disputed ;  and  the  reasons, 
Forcing  me  to  it,  too  oft  wash'd  in  tears. 
I  grant  that  you  in  birth  were  far  above  me, 
And  great  men  my  superiors  rivals  for  you ; 
But  mutual  consent  of  heart,  as  hands 
1  Sophia;  wisdom. 


THE  PICTTJBE.  36 

Join'd  by  true  love,  hath  made  us  one  and  equal : 

Nor  is  it  in  me  mere  desire  of  fame, 

Or  to  be  cried  up  by  the  public  voice 

For  a  brave  soldier,  that  puts  on  my  armour ; 

Such  airy  tumors  take  not  me :  you  know 

How  narrow  our  demeans  are ;  and  what 's  more, 

Having  as  yet  no  charge  of  children  on  us, 

We  hardly  can  subsist. 

Soph.  In  you  alone,  sir, 
I  have  all  abundance. 

Mat.  For  my  mind's  content, 

In  your  own  language  I  could  answer  you. 

You  have  been  an  obedient  wife,  a  right  one ; 

And  to  my  power,  though  short  of  your  desert, 

I  have  been  ever  an  indulgent  husband. 

We  have  long  enjoy 'd  the  sweets  of  love,  and  though 

Not  to  satiety  or  loathing,  yet 

"We  must  not  live  such  dotards  on  our  pleasures, 

As  still  to  hug  them  to  the  certain  loss 

Of  profit  and  preferment.     Competent  means 

Maintains  a  quiet  bed,  want  breeds  dissension 

Ev'n  in  good  women. 

Soph.  Have  you  found  in  me,  sir, 

Any  distaste  or  sign  of  discontent, 
For  want  of  what 's  superfluous  ? 

Mat.  No,  Sophia; 

Nor  shalt  thou  ever  have  cause  to  repent 
Thy  constant  course  in  goodness,  if  Heaven  bless 
My  honest  undertakings.     'Tis  for  thee, 
That  I  turn  soldier,  and  put  forth,  dearest, 
Upon  this  sea  of  action  as  a  factor, 
To  trade  for  rich  materials  to  adorn  . 
Thy  noble  parts",  and  show  them  in  full  lustre. 
I  blush  that  other  ladies,  less  in  beauty 
And  outward  form,  but,  in  the  harmony 
Of  the  soul's  ravishing  music,  the  same  age 
Not  to  be  named  with  thee,  should  so  outshine  thee 
In  jewels  and  variety  of  wardrobes ; 
While  you,  to  whose  sweet  innocence  both  Indies 
Compared  are  of  no  value,  wanting  these, 
Pass  unregarded. 
If  I  am  so  rich, 


364  PHILIP  MASSINQEB. 

Or  in  your  opinion  so,  why  should  you  borrow 
Addition  for  me  ? 

Mat.  Why  ?  I  should  be  censured 

Of  ignorance,  possessing  such  a  jewel, 

Above  all  price,  if  I  forbear  to  give  it 

The  best  of  ornaments.     Therefore,  Sophia, 

In  few  words  know  my  pleasure,  and  obey  me ; 

As  you  have  ever  done.     To  your  discretion 

I  leave  the  government  of  my  family, 

And  our  poor  fortunes,  and  from  these  command 

Obedience  to  you  as  to  myself: 

To  the  utmost  of  what 's  mine,  live  plentifully : 

And,  ere  the  remnant  of  our  store  be  spent, 

With  my  good  sword  I  hope  I  shall  reap  for  you 

A  harvest  in  such  full  abundance,  as 

Shall  make  a  merry  winter. 

Soph.  Since  you  are  not 

To  be  diverted,  sir,  from  what  you  purpose, 

All  arguments  to  stay  you  here  are  useless. 

Go  when  you  please,  sir.  Eyes,  I  charge  you,  waste  not 

One  drop  of  sorrow ;  look  you  hoard  all  up, 

Till  in  my  widow' d  bed  I  call  upon  you : 

But  then  be  sure  you  fail  not.     You  blest  angels, 

Guardians  of  human  life,  I  at  this  instant 

Forbear  to  invoke  you  at  our  parting ;  'twere 

To  personate  devotion.     My  soul 

Shall  go  .along  with  you ;  and  when  you  are 

Circled  with  death  and  horror,  seek  and  find  you ; 

And  then  I  will  not  leave  a  saint  unsued  to 

For  your  protection.     To  tell  you  what 

I  will  do  in  your  absence,  would  show  poorly ; 

My  actions  shall  speak  me.     'Twere  to  doubt  you, 

To  beg  I  may  hear  from  you  where  you  are ; 

You  cannot  live  obscure :  nor  shall  one  post, 

By  night  or  day,  pass  unexamined  by  me. 

If  I  dwell  long  upon  your  lips,  consider 

After  this  feast  the  griping  fast  that  follows ; 

And  it  will  be  excusable ;  pray,  turn  from  me ; 

All  that  I  can  is  spoken. 

[The  good  sense,  rational  fondness,  and  chastised  feeling,  of  this  dia 
logue,  make  it  more  valuable  than  many  of  those  scenes  in  which  this 
writer  has  attempted  a  deeper  passion  and  more  tragical  interest.  Mas- 


THE  PABLIAMENT  OF  LOVE.  365 

singer  had  not  the  higher  requisites  of  his  art  in  any  thing  hie  the  degree 
in  which  they  were  possessed  by  Ford,  Webster,  Tourneur,  Heywood,  and 
others.  He  never  shakes  or  disturbs  the  mind  with  grief.  He  is  read 
with  composure  and  placid  delight.  He  wrote  with  that  equability  of  all 
the  passions,  which  made  his  English  style  the  purest  and  most  free  from 
violent  metaphors  and  harsh  constructions,  of  any  of  the  dramatists  who 
were  his  contemporaries.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LOYE :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

CLEEEMOND  takes  an  oath  to  perform  his  mistress  LEONOEA'S  pleasure. 
She  enjoins  him  to  kill  his  best  friend.  He  invites  MONTEOSE  to  the 
Jteld,  under  pretence  of  wanting  him  for  a  second :  then  shows >  that  he 
must  fight  with  him. 

Cler.  This  is  the  place. 

Mont.  An  even  piece  of  ground, 

Without  advantage ;  but  be  jocund,  friend : 
The  honour  to  have  enter 'd  first  the  field, 
However  we  come  off,  is  ours. 

Clef:  I  need  not, 

So  well  I  am  acquainted  with  your  valour, 
To  dare,  in  a  good  cause,  as  much  as  man, 
Lend  you  encouragement ;  and  should  I  add, 
Your  power  to  do,  which  Fortune,  howe'er  blind, 
Hath  ever  seconded,  I  cannot  doubt 
But  victory  still  sits  upon  your  sword, 
And  must  not  now  forsake  you. 

Mont.  You  shall  see  me 

Come  boldly  up  :  nor  will  I  shame  your  cause, 
By  parting  with  an  inch  of  ground  not  bought 
With  blood  on  my  part. 

Cler.  'Tis  not  to  be  question' d : 

That  which  I  would  entreat,  (and  pray  you  grant  it,) 
Is,  that  you  would  forget  your  usual  softness, 
Your  foe  being  at  your  mercy ;  it  hath  been 
A  custom  in  you,  which  I  dare  not  praise, 
Having  disarm' d  your  enemy  of  his  sword, 
To  tempt  your  fate,  by  yielding  it  again ; 
Then  run  a  second  hazard. 

Mont.  When  we  encounter 

A  noble  foe,  we  cannot  be  too  noble. 


366  PHILIP  MASSIffGEB. 

Cler.  That  I  confess ;  but  lie  that 's  now  to  oppose  you, 
I  know  for  an  arch  villain ;  one  that  hath  lost 
All  feeling  of  humanity,  one  that  hates 
Goodness  in  others,  'cause  he 's  ill  himself; 
A  most  ungrateful  wretch,  (the  name 's  too  gentle, 
All  attributes  of  wickedness  cannot  reach  him,) 
Of  whom  to  have  deserved,  beyond  example, 
Or  precedent  of  friendship,  is  a  wrong 
"Which  only  death  can  satisfy. 

Mont.  You  describe 
A  monster  to  me. 

Cler.  True,  Montrose,  he  is  so. 

Afric,  though  fertile  of  strange  prodigies, 

Never  produced  his  equal ;  be  wise,  therefore, 

And  if  he  fall  into  your  hands,  despatch  him : 

Pity  to  him  is  cruelty.     Ths  sad  father, 

That  sees  his  son  stung  by  a  snake  to  death, 

May,  with  more  justice,  stay  his  vengeful  hand, 

And  let  the  worm  escape,  than  you  vouchsafe  him 

A  minute  to  repent :  for  'tis  a  slave 

So  sold  to  hell  and  mischief,  that  a  traitor 

To  his  most  lawful  prince,  a  church-robber, 

A  parricide,  who,  when  his  garners  are 

Cramm'd  with  the  purest  grain,  suffers  his  parents, 

Being  old  and  weak,  to  starve  for  want  of  bread, 

Compared  to  him  are  innocent. 

Mont.  I  ne'er  heard 

Of  such  a  cursed  nature ;  if  long-lived, 

He  would  infect  mankind :  rest  you  assured, 

He  finds  from  me  small  courtesy. 

Cler.  And  expect 

As  little  from  him ;  blood  is  that  he  thirsts  for, 
Not  honourable  wounds. 

Mont.  I  would  I  had  him 

"Within  my  sword's  length ! 

Cler.  Have  thy  wish !  Thou  hast !      [CLEREMOND  draws  his 
Nay,  draw  thy  sword  and  suddenly :  I  am          [sword* 
That  monster,  temple-robber,  parricide, 
Ingrateful  wretch,  friend-hater,  or  what  else 
Makes  up  the  perfect  figure  of  the  devil, 
Should  he  appear  like  man.     Banish  amazement, 
And  call  thy  ablest  spirits  up  to  guard  thee 


THE  PABLIAMEffT  OP  LOYE.  367 

From  him  that 's  turn'd  a  fury.     I  am  made 

Her  minister,  whose  cruelty  but  named 

"Would  with  more  horror  strike  the  pale-cheek' d  stars, 

Than  all  those  dreadful  words  which  conjurors  use 

To  fright  their  damn'd  familiars.     Look  not  on  me 

As  I  am  Cleremond ;  I  have  parted  with 

The  essence  that  was  his,  and  entertain' d 

The  soul  of  some  fierce  tigress,  or  a  wolf's 

New-hang' d  for  human  slaughter,  and  'tis  fit : 

I  could  not  else  be  an  apt  instrument 

To  bloody  Leonora. 

Mont.  To  my  knowledge 
I  never  wrong' d  her. 

Cler.  Yes  in  being  a  friend 

To  me,  she  hated  my  best  friend,  her  malice 
"Would  look  no  lower : — and  for  being  such, 
By  her  commands,  Montrose,  I  am  to  kill  thee. 
O,  that  thou  hadst,  like  others,  been  all  words, 
And  no  performance !  or  that  thou  hadst  made 
Some  little  stop  in  thy  career  of  kindness ! 
"Why  wouldst  thou,  to  confirm  the  name  of  friend, 
Snatch  at  this  fatal  office  of  a  second, 

"Which  others  fled  from  ? 'Tis  in  vain  to  mourn  now, 

"When  there  's  no  help ;  and  therefore,  good  Montrosej 

House  thy  most  manly  parts,  and  think  thou  stand' st  now 

A  champion  for  more  than  king  or  country ; 

Since  in  thy  fall,  goodness  itself  must  suffer, 

Eemember  too,  the  baseness  of  the  wrong 

Offer' d  to  friendship ;  let  it  edge  thy  sword, 

And  kill  compassion  in  thee ;  and  forget  not 

I  will  take  all  advantages :  and  so, 

Without  reply,  have  at  thee.    [They  fight,  CLEBEMONDI 

Mont.  See,  how  weak  falls. 

An  ill  cause  is !  you  are  already  fallen : 
What  can  you  look  for  now  ? 
Cler.  Fool,  use  thy  fortune : 

And  so  he  counsels  thee,  that,  if  we  had 

Changed  places,  instantly  would  have  cut  thy  throat, 

Or  digg'd  thy  heart  out. 

Mont.  In  requital  of 

That  savage  purpose,  I  must  pity  you : 

Witness  these  tears,  not  tears  of  joy  for  conquest; 


368  PHILIP  MASSINOEB. 

But  of  true  sorrow  for  your  misery. 
Live,  O  live,  Cleremond,  and,  like  a  man, 
Make  use  of  reason,  as  an  exorcist 
To  cast  this  devil  out,  that  does  abuse  you ; 
This  fiend  of  false  affection. 


A  YERY  WOMAN :  OE,  THE  PRINCE  OF  TARENT :  A 
TRAGI-COMEDY.    BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

DON  JOHN  ANTONIO,  Prince  of  Tarent,  in  the  disgiiise  of  a  slave,  re 
counts  to  the  LADY  ALMIEA,  she  not  knowing  him  in  that  disguise,  the 
story  of  his  own  passion  for  her,  and  of  the  unworthy  treatment  which 
he  found  from  her. 

John.  Not  far  from  where  my  father  lives,  a  lady, 
A  neighbour  by,  blest  with  as  great  a  beauty 
As  Nature  durst  bestow  without  undoing, 
Dwelt,  and  most  happily,  as  I  thought  then, 
And  bless' d  the  house  a  thousand  times  she  dwelt  in. 
This  beauty,  in  the  blossom  of  my  youth, 
"When  my  first  fire  knew  no  adulterate  incense, 
Nor  I  no  way  to  flatter  but  my  fondness, 
In  all  the  bravery  my  friends  could  show  me, 
In  all  the  faith  my  innocence  could  give  me, 
In  the  best  language  my  true  tongue  could  tell  me, 
And  all  the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lent  me, 
I  sued,  and  served.     Long  did  I  love  this  lady, 
Long  was  my  travail,  long  my  trade,  to  win  her ; 
With  all  the  duty  of  my  soul  I  served  her. 

Aim.  How  feelingly  he  speaks !    And  she  loved  you  too  ? 
It  must  be  so. 

John.  I  would  it  had,  dear  lady. 

This  story  had  been  needless ;  and  this  place, 
I  think,  unknown  to  me. 

Aim.  Were  your  bloods  equal  ? 

John.  Yes  ;  and,  I  thought,  our  hearts  too, 

Aim.  Then  she  must  love. 

John.  She  did ;  but  never  me :  she  could  not  love  me ; 

She  would  not  love ;  she  hated ;  more,  she  scorn' d  me : 
And  in  so  poor  and  base  a  way  abused  me, 
For  all  my  services,  for  all  my  bounties, 
So  bold  neglects  flung  on  me 


THE  UtfffATTTBAL  COMBAT. 

Aim.  An  ill  woman ! 

Belike  you  found  some  rival  in  your  love  then  ? 

John.  How  perfectly  she  points  me  to  my  story !       [Aside. 
Madam,  I  did ;  and  one  whose  pride  and  anger, 
Til  manners,  and  worse  mien,  she  doted  on ; 
Doted,  to  my  undoing  and  my  ruin. 
And,  but  for  honour  to  your  sacred  beauty, 
And  reverence  to  the  noble  sex,  though  she  fall, 
(As  she  must  fall,  that  durst  be  so  unnoble) 
I  should  say  something  unbeseeming  me. 
What  out  of  love,  and  worthy  love,  I  gave  her, 
(Shame  to  her  most  unworthy  mind !)  to  fools, 
To  girls,  and  fiddlers,  to  her  boys  she  flung, 
And  in  disdain  of  me. 
Last,  to  blot  me 

Prom  all  remembrance,  what  I  have  been  to  her, 
And  how,  how  honestly,  how  nobly  served  her, 
'Twas  thought  she  set  her  gallant  to  despatch  me. 
"Tis  true,  he  quarrel' d,  without  place  or  reason  ; 
"We  fought ;  I  kill'd  him ;  Heaven's  strong  hand  was 

with  me ; 

Eor  which  I  lost  my  country,  friends,  acquaintance, 
And  put  myself  to  sea,  where  a  pirate  took  me, 
And  sold  me  here. 


THE  UNNATUKAL  COMBAT :  A  TKAGEDY, 
BY  PHILIP  MASSINGEB. 

MALHFOET  senior,  Admiral  of  Marseilles,  poisons  his  first  wife  to  make 
way  for  a  second.  This  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  his  son,  MAIEFOET 
junior;  he  challenges  his  father  to  fight  him.  This  unnatural  combat 
is  performed  before  the  Governor  and  Court  of  Marseilles.  The  spec 
tators  retiring  to  some  distance^  the  father  and  son  parley  before  the 
fight  commences. 

MALEFOET  senior. 

Mai.  sen.  Now  we  are  alone,  sir ; 

And  thou  hast  liberty  to  unload  the  burden 
Which  thou  groan' st  under.     Speak  thy  griefs. 

Mai.  jun.  I  shall,  sir ; 

But  in  a  perplex' d  form  and  method,  which 
You  only  can  interpret :  would  you  had  not 
A  guilty  knowledge  in  your  bosom  of 
The  language  which  you  force  me  to  deliver, 

2B 


870  PHILIP  MASSIKGEE. 

So  I  were  nothing !    As  you  are  my  father, 
I  bend  my  knee,  and  uncompelTd  profess, 
My  life  and  all  that 's  mine  to  be  your  gift, 
And  that  in  a  son's  duty  I  stand  bound 
To  lay  this  head  beneath  your  feet,  and  run 
All  desperate  hazards  for  your  ease  and  safety. 
But,  this  confess' d  on  my  part,  I  rise  up ; 
And  not  as  with  a  father  (all  respect, 
Love,  fear,  and  reverence,  cast  off),  but  as 
A  wicked  man,  I  thus  expostulate  with  you. 
"Why  have  you  done  that  which  I  dare  not  speak  P 
And  in  the  action  changed  the  humble  shape 
Of  my  obedience  to  rebellious  rage 
And  insolent  pride  ?  and  with  shut  eyes  constrain' 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 
This  sword,  as  I  must  do,  against  your  head, 
Piety  will  weep,  and  filial  duty  mourn, 
To  see  their  altars,  which  you  built  up  in  me, 
In  a  moment  razed  and  ruin'd.     That  you  could 
(From  my  grieved  soul  I  wish  it)  but  produce 
To  qualify,  not  excuse,  your  deed  of  horror, 
One  seeming  reason ;  that  I  might  fix  here, 
And  move  no  further ! 
Mai.  sen.  Have  I  so  far  lost 

A  father's  power,  that  I  must  give  account 

Of  my  actions  to  my  son  ?  or  must  I  plead 

As  a  fearful  prisoner  at  the  bar,  while  he 

That  owes  his  being  to  me  sits  as  judge 

To  censure  that,  which  only  by  myself 

Ought  to  be  question' d  ?  mountains  sooner  fall 

Beneath  their  valleys,  and  the  lofty  pine 

Pay  homage  to  the  bramble,  or  what  else  is 

Preposterous  in  nature,  ere  my  tongue 

In  one  short  syllable  yields  satisfaction 

To  any  doubt  of  thine ;  nay,  though  it  were 

A  certainty,  disdaining  argument : 

Since,  though  my  deeds  were  hell's  black  livery, 

To  thee  they  should  appear  triumphant  robes, 


THE  TJNNATTTBAL  COMBAT.  371 

Set  off  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. 

Mal.jun.  This  sword  divides  that  slavish  knot. 

Mai.  sen.  It  cannot, 

It  cannot,  wretch ;  and  thou  but  remember  [it. 

From  whom  thou  hadst  this  spirit,  thou  darest  not  hope 

"Who  train' d  thee  up  in  arms,  but  I  ?  who  taught  thee 

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  hast  fought  as  securely 

As  the  young  eaglet,  cover 'd  with  the  wings 

Of  her  fierce  dam,  learns  how  and  where  to  prey. 

All  that  is  manly  in  thee,  I  call  mine ; 

But  what  is  weak  and  womanish,  thine  own. 

And  what  I  gave  (since  thou  art  proud,  ungrateful, 

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  swroln  with  poison ;  who  surviving 

A  little  longer,  with  infectious  breath, 

"Would  render  all  things  near  him,  like  itself, 

Contagious. 

Mai.  jun.  Thou  incensed  power, 

Awhile  forbear  thy  thunder :  let  me  have 
No  aid  in  my  revenge,  if  from  the  grave 
My  mother 

Mai.  sen.  Thou  shalt  never  name  her  more {Tlity 

fight,  and  the  son  is  slain. 

Mai.  sen.  Die  all  my  fears, 

And  waking  jealousies,  which  have  so  long 

Been  my  tormentors ;  there  's  now  no  suspicion: 

A  fact,  which  I  alone  am  conscious  of, 

Can  never  be  disco ver'd,  or  the  cause 

That  call'd  this  duel  on ;  I  being  above 

All  perturbations ;  nor  is  it  in 

The  power  of  fate  again  to  make  me  wretched. 


372  PHILIP  MASSINGEB,  AND  THOMAS  DECKEE. 


THE  YIEGHN  MAETYEt  A  TEAGEDY, 
BY  PHILIP  MASSINGEE  AND  THOMAS  DECKEE. 

ANGELO,  an  Angel,  attends  DOBOTHEA  a*  a  page. 

ANGELO.     DOBOTHEA.     The  time,  midnight. 

Dor.  My  book  and  taper. 

Aug.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor.  Thy  voice  sends  forth  sueh  music,  that  I  never 
Was  ravish' d  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
"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  that  name  thou  art.     G-et  thee  to  rest ; 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  oppressed. 

Any.  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. 
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  I  '11  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-boj,  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  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

Aug.  Proud  am  I  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Dor.  I  have  offer 'd 

Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some, 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father  j  for,  the  son 


THE  FATAL  DOWBY,  373 

Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence, 
He  that  begot  him  must  do  't  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents ; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

Any .  I  am  not :  I  did  never 

Know  who  my  mother  was ;  but,  by  yon  palace, 
FilTd  with  bright  heavenly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand, 
My  father  is  in  heaven ;  and,  pretty  mistress, 
If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand 
No  worse,  than  yet  it  doth,  upon  my  life, 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 

Dor.  A  bless'd  day ! 

[This  scene  has  beauties  of  so  very  high  an  order,  that,  with  all  my 
respect  for  Maesinger,  I  do  not  think  he  had  poetical  enthusiasm  capable 
of  furnishing  them.  His  associate  Decker,  who  wrote  Old  Fortunatus, 
had  poetry  enough  for  any  thing.  The  very  impurities  which  obtrude 
themselves  among  the  sweet  pieties  of  this  play  (like  Satan  among  the 
sons  of  heaven)  and  which  the  brief  scope  of  my  plan  fortunately  enables 
me  to  leave  out,  have  a  strength  of  contrast,  a  raciness,  and  a  glow  in 
them,  which  are  above  Massinger.  They  set  off  the  religion  of  the  rest, 
somehow  as  Caliban  serves  to  show  Miranda.] 


THE  FATAL  DOWRY:  A  TEAGEDY, 
1  BY  PHILIP  MASSINGKER  AND  NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

The  Marshal  of  Burgundy  dies  in  prison  at  Dijon  for  debts  contracted 
by  him  for  the  service  of  the  state  in  the  wars.  His  dead  body  is  arrested 
and  denied  burial  by  his  creditors.  Sis  son,  young  CHABALOIS,  gives 
up  himself  to  prison  to  redeem  his  father's  body,  that  it  may  have 
honourable  burial.  He  has  leave  from  his  prison  doors  to  view  the 
ceremony  of  the  funeral,  but  to  go  no  farther. 

Enter  three  gentlemen,  PONTALIEB,  MALOTIN,  and  BEATJ- 
MONT,  as  spectators  of  the  funeral. 

Hal.  'Tis  strange. 

Beaum.  Methinks  so. 

Pont.  In  a  man  but  young, 

Yet  old  in  judgment ;  theoric  and  practic 
In  all  humanity ;  and,  to  increase  the  wonder, 
[Religious,  yet  a  soldier, — that  he  should 
Yield  his  free-living  youth  a  captive,  for 
The  freedom  of  his  aged  father's  corpse; 


Ci74  PHILIP  MASSINGEB  AND  NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

And  rather  choose  to  want  life's  necessaries, 
Liberty,  hope  of  fortune,  than  it  should 
In  death  be  kept  from  Christian  ceremony ! 

Jilal.  Come,  'tis  a  golden  precedent  in  a  son, 
To  let  strong  nature  have  the  better  hand, 
In  such  a  case,  of  all  affected  reason. 
"What  years  sit  on  this  Charalois  ? 

Beaum.  Twenty-eight. 

For  since  the  clock  did  strike  him  seventeen  old, 
Under  his  father's  wing  this  son  hath  fought, 
Served  and  commanded,  and  so  aptly  both, 
That  sometimes  he  appear 'd  his  father's  father, 
And  never  less  than  his  son ;  the  old  man's  virtues 
So  recent  in  him,  as  the  world  may  swear 
Naught  but  a  fair  tree  could  such  fair  fruit  bear. 

Mai.  This  morning  is  the  funeral  ? 

Pont.  Certainly, 

And  from  this  prison, — :'twas  the  son's  request. 

[CHAEALOIS  appears  at  the  door  of  the  prison. 
That  his  dear  father  might  interment  have, 
See,  the  young  son  enter' d  a  lively  grave. 

Beaum.  They  come.     Observe  their  order. 

The  funeral  procession  enters.  Captains  and  soldiers,  mourn 
ers.  ROMONT,  friend  to  the  deceased.  Three  creditors  are 
among  the  spectators.  CHAEALOIS  speaks. 

Char.  How  like  a  silent  stream  shaded  with  night, 
And  gliding  softly  with  our  windy  sighs, 
Moves  the  whole  frame  of  this  solemnity ! 
Tears,  sighs,  and  blacks,  filling  the  simile ; 
"Whilst  I,  the  only  murmur  in  this  grove 
Of  death,  thus  hollowly  break  forth ! — vouchsafe 
To  stay  awhile.     Eest,  rest  in  peace,  dear  earth ! 
Thou  that  broughtst  rest  to  their  unthankful  lives,    ' 
"Whose  cruelty  denied  thee  rest  in  death ! 
Here  stands  thy  poor  executor,  thy  son, 
That  makes  his  life  prisoner  to  bail  thy  death ; 
"Who  gladlier  puts  on  this  captivity, 
Than  virgins,  long  in  love,  their  wedding  weeds. 
Of  all  that  ever  thou  hast  done  good  to, 
These  only  have  good  memories ;  for  they 
Remember  best,  forget  not  gratitude. 
I  thank  you  for  this  last  and  friendly  love. 


THE  FATAL  DOWBY.  375 

And  though  this  country,  like  a  viperous  mother, 

Not  only  hath  eat  up  ungratefully 

All  means  of  thee,  her  son,  but  last  thyself, 

Leaving  thy  heir  so  bare  and  indigent, 

He  cannot  raise  thee  a  poor  monument, 

Such  as  a  flatterer  or  an  usurer  hath ; 

Thy  worth  in  e\ery  honest  breast  builds  one, 

Making  their  friendly  hearts  thy  funeral  stons. 

Pont.  Sir! 

Char.  Peace !  O  peace !    This  scene  is  wholly  mine — 

"What !    weep   you,    soldiers  ? — blanch  not. — Eomont 

Ha !  let  me  see !  my  miracle  is  eased ;  [weeps. — 

The  jailers  and  the  creditors  do  weep ; 

Ev'n  they  that  make  us  weep,  do  weep  themselves. 

Be  these  thy  body's  balm  ;  these,  and  thy  virtue, — 

Keep  thy  fame  ever  odoriferous, 

"Whilst  the  great,  proud,  rich,  undeserving  man, 

Alive  stinks  in  his  vices,  and,  being  vanish' d, 

The  golden  calf  that  was  an  idol,  deck'd 

"With  marble  pillars,  jet  and  porphyry, 

Shall  quickly  both  in  bone  and  name  consume, 

Though  wrapp'd  in  lead,  spice,  cerecloth,  and  perfume. 

Creditor.  Sir! 

Char.  What ! — away  for  shame, — you,  profane  rogues, 
Must  not  be  mingled  with  these  holy  relics : 
This  is  a  sacrifice — our  shower  shall  crown 
His  sepulchre  with  olive,  myrrh,  and  bays, 
The  plants  of  peace,  of  sorrow,  victory : 
Tour  tears  would  spring  .but  weeds. 

Bom.  Look,  look,  you  slaves !  your  thankless  cruelty, 
And  savage  manners  of  unkind  Dijon, 
Exhaust  these  floods,  and  not  his  lather's  death. 

Priest.  On. 

Char.  One  moment  more, 

But  to  bestow  a  few  poor  legacies, 

All  I  have  left  in  my  dead  father's  right, 

And  I  have  done.     Captain,  wear  thou  these  spurs, 

That  yet  ne'er  made  his  horse  run  from  a  foe. 

Lieutenant,  thou  this  scarf;  and  may  it  tie 

Thy  valour  and  thy  honesty  together, 

For  so  it  did  in  him.     Ensign,  this  cuirass, 

Tour  general's  necklace  once.     Tou  gentle  bearers, 


!376       P.  MASSINGKEB,  T.  MIDDLETON,  AND  W.  BOWLEY. 

Divide  this  purse  of  gold ;  this  other  strew 
Among  the  poor.     'Tis  all  I  have.     Romont, 
"Wear  thou  this  medal  of  himself,  that  like 
A  hearty  oak  grew'st  close  to  this  tall  pine, 
Ev'n  in  the  wildest  wilderness  of  war, 
"Whereon  foes  broke  their  swords,  and  tired  themselves 
"Wounded  and  hack'd  ye  were,  but  never  fell'd. 
Tor  me,  my  portion  provide  in  heaven : 
My  root  is  earth' d,  and  I,  a  desolate  branch, 
Left  scatter' d  in  the  highway  of  the  world, 
Trod  under  foot,  that  might  have  been  a  column 
Mainly  supporting  our  demolish' d  house. 
This1  would  I  wear  as  my  inheritance, — 
And  what  hope  can  arise  to  me  from  it, 
"When  I  and  it  are  here  both  prisoners  P 
Only  may  this,  if  ever  we  be  free, 
Keep  or  redeem  me  from  all  infamy. 
Jailer.  You  must  no  farther. — 

The  prison  limits  you,  and  the  creditors 
Exact  the  strictness. 


THE  OLD  LAW :  A  COMEDY,  BY  PHILIP  MASSINGEE, 
THOMAS  MIDDLETON,  AND  WILLIAM  EOWLEY. 

The  DUKE  OF  EPIRE  enacts  a  law,  that  all  men  who  have  reached  the  age 
of  fourscore,  shall  be  put  to  death,  as  being  adjudged  -useless  to  the 
commonwealth.  SIMONIDES,  the  bad,  and  CLEANTHES,  the  good  son, 
are  differently  affected  by  the  promulgation  of  the  edict. 

Sim.  Cleanthes, 

0,  lad,  here  's  a  spring  for  young  plants  to  flourish ! 

The  old  trees  must  down,  kept  the  sun  from  us. 

"We  shall  rise  now,  boy. 
Cla.  "Whither,  sir,  I  pray? 

To  the  bleak  air  of  storms,  among  those  trees 

Which  we  had  shelter  from. 
Sim.  Yes,  from  our  growth, 

Our  sap  and  livelihood,  and  from  our  fruit. 

What !  'tis  not  jubilee  with  thee  yet,  I  think ; 

Thou  look'st  so  sad  on 't.    How  old  is  thy  father  P 
Cle.  Jubilee !  no,  indeed ;  'tis  a  bad  year  with  me. 
1  His  father's  sword. 


THL  OLD  LAW,       '.  377 

Sim.  Prithee,  how  old 's  thy  father  ?  then  I  can  tell  thee. 

Cle.  I  know  not  how  to  answer  you,  Simonides. 
He  is  too  old,  being  now  exposed 
Unto  the  rigor  of  a  cruel  edict ; 
And  yet  not  old  enough  by  many  years, 
'Cause  I  'd  not  see  him  go  an  hour  before  me. 

Sim.  These  very  passions  I  speak  to  my  father. 
****** 

Cle.  Why,  here 's  a  villain, 

Able  to  corrupt  a  thousand  by  example. 
Does  the  kind  root  bleed  out  his  livelihood 
In  parent  distribution  to  his  branches, 
Adorning  them  with  all  his  glorious  fruits, 
Proud  that  his  pride  is  seen  when  he  's  unseen, 
And  must  not  gratitude  descend  again 
To  comfort  his  old  limbs  in  fruitless  winter  ? 

CLEANTHES,  to  save  his  old  father,  LEONiDES34/hm  the  operation  of  the 
law,  gives  out  that  he  is  dead,  celebrating  a  pretended  funeral,  to  make 
it  believed. 

DUKE.     COTJBTIEBS.     CLEANTHES,  as  following  his  father's 

body  to  the  grave. 
Duke.  Cleanthes? 
•Court.  'Tis,  my  lord,  and  in  the  place 

Of  a  chief  mourner  too,  but  strangely  habited 
Duke.  Yet  suitable  to  his  behaviour,  mark  it ; 

He  comes  all  the  way  smiling,  do  you  observe  it  ? 

I  never  saw  a  corse  so  joyfully  follow' d, 

Light  colours  and  light  cheeks — who  should  this  be  ? 

'Tis  a  thing  worth  resolving. — Cleanthes 

Cle.  O  my  lord ! 

Duke.  He  laugh' d  outright  now. 

Was  ever  such  a  contrariety  seen 

In  natural  courses  yet,  nay,  profess' d  openly  ? 
Cle.  'Tis,  of  a  heavy  time,  the  joyfull'st  day 

That  ever  son  was  born  to. 
Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 
Cle.  I  joy — to  make  it  plain — my  father 's  deadL 
Duke.  Dead? 
Court.  Old  Leonides  ? 
Cle.  In  his  last  month  dead. 

He  beguiled  cruel  law  the  sweetliest 

That  ever  age  was  blest  to. 


378       P.  MASSINGKEB,  T.  MIDDLETON,  AND  W.  BOWLEY. 

It  grieves  me  that  a  tear  should  fall  upon  it, 
Being  a  thing  so  joyful,  but  his  memory 
Will  work  it  out,  I  see :  when  his  poor  heart 
Broke,  I  did  not  so  much,  but  leap'd  for  joy 
So  mountingly,  I  touch' d  the  stars,  methought. 
I  would  not  hear  of  blacks,  I  was  so  light, 
Bu,t  chose  a  colour  orient,  like  my  mind : 
For  blacks  are  often  such  dissembling  mourners, 
There  is  no  credit  given  to  it,  it  has  lost 
All  reputation  by  false  sons  and  widows. 
Now  I  would  have  men  know  what  I  resemble, 
A  truth,  indeed ;  'tis  joy  clad  like  a  joy, 
Which  is  more  honest  than  a  cunning  grief 
That 's  only  faced  with  sables  for  a  show, 
But  gaudy-hearted.     When  I  saw  death  come 
So  ready  to  deceive  you,  sir,  forgive  me, 
I  could  not  choose  but  be  entirely  merry ; 
And  yet  too,  see  now,  of  a  sudden, 
Naming  but  death,  I  show  myself  a  mortal, 
That 's  never  constant  to  one  passion  long : 
I  wonder  whence  that  tear  came,  when  I  smiled 
In  the  production  on  it.     Sorrow  's  a  thief, 
That  can,  when  joy  looks  on,  steal  forth  a  grief. 
But,  gracious  leave,  my  lord ;  when  I  have  perform' d 
My  last  poor  duty  to  my  father's  bones, 
I  shall  return  your  servant. 
Duke.  Well,  perform  it ; 

The  law  is  satisfied :  they  can  but  die. 

CLEANTHES  conceals  LEONIDES  in  a  secret  apartment  within  a  wood, 
where  himself,  and  his  wife  HIPPOLITA,  keep  watch  for  the  safety  of 
the  old  man.  This  coming  to  the  DUKE'S  knowledge,  he  repairs  to  the 
wood  and  makes  discovery  of  the  place  where  they  have  hid  LEONIDES. 

The  wood. — CLEANTHES  listening,  as  fearing  every  sound. 
Cle.  What 's  that  ?    0,  nothing  but  the  whispering  wind 
Breathes  through  yon  churlish,  hawthorn,  that  grew  rude 
As  if  it  chid  the  gentle  breath  that  kiss'd  it. 
I  cannot  be  too  circumspect,  too  careful, 
Tor  in  these  woods  lies  hid  all  my  life's  treasure, 
Which  is  too  much  ever  to  fear  to  lose, 
Though  it  be  never  lost ;  and  if  our  watchfulness 
Ought  to  be  wise  and  serious  'gainst  a  thief 
That  comes  to  steal  our  goods,  things  all  without  us, 


THE  OLD  LAW.  379 

That  prove  vexation  often  more  than  comfort 
How  mighty  ought  our  providence  to  be 
To  prevent  those,  if  any  such  there  were, 
That  come  to  rob  our  bosom  of  our  joys, 

That  only  make  poor  man  delight  to  live ! 

Pshaw,  I  'm  too  fearful — fie,  fie,  who  can  hurt  me  ? 

But  'tis  a  general  cowardice,  that  shakes 

The  nerves  of  confidence ;  he  that  hides  treasure, 

Imagines  every  one  thinks  of  that  place, 

"When  'tis  a  thing  least  minded ;  nay,  let  him  change 

The  place  continually,  where'er  it  keeps, 

There  will  the  fear  keep  still.  Yonder 's  the  storehouse 

Of  all  my  comfort  now — and,  see,  it  sends  forth 
HIPPOLITA  enters. 

A  dear  one  to  me.     Precious  chief  of  women ! 

How  does  the  good  old  soul  ?  has  he  fed  well  ? 
Hip.  Beshrew  me,  sir,  he  made  the  heartiest  meal  to-day ; 

Much  good  may 't  do  his  health, 
Cle.  A  blessing  on  thee, 

Both  for  thy  news  and  wish. 
Hip.  His  stomach,  sir, 

Is  better'd  wondrously,  since  his  concealment. 
Cle.  Heaven  has  a  blessed  work  in  it.  Come,  we  are  safe  here. 

I  prithee,  call  him  forth,  the  air  is  much  wholesomer. 
Hip.  Father. 

LEONIDES  comes  forth. 
Leon.  How  sweetly  sounds  the  voice  of  a  good  woman ! 

It  is  so  seldom  heard,  that,  when  it  speaks, 

It  ravishes  all  senses.      Lists  of  honour ! 

I  have  a  joy  weeps  to  see  you,  'tis  so  full, 

So  fairly  fruitful. 
Cle.  I  hope  to  see  you  often,  and  return 

Loaden  with  blessing,  still  to  pour  on  some. 

I  find  them  all  in  my  contented  peace, 

And  lose  not  one  in  thousands,  they  are  dispersed 

So  gloriously,  I  know  not  which  are  brightest ; 

I  find  them,  as  angels  are  found,  by  legions. 
A  Horn  is  heard. 

Ha! 

Leon.  What  was  it  disturb'd  my  joy  ? 
Cle.  Did  you  not  hear, 

As  afar  oft"? 


380       P.  MASSINGEB    T.  MIDDLETON,  AND  W.  EOWLET. 

Hip.  What,  my  excellent  consort  ? 

Cle.  Nor  you 

Sip.  I  heard  a 

Cle.  Hark  again 

Leon.  Bless  my  joy ! 

What  ails  it  on  a  sudden  ? 

Cle.  Now  since lately 

Leon.  'Tis  nothing  but  a  symptom  of  thy  care,  man. 
Cle.  Alas !  you  do  not  hear  well. 
Leon.  What  was  it,  daughter  ? 
Hip.  I  heard  a  sound,  twice. 
Cle.  Hark !  louder  and  nearer. 

In,  for  the  precious  good  of  virtue,  quick,  sir. 

Louder  and  nearer  yet ;  at  hand,  at  hand ; 

A  hunting  here !  'tis  strange !  I  never  knew 

Game  follow'd  in  these  woods  before. 
Hip.  Now  let  them  come,  and  spare  not. 

Enter  DUKE,  Courtiers,  Attendants,  as  if  hunting. 

Cle.  Ha !  'tis is  it  not  the  Duke  ? look  sparingly. 

Hip.  'Tis  he,  but  what  of  that  ?  alas !  take  heed,  sir ; 

Your  care  will  overthrow  us. 
Cle.  Come,  it  shall  not. 

Let 's  set  a  pleasant  face  upon  our  fears, 

Though  our  hearts  shake  with  horror.     Ha !  ha !  ha ! 
Duke.  Hark! 
Cle.  Prithee,  proceed ; 

I  'm  taken  with  these  light  things  infinitely, 

Since  the  old  man's  decease. — Ha !  ha !  ha ! — 
Duke.  Why,  how  should  I  believe  this  ?  Look,  he 's  merry, 

As  if  he  had  no  such  charge.     One  with  that  care 

Could  never  be  so  still ;  he  holds  his  temper, 

And  'tis  the  same  still ;  with  no  difference, 

He  brought  his  father's  corpse  to  the  grave  with. 

He  laugh' d  thus  then,  you  Jmow. 
Court .  Ay,  he  may  laugh,  my  lord ; 

That  shows  but  how  he  glories  in  his  cunning ; 

And,  perhaps,  done  more  to  advance  his  wit, 

Than  to  express  affection  to  his  father, 

That  only  he  has  over-reach' d  the  law. 

e.  If  a  contempt  can  be  so  neatly  carried, 

It  gives  me  cause  of  wonder. 

C1  leanthes 


THE  OLD  LAW.  381 

Cle.  My  loved  lord — 

Duke.  Not  moved  a  whit ! 

Constant  to  lightning  still ! 'tis  strange  to  meet  you 

Upon  a  ground  so  unfrequented,  sir : 

This  does  not  fit  your  passion ;  you  are  for  mirth, 

Or  I  mistake  you  much. 

Cle.  But  finding  it 

Grow  to  a  noted  imperfection  in  me 

(For  any  thing  too  much  is  vicious), 

I  come  to  these  disconsolate  walks  of  purpose 

Only  to  dull  and  take  away  the  edge  on  it. 

I  ever  had  a  greater  zeal  to  sadness, 

A  natural  propension,  I  confess,  my  lord, 

Before  that  cheerful  accident  fell  out, — 

If  I  may  call  a  father's  funeral  cheerful, 

Without  wrong  done  to  duty  or  my  love. 

Duke.  It  seems  then  you  take  pleasure  in  these  walks,  sir  ? 

Cle.  Contemplative  content  I  do,  my  lord : 
They  bring  into  my  mind  oft  meditations 
So  sweetly  precious,  that  in  the  parting 
I  find  a  shower  of  grace  upon  my  cheeks, 
They  take  their  leave  so  feelingly. 

Duke.  So,  sir 

Cle.  Which  is  a  kind  of  grave  delight,  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  I  have  small  cause,  Cleanthes,  to  afford  you 
The  least  delight  that  has  a  name. 

Cle.  My  lord 

Duke.  In  your  excess  of  joy  you  have  express' d 
Tour  rancour  and  contempt  against  my  law : 
Your  smiles  deserve  fining ;  you  have  profess' d 
Derision  openly  ev'n  to  my  face, 
Which  might  be  death,  a  little  more  incensed. 
You  do  not  come  for  any  freedom  here, 
But  for  a  project  of  your  own ; 
But  all  that 's  known  to  be  contentful  to  thee, 
Shall  in  the  use  prove  deadly.     Your  life  's  mine, 
If  ever  thy  presumption  do  but  lead  thee 

Into  these  walks  again ay,  or  that  woman 

I  '11  have  them  watch' d  on  purpose. 

1st  Court.  Now,  now,  his  colour  ebbs  and  flows. 

2nd  Court.  Mark  hers  too. 

Hip.  O  !  who  shall  bring  food  to  the  poor  old  man  now  ?    - 


382  GEOEGE  CHAPMAN  AND  JAMES  S1IIELET. 

Speak  somewhat,  good  sir,  or  we  are  lost  for  ever. 

[Apart  to  CLEANTHES. 
Cle.  O !  you  did  wondrous  ill  to  call  me  again. 

There  are  not  words  to  help  us.     If  I  entreat, 

'Tis  found ;  that  will  betray  us  worse  than  silence. 

Prithee,  let  Heaven  alone,  and  let 's  say  nothing. 

[Apart  to  HIPPOLITA. 

1st  Court.  You  have  struck  them  dumb,  my  lord. 
2nd  Court.  Look  how  guilt  looks ! 
Cle.  He  is  safe  still,  is  he  not  ?  ~"| 
Hip.  O  !  you  do  ill  to  doubt  it.  \*  Apart. 
Cle.  Thou  art  all  goodness.         J 
2nd  Court.  Now  does  your  grace  believe  ? 
Duke.  'Tis  too  apparent. 

Search,  make  a  speedy  search ;  for  the  imposture 

Cannot  be  far  off,  by  the  fear  it  sends. 
Cle.  Ha!  [lord, 

2nd  Court.  He  has  the  lapwing's  cunning,  I  am  afraid,  my 

That  cries  most  when  she  is  farthest  from  the  nest. 
Cle.  0  !  we  are  betray 'd. 

[There  is  an  exquisiteness  of  moral  sensibility,  making  one  to  gush  out 
tears  of  delight,  and  a  poetical  strangeness  in  all  the  improbable  circum 
stances  of  this  wild  play,  which  are  unlike  any  thing  in  the  dramas  which 
Massinger  wrote  alone.  The  pathos  is  of  a  subtler  edge.  Middleton  and 
Eowley,  who  assisted  in  this  play,  had  both  of  them  finer  geniuses  than 
their  associate.! 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  PHILIP  CHABOT,  ADMIRAL  OF  FRANCE  : 
BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN  AND  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

The  ADMIEAL  is  accused  of  treason,  a  criminal  process  is  instituted  against 
him,  and  his  faithful  servant  ALLEGBE  is  put  on  the  rack  to  make  him 
discover :  his  innocence  is  at  length  established  by  the  confession  of  his 
enemies;  but  the  disgrace  of  having  been  suspected  for  a  traitor  by  his 
royal  Master ;  sinks  so  deep  into  him,  that  he  falls  into  a  mortal  sickness. 

ADMIEAL.     ALLEGEE,  supported  between  two. 

Adm.  Welcome  my  injured  servant :  what  a  misery 
Have  they  made  on  thee ! 

Al.  Though  some  change  appear 

Upon  my  body,  whose  severe  affliction 
Hath  brought  it  thus  to  be  sustain' d  by  others, 
My  heart  is  still  the  same  in  faith  to  you, 
Not  broken  with  their  rage. 


CHABOT.  383 

Adm.  Alas,  poor  man ! 

Were  all  my  joys  essential,  and  so  mighty, 

As  the  affected  world  believes  I  taste, 

This  object  were  enough  to  unsweeten  all. 

Though,  in  thy  absence,  I  had  suffering, 

And  felt  within  me  a  strong  sympathy, 

"While  for  my  sake  their  cruelty  did  vex 

And  fright  thy  nerves  with  horror  of  thy  sense, 

Yet  in  this  spectacle  I  apprehend 

More  grief,  than  all  my  imagination 

Could  let  before  into  me.     Didst  not  curse  me 

Upon  the  torture  ? 
Al.  Glood  my  lord,  let  not 

The  thought  of  what  I  suffer'd  dwell  upon 

Your  memory ;  they  could  not  punish  more 

Than  what  my  duty  did  oblige  to  bear 
For  you  and  justice :  but  there 's  something  in 
Your  looks  presents  more  fear,  than  all  the  malice 
Of  my  tormenters  could  affect  my  soul  with. 
That  paleness,  and  the  other  forms  you  wear, 
Would  well  become  a  guilty  admiral,  one 
Lost  to  his  hopes  and  honour,  not  the  man 
Upon  whose  life  the  fury  of  injustice, 
Arm'd  with  fierce  lightning  and  the  power  of  thunder, 
Can  make  no  breach.     I  was  not  rack'd  till  now. 
There 's  more  death  in  that  falling  eye,  than  all 
Rage  ever  yet  brought  forth.     What  accident,  sir,  can 
Can  be  so  black  and  fatal,  to  distract  [blast, 

The  calm,  the  triumph,  that  should  sit  upon 
Your  noble  brow  ?  misfortune  could  have  no 
Time  to  conspire  with  fate,  since  you  were  rescued 
By  the  great  arm  of  Providence ;  nor  can 
Those  garlands,  that  now  grow  about  your  forehead, 
With  all  the  poison  of  the  world  be  blasted. 
Adm.  Allegre,  thou  dost  bear  thy  wounds  upon  thee 
In  wide  and  spacious  characters,  but  in 
The  volume  of  my  sadness  thou  dost  want 
An  eye  to  read.    An  open  force  hath  torn 
Thy  manly  sinews,  which  some  time  may  cure. 
The  engine  is  not  seen  that  wounds  thy  master ; 
Past  all  the  remedy  of  art,  or  time, 
The  flatteries  of  court,  of  fame,  or  honours. 


384}  GEOEGE  CHAPMAN  AND  JAMES  SHIELET. 

Thus  in  the  summer  a  tall  flourishing  tree, 

Transplanted  by  strong  hand,  with  all  her  leaves 

And  blooming  pride  upon  her,  makes  a  show 

Of  spring,  tempting  the  eye  with  wanton  blossoms : 

But  not  the  sun  with  all  her  amorous  smiles, 

The  dews  of  morning,  or  the  tears  of  night, 

Can  root  her  fibres  in  the  earth  again ; 

Or  make  her  bosom  kind,  to  growth  and  bearing : 

But  the  tree  withers ;  and  those  very  beams, 

That  once  were  natural  warmth  to  her  soft  verdure, 

Dry  up  her  sap,  and  shoot  a  fever  through 

The  bark  and  rind,  till  she  becomes  a  burden 

To  that  which  gave  her  life :  so  Chabot,  Chabot 

Al.  Wander  in  apprehension !  I  must 
Suspect  your  health  indeed. 

Adm.  No,  no,  thou  shalt  not 

Be  troubled :  I  but  stirr'd  thee  with  a  moral, 

That 's  empty ;  contains  nothing.     I  am  well : 

See,  I  can  walk ;  poor  man,  thou  hast  not  strength  yet. 

The  father  of  the  ADMIEAL  makes  known  the  condition  his  son  is  in  to 
the  Icing. 

FATHEB.    KING. 
King.  Say,  how  is  my  admiral  ? 

The  truth  upon  thy  life. 
FatJi.  To  secure  his,  I  would  you  had. 
King.  Ha !  who  durst  oppose  him  ? 
Fath.  One  that  hath  power  enough,  hath  practised  on  him, 

And  made  his  great  heart  stoop. 
King.  I  will  revenge  it 

With  crushing,  crushing  that  rebellious  power 

To  nothing.     Name  him. 
FatTi.  He  was  his  friend. 
King.  "What  mischief  hath  engender 'd 

'  New  storms  ? 
Fatli.  'Tis  the  old  tempest. 
King.  Did  not  we 

Appease  all  horrors  that  look'd  wild  upon  him  ? 
Fath.  You  dress' d  his  wounds,  I  must  confess-,  but  made 

No  cure ;  they  bleed  afresh :  pardon  me,  sir ; 

Although  your  conscience  have  closed  too  soon, 

He  is  in  danger,  and  doth  want  new  surgery : 

Though  he  be  right  in  fame,  and  your  opinion, 


CHABOT.  385s 

He  thinks  you  were  unkind. 

King.  Alas,  poor  Chabot ! 
Doth  that  afflict  him  ? 

Fath.  So  much,  though  he  strive 

With  most  resolved  and  adamantine  nerves, 

As  ever  human  fire  in  flesh  and  blood 

Forged  for  example,  to  bear  all ;  so  killing 

The  arrows  that  you  shot  were  (still,  your  pardon !) 

No  centaur's  blood  could  rankle  so. 

King.  If  this 

Be  all,  I  '11  cure  him.     Kings  retain 

More  balsam  in  their  soul,  than  hurt  in  anger. 

Fath.  Far  short,  sir ;  with  one  breath  they  uncreate : 
And  kings,  with  only  words,  more  wounds  can  make 
Than  all  their  kingdom  made  in  balm  can  heal. 
'Tis  dangerous  to  play  too  wild  a  descant 
On  numerous  virtue ;  though  it  become  princes 
To  assure  their  adventures  made  in  every  thing. 
G-oodness,  confined  within  poor  flesh  and  blood, 
.  Hath  but  a  queazy  and  still  sickly  state ; 
A  musical  hand  should  only  play  on  her, 
Fluent  as  air,  yet  every  touch  command. 

King.  No  more : 

Commend  us  to  the  admiral,  and  say 
The  king  will  visit  him,  and  bring  health. 

Fath.  I  will  not  doubt  that  blessing,  and  shall  move 
Nimbly  with  this  command. 

The  KING  visits  ihe  ADMIRAL. 
KINO.     ADMIRAL.     His  wfe,  and  father. 

King.  No  ceremonial  knees : 

Give  me  thy  heart,  my  dear,  my  honest  Chabot ; 
And  yet  in  vain  I  challenge  that ;  'tis  here 
Already  in  my  own,  and  shall  be  cherish' d 
With  care  of  my  best  life :  no  violence 
Shall  ravish  it  from  my  possession ; 
Not  those  distempers  that  infirm  my  blood 
And  spirits,  shall  betray  it  to  a  fear : 
When  time  and  nature  join  to  dispossess 
My  body  of  a  cold  and  languishing  breath ; 
No  stroke  in  all  my  arteries,  but  silence 
In  every  faculty ;  yet  dissect  me  then, 
And  in  my  heart  the  world  shall  read  thee  living ; 

2c 


386  GEOBGE  CHAPMAN  AND  JAMES  SHIELET. 

And,  by  the  virtue  of  thy  name  writ  there, 

That  part  of  me  shall  never  putrefy, 

"When  I  am  lost  in  all  my  other  dust. 
Adm.  You  too  much  honour  your  poor  servant,  sir ; 

My  heart  despairs  so  rich  a  monument, 

But  when  it  dies — 
King.  I  would  not  hear  a  sound 

Of  any  thing  that  trenched  upon  death. 

He  speaks  the  funeral  of  my  crown,  that  prophesies 

So  unkind  a  fate :  we  '11  live  and  die  together. 

And  by  that  duty,  which  hath  taught  you  hitherto 

All  loyal  and  just  services,  I  charge  thee, 

Preserve  thy  heart  for  me,  and  thy  reward, 

"Which  now  shall  crown  thy  merits. 
Adm.  I  have  found 

A  glorious  harvest  in  your  favour,  sir ; 

And  by  this  overflow  of  royal  grace, 

All  my  deserts  are  shadows  and  fly  from  me : 

I  have  not  in  the  wealth  of  my  desires 

Enough  to  pay  you  now 

King.  Express  it  in  some  joy  then. 
Adm.  I  will  strive 

To  show  that  pious  gratitude  to  you,  but 

King.  But  what? 

Adm.  My  frame  hath  lately,  sir,  been  taken  to  pieces, 

And  but  now  put  together ;  the  least  force 

Of  mirth  will  shake  and  unjoint  all  my  reason. 

Tour  patience,  royal  sir. 
King.  I  '11  have  no  patience, 

If  thou  forget  the  courage  of  a  man. 
Adm.  My  strength  would  flatter  me. 
Kmg.  Physicians, 

Now  I  begin  to  fear  his  apprehension. 

"Why  how  is  Chabot's  spirit  fallen  ? 
Adm.  Who  would  not  wish  to  live  to  serve  your  goodness  ? 

Stand  from  me.     Ton  betray  me  with  your  fears. 

The  plummets  may  fall  off"  that  hang  upon 

My  heart,  they  were  but  thoughts  at  first ;  or  if 

They  weigh  me  down  to  death,  let  not  my  eyes 

Close  with  another  object  than  the  king. 
King.  In  a  prince 

What  a  swift  executioner  is  a  frown, 


THE  MAID'S  BEYENQE.  387 

Especially  of  great  and  noble  souls  1 

How  is  it  with  my  Philip  P 
Adm.  I  must  beg 

One  other  boon. 
King.  Upon  condition 

My  Chabot  will  collect  his  scatter'd  spirits, 

And  be  himself  again,  he  shall  divide 

My  kingdom  with  me. 
Adm*  I  observe 

A  fierce  and  killing  wrath  engendered  in  you; 

For  my  sake,  us  you  wish  me  strength  to  serve  you, 

Forgive  your  chancellor1 ;  let  not  the  story 

Of  Philip  Chabot,  read  hereafter,  draw 

A  tear  from  any  family,  I  beseech 

Your  royal  mercy  on  his  life,  and  free 

Remission  of  all  seizure  upon  his  state. 

I  have  no  comfort  else. 
King.  Endeavour 

But  thy  own  health ;  and  pronounce  general  pardon 

To  all  through  France. 
Adm,  Sir,  I  must  kneel  to  thank  you ; 

It  is  not  seal'd  else.     Your  blest  hand :  live  happy, 

May  all  you  trust  have  no  less  faith  than  Chabot. 

O!  [Dies. 

Wife.  His  heart  is  broken. 
Father*  And  kneeling,  sir ; 

As  his  ambition  were  in  death  to  show 

The  truth  of  his  obedience. 


THE  MAID'S  KEYENGKE :  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  JAMES  SHIRLEY2. 

SEBASTIANO  invites  ANTONIO  to  Avero  Castle. 

SEBASTIANO.    ANTONIO. 
Seb.  The  noble  courtesies  I  have  received 

At  Lisbon,  worthy  friend,  so  much  engage  me, 
That  I  must  die  indebted  to  your  worth, 

1  Chabot' s  accuser, 

2  Shirley  claims  a  place  amongst  the  worthies  of  this  period,  not  eo 
much  for  any  transcendent  genius  in  himself,  as  that  he  was  the  last  of  a 
great  race,  all  of  whom  spoke  nearly  the  same  language,  and  had  a  set  of 
moral  feelings  and  notions  in  common.    A  new  language  and  quite  a  new 
turn  of  tragic  and  comic  interest  came  in  with  the  Restoration. 

2c2 


388  ...    JAMES  SHIELET. 

Unless  you  mean  to  accept  what  I  have  studied, 
Although  but  partly,  to  discharge  the  sum 
Due  to  your  honour' d  love, 

Ant.  How  now,  Sebastiano,  will  you  forfeit 

The  name  of  friend,  then  ?  I  did  hope  our  love 
Had  out-grown  compliment. 

Stib.  I  spake  my  thoughts ; 

My  tongue  and  heart  are  relatives ;  I 'think 

I  have  deserved  no  base  opinion  from  you ; 

I  wish  not  only  to  perpetuate 

Our  friendship,  but  to  exchange  that  common  name 

Of  friend  for— 

Ant.  What  ?  take  heed,  do  not  profane : 

"Wouldst  thou  be  more  than  friend  ?  it  is  a  namer 
Virtue  can  only  answer  to  i  couldst  thou 
Unite  into  .one  all  goodness  whatsoe'er 
Mortality  can  boast  of,  thou  shalt  find 
The  circle  narrow-bounded  to  contain 
This  swelling  treasure ;  every  good  admits 
Degrees,  but  this  being  so  good,  it  cannot : 
Eor  he  is  no  friend  is  not  superlative. 
Indulgent  parents,  brethren,  kindred,  tied 
By  the  natural  flow  of  blood,  alliances, 
And  what  you  can  imagine,  is  too  light 
To  weigh  with  name  of  friend :  they  execute 
At  best  but  what  a  nature  prompts  them  to ; 
Are  often  less  than  friends,  when  they  remain 
Our  kinsmen  still :  but  friend  is  never  lost. 

Seb.  Nay  then,  Antonio,  you  mistake  ;  I  mean  not 
To  leave  off  friend,  which,  with  another  title, 
"Would  not  be  lost.     Come  then,  I  '11  tell  you,  sir ; 
I  would  be  friend  and  brother :  thus  our  friendship 
Shall,  like  a  diamond  set  in  gold,  not  lose 
His  sparkling,  but  show  fairer :  I  have  a  pair 
Of  sisters,  which  I  would  commend,  but  that 
I  might  seem  partial,  their  birth  and  fortunes 
Deserving  noble  love ;  if  thou  berst  free 
From  other  fair  engagement,  I  would  be  proud 
To  speak  them  worthy :  come,  shalt  go  and  see  thorn. 
I  would  not  beg  them  suitors ;  fame  hath  spread 
Througli  Portugal  their  persons,  and  drawn  to  Avero 
Many  affectionate  gallants. 


THE  MAID'S  REVENGE.  389 

Ant.  Catalina  and  Berinthia. 

Seb.  The  same. 

Ant.  Eeport  speaks  loud  their  beauties,  and  no  less 
Virtue  in  either.     Well,  I  see  you  strive 
To  leave  no  merit  where  you  mean  to  honour. 
I  cannot  otherwise  escape  the  censure 
Of  one  ungrateful,  but  by  waiting  on  you 
Home  to  Avero. 

Seb.  You  shall  honour  me, 

And  glad  my  noble  father,  to  whom  you  are 
No  stranger ;  your  own  worth  before  hath  been 
Sufficient  preparation. 

Ant.  Ha! 

.  I  have  not  so  much  choice,  Sebastiano  : 
But  if  one  sister  of  Antonio's 
May  have  a  commendation  to  your  thoughts, 
(I  will  not  spend  much  art  in  praising  her, 
Her  virtue  speak  itself)  I  shall  be  happy ; 
And  be  confirm'd  your  brother,  though  I  miss 
Acceptance  at  Avero. 

Seb.  Still  you  outdo  me.     I  could  never  wish 
My  service  better  placed.     At  opportunity 
I  '11  visit  you  at  Elvas ;  in  the  mean  time 
Let 's  haste  to  Avero,' where  with  you  I  '11  briog 
My  double  welcome,  and  not  fail  to  second 
Any  design. 

Ant.  You  shall  teach  me  a  lesson 

Against  we  meet  at  Elvas  castle,  sir. 

SEBASTiANo'sjfa/Aer  welcomes  ANTONIO  to  Avero  Castle. 

VILLABEZO.     CATALINA.     BEBINTHIA.     SEBASTIANO. 

ANTONIO. 

Vil.  Old  Graspar's  house  is  honour'd  by  such  guests. 
Now,  by  the  tomb  of  my  progenitors, 
I  envied  that  your  fame  should  visit  me 
So  oft  without  your  person.     Sebastiano 
Hath  been  long  happy  in  your  noble  friendship, 
And  cannot  but  improve  himself  in  virtues, 
That  lives  so  near  your  love. — You  shall  dishonour  me, 
Unless  you  think  yourself  as  welcome  here 
As  at  your  Elvas  castle.     Villarezo 
Was  once  as  you  are,  sprightly ;  and  though  I  say  it, 
Maintain' d  my  father's  reputation, 


390  JAMES  SHIBLEY, 

And  honour  of  our  house,  with  actions 
"Worthy  our  name  and  family :  but  now 
Time  hath  let  fall  cold  snow  upon  my  hairs, 
Plough' d  on  my  brows  the  furrows  of  his  anger, 
Disfurnisb'd  me  of  active  blood,  and  wrapp'd  me 
Half  in  my  cerecloth,  yet  I  have  a  mind 
That  bids  me  honour  virtue,  where  I  see  it 
Bud  forth  and  spring  so  hopefully, 

Ant.  You  speak  nil  nobleness,  and  encourage  me 
To  spend  the  greenness  of  my  rising  years 
So  to  the  advantage,  that  at  last  I  may 
Be  old  like  you. 

Vil.  Daughters,  speak  his  welcome. 

ANTONIO  loves  and  is  beloved  fiy  BEBI.N  THIA,  fhe  younger  sister.  CATA- 
MNA  the  elder  is  jealous,  amd  plots  to  take  off  Tier  sister  by  poison. 
ANTONIO  rescues  BEBiNTHiA/row  the  vindictive  jealousy  of  her  sister, 
and  carries  her  off  to  lElvas  Castle ;  where  his  sister  CASTABELLA  and 
his  cousin  YILLANDRAS  welcome  her. 

ANTONIO.    BEBINTHIA.     CASTABELEA.    VILEANDBAS. 

SFOBZA,  a  domestic. 
Ant.  The  welcomest  guest  that  ever  Elvas  had. 

Sister — Yillandras — you  are  not  sensible 

What  treasure  you  possess.     I  have  no  loves, 

I  would  not  here  divide. 
Cast.  Indeed,  madam, 

You  are  as  welcome  here  as  e'er  my  mother  was. 
Vill.  And  you  are  here  as  safe, 

As  if  you  had  an  army  for  your  guard. 

Nor  think  my  noble  cousin  meaneth  you 

Any  dishonour  here. 
Ant.  Dishonour !  'tis  a  language 

I  never  understood  yet.     Throw  off  your  fears, 

Berinthia,  you  are  in  the  power  of  him, 

That  dares-  not  think  the  least  dishonour  to  you. — 

Come,  be  not  sad. 

Cast.  Put  on  fresh  blood ;  you  are  not  cheerful ;  how  do  you  ? 
Ber.  I  know  not  how,  nor  what  to  answer  you  j 

Your  loves  I  cannot  be  ungrateful  to ; 

You  are  my  best  friends  I  think,  but  yet  I  know  not 

"With  what  consent  you  brought  my  body  hither. 
Ant.  Can  you  be  ignorant  what  plot  was  laid 

To  take  your  fair  life  from  you  ? 


THE  MAID'S  BEYENQE.  301 

Tier.  If  all  be  not  a  dream,  I  do  remember 

Your  servant  Diego  told  me  wonders,  and 

I  owe  you  for  my  preservation,  but — 
Cast.  It  is  your  happiness  you  have  escaped 

The  malice  of  your  sister.' 
Vill.  And  it  is  worth 

A  noble  gratitude  to  have  been  quit 

By  such  an  honou-rer  as  Antonio  is 

Of  fair  Berinthia. 

Her.  0,  but  my  father ;  under  whose  displeasure  I  ever  sink ! 
Ant.  You  are  secure — 
Eer.  As  the  poor  deer,  that  being  pursued,  for  safety 

Gets  up  a  rock  that  overhangs  the  sea, 

Where  all  that  she  can  see  is  her  destruction ; 

Before  the  waves,  behind  her  enemies, 

Promise  her  certain  ruin. 
Ant.  Feign  not  yourself  so  hapless,  my  Berinthia. 

Eaise  your  dejected  thoughts ;  be  merry,  come ; 

Think  I  am  your  Antonio. 
Cast.  'Tis  not  wisdom 

To  let  our  passed  fortunes  trouble  us ; 

Since,  were  they  bad,  the  memory  is  sweet 

That  we  have  pass'd  them.     Look  before  you,  lady ; 

The  future  most  concerneth. 

DIEGO,  a  domestic,  enters,  and  announces  that  SEBASTIANO  is  at  the  gate. 
Ant.  Your  brother,  lady,  and  my  honour 'd  friend. 

Why  do  the  gates  not  spread  themselves  to  open 

At  his  arrival  ?  Sforza,  'tis  Berinthia's  brother ; 

Sebastiano,  the  example  of  all  worth 

And  friendship,  is  come  after  his  sweet  sister. 
£er.  Alas,  I  fear. 
Ant.  Be  not  such  a  coward,  lady,  he  cannot  come 

Without  all  goodness  waiting  on  him.     Sforza, 

Sforza,  I  say,  what  precious  time  we  lose ! 

Sebastiano — I  almost  lose  myself 

In  joy  to  meet  him.     Break  the  iron  bars, 

And  give  him  entrance. — Sebastiano  's  come 

Ber.  Sent  by  my  father  to 

Ant.  What  ?  to  see  thee.     He  shall  see  thee  here, 

Respected  like  thyself,  Berinthia, 

Attended  with  Antonio,  begirt 

With  armies  of  thy  servants. 


302  JAMES  SHIELET. 

SEBASTIANO  enters,  with  COUNT  DE  MONTE  NIGEO,  his  friend. 

Ant.  O,  my  friend. 

Seb.  'Tis  yet  in  question,  sir,  and  will  not  be 
So  easily  proved. 

Ant.  What  face  have  you  put  on  ?  am  I  awake, 
Or  do  I  dream  Sebastiano  frowns  ? 

Seb.  Antonio,  (for  here  I  throw  off  all 

The  ties  of  love)  I  come  to  fetch  a  sister 

Dishonourably  taken  from  her  father ; 

Or  with  my  sword  to  force  thee  render  her : 

Now  if  thou  be'st  a  soldier,  redeliver, 

Or  "keep  her  with  the  danger  of  thy  person. 

Ant.  Promise  me  the  hearing, 

And  shalt  have  any  satisfaction, 

Becomes  my  fame. 

"Were  it  in  your  power,  would  you  not  account  it 

A  precious  victory,  in  your  sister's  cause, 

To  die  your  sword  with  any  blood  of  him, 

Saved  both  her  life  and  honour  ? 

Seb.  Why,  would  you  have  me  think 

My  sister  owes  to  you  such  preservation  ? 

Ant.  O  Sebastiano! 

Thou  dost  not  think  what  devil  lies  at  home 

Within  a  sister's  bosom.     Catalina 

(I  know  not  with  what  worst  of  envy)  laid 

Force  to  this  goodly  building,  and  through  poison 

Had  robb'd  the' earth  of  more  than  all  the  world, 

Her  virtue. 

Valasco  was  the  man  appointed  by 

That  goodly  sister  to  steal  Berinthia, 

And  lord  himself  of  this  possession, 

Just  at  that  time ;  but  hear,  and  tremble  at  it, 

She  by  a  cunning  poison  should  have  breathed 

Her  soul  into  his  arms  within  two  hours, 

And  so  Yalasco  should  have  borne  the  shame 

Of  theft  and  murder. 

Seb.  You  amaze  me,  sir. 

Ant.  'Tis  true,  by  honour's  self:  hear  it  confinn'd; 

And  when  you  will ;  I  am  ready. 
Seb.  I  cannot  but  believe  it.     O  Berinthia, 

I  am  wounded  ere  I  fight. 
Ant.  Holds  your  resolve  yet  constant  ?  if  you  have 


THE  MAID'S  BEYENaE.  393 

Better  opinion  of  your  sword,  than  truth, 

I  am  bound  to  answer :  but  I  would  I  had 

Such  an  advantage  'gainst  another  man, 

As  the  justice  of  my  cause :  all  valour  fights 

But  with  a  sail  against  it. 
Seb.  But  will  you  back  with  me  then  ? 
Her.  Excuse  me,  brother ;  I  shall  fall  too  soon 

Upon  my  sister's  malice,  whose  foul  g;uilt 

Will  make  me  expect  more  certain  ruin. 
Ant.  Now  Sebastiano 

Puts  on  his  judgment,  and  assumes  his  nobleness 

Whilst  he  loves  equity. 
Seb.  And  shall  I  carry  shame 

To  Yillarezo's  house,  neglect  of  father, 

Whose  precepts  bind  me  to  return  with  her, 

Or  leave  my  life  at  Elvas  ?     I  must  on. 

I  have  heard  you  to  no  purpose.     Shall  Berinthia 

Back  to  Avero  ? 
Ant.  Sir,  she  must  not  yet ; 

'Tis  dangerous. 
Seb.  Choose  thee  a  second  then :  this  count  and  I 

Mean  to  leave  honour  here. 
Till.  Honour  me,  sir. 
Ant.  'Tis  done.     Sebastiano  shall  report 

Antonio  just :  and,  noble  Sforza,  swear 

Upon  my  sword  (O,  do  not  hinder  me), 

If  victory  crown  Sebastiano' s  arm, 

I  charge  thee  by  thy  honesty  restore 

This  lady  to  him ;  on  whose  lip  I  seal 

My  unstain'd  faith. 

ANTONIO  falls  in  a  duel  by  the  sword  of  SEBASTIANO.  SEBASTIANO  is 
disconsolate  for  having  killed  his  friend.  In  his  penitence,  he  is  visited 
by  ANTONIO'S  sister,  CASTABELLA,  disguised  as  a  Page. 

CASTABELLA.     SEBASTIANO. 

Cast.  He  that  hath  sent  you,  sir,  this  gift,  did  love  you ; 
You  '11  say  yourself  he  did. 

Seb.  Ha,  name  him  prithee. 

Cast.  The  friend  I  came  from  was  Antonio. 

&eb.  Who  hath  sent  thee 

To  tempt  Sebastiano' s  soul  to  act  on  thee 
Another  death,  for  thus  affrighting  me  ? 

Cast.  Indeed  I  do  not  mock,  nor  come  to  affright  you; 


394  JAMES  SHIBLEY. 

Heaven  knows  my  heart.     I  know  Antonio 's  dead. 
But  'twas  a  gift  he  in  his  life  design' d 
To  you,  and  I  have  brought  it. 

Set.  Thou  dost  not  promise  cozenage :  what  gift  is  it  ? 

Cast.  It  is  myself,  sir ;  whilst  Antonio  lived, 
I  was  his  boy ;  but  never  did  boy  lose 
So  kind  a  master ;  in  his  life  he  promised 
He  would  bestow  me  (so  much  was  his  love 
To  my  poor  merit)  on  his  dearest  friend, 
And  named  you,  sir,  if  Heaven  should  point  out 
To  over-live  him,  for  he  knew  you  would 
Love  me  the  better  for  his  sake :  indeed 
I  will  be  very  honest  to  you,  and 
Refuse  no  service  to  procure  your  love 
And  good  opinion  to  me. 

Seb.  Can  it  be 

Thou  wert  his  boy  ?     0,  thou  shouldst  hate  me  then. 

Thou  art  false,  I  dare  not  trust  thee ;  unto  him 

Thou  show'st  thee  now  unfaithful,  to  accept 

Of  me :  I  kill'd  thy  master.     'Twas  a  friend 

He  could  commit  thee  to ;  I  only  was, 

Of  all  the  stock  of  men,  his  enemy, 

His  cruellest  enemy. 

Cast.  Indeed  I  am  sure  it  was ;  he  spoke  all  truth ; 
And,  had  he  lived  to  have  made  his  will,  I  know 
He  had  bequeathed  me  as  a  legacy, 
To  be  your  boy ;  alas,  I  am  willing,  sir, 
To  obey  him  in  it :  had  he  laid  on  me 
Command,  to  have  mingled  with  his  sacred  dust 
My  unprofitable  blood,  it  should  have  been 
A  most  glad  sacrifice,  and  it  had  been  honour 
To  have  done  him  such  a  duty :  sir,  I  know 
You  did  not  kill  him  with  a  heart  of  malice, 
But  in  contention  with  your  very  soul 
To  part  with  him. 

Seb.  All  is  as  true 

As  oracle  by  Heaven ;  dost  thou  believe  so  ? 

Cast.  Indeed  I  ao. 

Seb.  Yet  be  not  rash ; 

'Tis  no  advantage  to  belong  to  me : 

I  have  no  power  nor  greatness  in  the  court 

To  raise  thee  to  a  fortune  worthy  of 


THE  MAID'S  KEVEFGKE.  395 

So  nmcli  observance,  as  I  shall  expect 

When  thou  art  mine. 
Cast.  All  the  ambition  of  my  thoughts  shall  be 

To  do  my  duty,  sir. 
Seb.  Besides,  I  shall  afflict  thy  tenderness 

"With  solitude  and  passion :  for  I  am 

Only  in  love  with  sorrow,  never  merry, 

"Wear  out  the  day  in  telling  of  sad  tales, 

Delight  in  sighs  and  tears ;  sometimes  I  walk 

To  a  wood  or  river,  purposely  to  challenge 

The  boldest  echo  to  send  back  my  groans 

In  the  height  I  break  them.    Come,  I  shall  undo  thee. 
Cast.  Sir,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  bear  part 

In  any  of  your  sorrows ;  I  ne'er  had 

So  hard  a  heart  but  I  could  shed  a  tear 

To  bear  my  master  company. 
Seb.  I  will  not  leave  thee,  if  thou  wilt  dwell  with  me, 

For  wealth  of  Indies :  be  my  loved  boy ; 

Come  in  with  me ;  thus  I  '11  begin  to  do 

Some  recompense  for  dead  Antonio. 

BEEINTHIA  kills  her  brother  SEBASTIANO  sleeping. 

CASTABELLA.     SEBASTIANO. 
Cast.  Sir,  if  the  opportunity  I  use 

To  comfort  you  be  held  a  fault,  and  that 

I  keep  not  distance  of  a  servant,  lay  it 

Upon  my  love ;  indeed,  if  it  be  an  error, 

It  springs  out  of  my  duty. 
Seb.  Prithee,  boy,  be  patient. 

The  more  I  strive  to  throw  off  the  remembrance 

Of  dead  Antonio,  love  still  rubs  the  wounds 

To  make  them  bleed  afresh. 
Cast.  Alas,  they  are  past ; 

Bind  up  your  own  for  honour's  sake,  and  show 

Love  to  yourself;  pray  do  not  lose  your  reason, 

To  make  your  grief  so  fruitless.     I  have  procured 
x  Some  music,  sir,  to  quiet  those  sad  thoughts 

That  make  such  war  within  you. 
Seb.  Alas,  good  boy,  it  will  but  add  more  weight 

Of  dullness  on  me :  I  am  stung  with  worse 

Than  the  tarantula,  to  be  cured  with  music ; 

It  has  the  exactest  unity,  but  it  cannot 

Accord  my  thoughts. 


396 


JAMES  SHIELET. 


Cast.  Sir,  this  your  couch 

Seems  to  invite  some  small  repose : 

O,  I  beseech  you  taste  it.     I  will  beg 

A  little  leave  to  sing.  [She  sings. 

BEBINTHIA  enters  softly. 
Cast.  Sweet  sleep  charm  his  sad  senses  ; 

And  gentle  thoughts,  let  fall 

Tour  flowing  numbers  here ;  and  round  about 

Hover  celestial  angels  with  your  wings, 

That  none  offend  his  quiet.     Sleep  begins 

To  cast  his  nets  o'er  me  too ;  I  '11  obey, 

And  dream  on  him  that  dreams  not  what  I  am.       [Sh0 

lies  down  by  him. 
Her.  Nature  doth  wrestle  with  me,  but  revenge 

Doth  arm  my  love  against  it ;  justice  is 

Above  all  tie  of  blood.     Sebastiano, 

Thou  art  the  first  shall  tell  Antonio's  ghost, 

How  much  I  loved  him.     [She  stabs  him  upon  Us  couch. 
Seb.  (waking.)  0,  stay  thy  hand,  Berinthia !  no : 

Thou  hast  done 't.  I  wish  thee  Heaven's  forgiveness.  I 

Tarry  to  hear  thy  reasons ;  at  many  doors          [cannot 

My  life  runs  out,  and  yet  Berinthia 

Doth  in  her  name  give  me  more  wounds  than  these. 

Antonio,  0,  Antonio !  we  shall  now 

Be  friends  again.  [Dies. 

THE  POLITICIAN :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  JAMES  'SHIELEY. 

MAEPISA  widow  of  COUNT  ALTOMAETJS  is  advanced  to  be  Queen  to  the 
KINO-  OP  NOBWAY,  by  the  practices  of  her  paramour  G-OTHABUS.  She 
has  by  her  first  husband  a  young  son  HABALDUS  ;  to  secure  whose  suc 
cession  to  the  crown  by  the  aid  of  GOTHAEUS  (in  prejudice  of  the  Icing's 
son,  the  lawful  heir,}  she  tells  GOTHAEUS  that  the  child  is  his.  He  be 
lieves  her,  and  tells  HAEALDUS  ;  who  taking  to  heart  his  mother's  dis 
honour,  and  his  own  -stain  of  bastardy,  falls  into  a  mortal  sickness. 

QUEEN.    HABALDTJS. 
Queen.  How  is  it  with  my  child  ? 
Har.  I  know  you  love  me : 

Yet  I  must  tell  you  truth,  I  cannot  live. 

And  let  this  comfort  you,  death  will  not  come 

Unwelcome  to  your  son.     I  do  not  die 

Against  my  will ;  and  having  my  desires, 

You  have  less  cause  to  mourn. 


THE  POLITICIAN.  397 

Queen.  What  is  it  hath  made 

The  thought  of  life  unpleasant  ?  which  does  court 

Thy  dwelling  here,  with  all  delights  that  nature 

And  art  can  study  for  thee,  rich  in  all  things 

Thy  wish  can  be  ambitious  of,  yet  all 

These  treasures  nothing  to  thy  mother's  love, 

"Which  to  enjoy  thee  would  defer  awhile 

Her  thought  of  going  to  heaven. 
Har.  O,  take  heed,  mother. 

Heaven  hath  a  spacious  ear,  and  power  to  punish 

Your  too  much  love  with  my  eternal  absence. 

I  beg  your  prayers  and  blessing. 
Queen.  Thou  art  dejected. 

Have  but  a  will,  and  live. 
Har.  'Tis  in  vain,  mother. 
Queen.  Sink  with  a  fever  into  earth  ! 

Look  up,  thou  shalt  not  die. 
Har.  I  have  a  wound  within, 

You  do  not  see,  more  killing  than  all  fevers. 
Queen.  A  wound  ?  where  ?  who  has  murder 'd  thee  ? 
Har.  Grotharus — 
Queen.  Ha !  Furies  persecute  him ! 
Har.  O,  pray  for  him : 

It  is  my  duty,  though  he  gave  me  death. 

He  is  my  father. 
Queen.  How,  thy  father  ? 
Har.  He  told  me  so,  and  with  that  breath  destroy 'd  me. 

I  felt  it  strike  upon  my  spirits,  mother : 

"Would  I  had  ne'er  been  born ! 
Queen.  Believe  him  not. 
Har.  O,  do  not  add  another  sin  to  what 

Is  done  already ;  death  is  charitable, 

To  quit  me  from  the  scorn  of  all  the  world. 
Queen.  By  all  my  hopes,  Grotharus  has  abused  thee. 

Thou  art  the  lawful  burthen  of  my  womb  ; 

Thy  father  Altomarus. 
Har.  Ha! 
Queen.  Before  whose  spirit  (long  since  taken  up 

To  meet  with  saints  and  troops  angelical) 

I  dare  again  repeat,  thou  art  his  son. 
liar.  Ten  thousand  blessings  now  reward  my  mother  I 


398  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Speak  it  again,  and  I  may  live :  a  stream 
Of  pious  joy  runs  through  me ;  to  my  soul 
Tou  have  struck  a  harmony,  next  that  in  heaven. 
Can  you  without  a  blush  call  me  your  child, 
And  son  of  Altomarus  ?  all  that 's  holy 
Dwell  in  your  blood  for  ever :  speak  it  once, 
But  once  again. 

Queen.  Were  it  my  latest  breath, 
Thou  art  his  and  mine. 

liar.  Enough ;  my  tears  do  flow 

To  give  you  thanks  for  it :  I  would  you  could  resolve  me 
But  one  truth  more ;  why  did  my  lord  Gothams 
Call  me  the  issue  of  his  blood  ? 

Queen.  Alas, 

He  thinks  thou  art. 

Har.  What  are  those  words  ?  I  am 
Undone  again. 

Queen.  Ha! 

Har.  'Tis  too  late 

To  call  them  back.     He  thinks  I  am  his  son. 

Queen.  I  have  confess' d  too  much,  and  tremble  with 
The  imagination.     Forgive  me,  child, 
And  Heaven,  if  there  be  mercy  to  a  crime 
So  black,  as  I  must  now,  to  quit  thy  fears, 
Say  I  have  been  guilty  of:  we  have  been  sinful, 
And  I  was  not  unwilling  to  oblige 
His  active  brain  for  thy  advancement,  by 
Abusing  his  belief  thou  wert  his  own. 
But  thou  hast  no  such  stain;  thy  birth  is  innocent, 
Or  may  I  perish  ever :  'tis  a  strange 
Confession  to  a  child,  but  it  may  drop 
A  balsam  to  thy  wound.     Live,  my  Haraldus, 
If  not,  for  this,  to  see  my  penitence, 
And  with  what  tears  I  '11  wash  away  my  sin. 

Har.  I  am  no  bastard  then  ? 

Queen.  Thou  art  not. 

Har.  But 

I  am  not  found,  while  you  are  lost.    No  time 
Can  restore  yon.     My  spirits  faint. 

Queen.  Will  nothing  comfort  thee  ? 

Har.  Give  me  your  blessing ;  and,  within  my  heart, 


THE  BEOTHEES.  399 

I  '11  pray  you  may  have  many.     My  soul  flies 
Above  this  vain  world :  good  mother,  close  mine  eyes. 
Queen.  Never  died  so  much  sweetness  in  his  years1. 


THE  BROTHERS :  A  COMEDY,  BY  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

DON  RAMIBES  leaves  his  son  FEENANDO  with  a  heavy  curse,  and  a  threat 
of  disinheriting,  if  he  do  not  renounce  FELISAEDA,  the  poor  niece  of 
DON  CAELOS,  whom  he  courts,  when  by  his  father's  command  he  should 
address  JACINTA  the  daughter  and  rich  heiress  of  CAELOS,  his  younger 
brother  FEAN Cisco's  Mistress. 

FEENANDO.    FEANCISCO. 

Fer.  Why  does  not  all  the  stock  of  thunder  fall  ? 

Or  the  fierce  winds,  from  their  close  caves  let  loose, 
Now  shake  me  into  atoms  ? 

Fran.  Pie,  noble  brother,  what  can  so  deject 

Your  masculine  thoughts  ?  is  this  done  like  Fernando, 
"Whose  resolute  soul  so  late  was  arm'd  to  fight 
"With  all  the  miseries  of  man,  and  triumph 
With  patience  of  a  martyr  ?   I  observed 
My  father  late  come  from  you. 

Fer.  Yes,  Francisco : 

He  hath  left  his  curse  upon  me. 

Fran.  How? 

Fer.  His  curse :  dost  comprehend  what  that  word  carries, 
Shot  from  a  father's  angry  breath  ?  unless 
I  tear  poor  Felisarda  from  my  heart, 
He  hath  pronounced  me  heir  to  all  his  curses. 
Does  this  fright  thee,  Francisco  ?  Thou  hast  cause 
To  dance  in  soul  for  this :  'tis  only  I 
Must  lose,  and  mourn ;  thou  shalt  have  all ;  I  am 
Degraded  from  my  birth,  while  he  affects 
Thy  forward  youth,  and  only  calls  thee  son, 
Son  of  his  active  spirit,  and  applauds 
Thy  progress  with  Jacinta,  in  whose  smiles 
Thou  mayst  see  all  thy  wishes  waiting  for  thee ; 
Whilst  poor  Fernando  for  her  sake  must  stand 
An  excommunicate  from  every  blessing, 
A  thing  that  dare  not  give  myself  a  name, 

1  MamiUus  in  the  Winter's  Tale  in  this  manner  droops  and  dies  from 
a  conceit  of  his  mother's  dishonour. 


400  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

But  flung  into  the  world's  necessities, 
Until  in  time,  with  wonder  of  my  wants, 
I  turn  a  ragged  statue,  on  whose  forehead 
Each  clown  may  carve  his  motto. 

DON  EAMIEES  is  seized  with  a  mortal  sickness,  but  forbids  FERNANDO  to 
approach  his  chamber  till  he  shall  send  for  him,  on  pain  of  his  dying 
curse. 

FEBFANDO. 

Fer.  This  turn  is  fatal,  and  affrights  me ;  but 
Heaven  has  more  charity  than  to  let  him  die 
With  such  a  hard  heart ;  'twere  a  sin,  next  his 
"Want  of  compassion,  to  suspect  he  can 
Take  his  eternal  flight,  and  leave  Fernando 
This  desperate  legacy ;  he  will  change  the  curse 

Into  some  little  prayer,  I  hope ;  and  then 

Enter  Servant  and  Physician. 

Ser.  Make  haste,  I  beseech  you,  doctor. 

Phy.  Noble  Fernando. 

Fer.  As  you  would  have  men  think  your  art  is  meant 
Not  to  abuse  mankind,  employ  it  all 
To  cure  my  poor  sick  father. 

P%.  Fear  it  not,  sir.  [Exeunt  Physician  and  Servant. 

Fer.  But  there  is  more  than  your  thin  skill  required, 
To  state  a  health ;  your  recipes,  perplex' d 
With  tough  names,  are  but  mockeries  and  noise, 
Without  some  dew  from  heaven,  to  mix  and  make  them 
Thrive  in  the  application :  what  now  ? 
Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  O  sir,  I  am  sent  for  the  confessor ; 

The  doctor  fears  him  much ;  your  brother  says 

You  must  have  patience,  and  not  enter,  sir ; 

Tour  father  is  a-going,  good  old  man, 

And,  having  made  him  heir,  he  's  loath  your  presence 

Should  interrupt  his  journey.  [Exit* 

Fer.  Francisco  may  be  honest,  yet  methinks 
It  would  become  his  love  to  interpose 
For  my  access,  at  such  a  needful  hour, 
And  mediate  for  my  blessing ;  not  assist 
Unkindly  thus  my  banishment.     I  '11  not 
Be  lost  so  tamely.     Shall  my  father  die, 

And  not  Fernando  take  his  leave  ? 1  dare  not. 

"  If  thou  dost  hope  I  should  take  off  this  curse, 


THE  BROTHERS.  401 

Do  not  approach  until  I  send :"  'twas  so ; 
And  'tis  a  law  that  binds  above  my  blood. 

Enter  Confessor  and  Servant. 
Make  haste,  good  father,  and  if  Heaven  deny 
Him  life,  let  not  his  charity  die  too : 
One  curse  may  sink  us  both.     Say  how  I  kneel, 
And  beg  he  would  bequeathe  me  but  his  blessing. 
Then,  though  Francisco  be  his  heir,  I  shall 
Live  happy,  and  take  comfort  in  my  tears, 
When  I  remember  him  so  kind  a  father. 
Conf.  It  is  your  duty.  [Exit. 

Fer.  Do  thy  holy  office. 

Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 

Our  human  nature,  and  did  boast  we  had 

Such  a  prerogative  in  our  rational  soul, 

Conversed  but  little  with  the  world,  confined 

To  cells,  and  unfrequented  woods,  they  knew  not 

The  fierce  vexation  of  community ; 

Else  they  had  taught,  our  reason  is  our  loss, 

And  but  a  privilege  that  exceedeth  sense 

By  nearer  apprehension  of  what  wounds, 

To  know  ourselves  most  miserable.     My  heart 

Enter  Physician  and  ERANCISCO. 
Is  teeming  with  new  fears. — Ha !  is  he  dead  ? 
.  N  ot  dead,  but  in  a  desperate  condition ; 
And  so  that  little  breath  remains  we  have 
Eemitted  to  this  confessor,  whose  office 
Is  all  that 's  left. 
Fer.  Is  he  not  merciful  to  Fernando  yet  ? 

No  talk  of  me  ? 
P%.  I  find  he  takes  no  pleasure 

To  hear  you  named :  Francisco  to  us  all 
He  did  confirm  his  heir,  with  many  blessings. 
Fer,  And  not  left  one  for  me  ?    0  take  me  in, 

Thou  gentle  earth,  and  let  me  creep  through  all 
Thy  dark  and  hollow  crannies,  till  I  find 
Another  way  to  come  into  the  world ; 
For  all  the  air  I  breathe  in  here  is  poison' d. 
Fran.  "We  must  have  patience,  brother,  it  was  no 
Ambitious  thought  of  mine  to  supplant  you ; 
He  may  live  yet,  and  you  be  reconciled. 
Fer.  That  was  some  kindness  yet,  Francisco :  but 


402  JAMES  SHIELET. 

I  charge  thee  by  the  nearness  of  our  "blood, 
When  I  am  made  this  mockery  and  wonder, 
I  know  not  where  to  find  out  charity, 
If  unawares  a  chance  direct  my  weary 
And  wither 'd  feet  to  some  fair  house  of  thine, 
"Where  plenty  with  full  blessings  crowns  thy  table, 
If  my  thin  face  betray  my  want  of  food, 
Do  not  despise  me,  'cause  I  was  thy  brother. 
Enter  Confessor. 

Fran.  Leave  these  imagined  horror^ ;  I  must  not 
Live  when  my  brother  is  thus  miserable. 

Fer.  There 's  something  in  that  face  looks  comfortably. 

Conf.  Tour  father,  sir,  is  dead.     His  will  to  make 
Francisco  the  sole  master  of  his  fortunes 
Is  now  irrevocable :  a  small  pension 
He  hath  given  you  for  life,  which,  with  his  blessing, 
Is  all  the  benefit  I  bring. 

Fer.  Ha !  blessing !  speak  it  again,  good  father. 

Conf.  I  did  apply  some  lenitives  to  soften 

His  anger,  and  prevail' d ;  your  father  hath 

Reversed  that  heavy  censure  of  his  curse, 

And  in  the  place  bequeathed  his  prayer  and  blessing. 

Fer.  I  am  new-created  by  his  charity. 

Conf.  Some  ceremonies  are  behind :  he  did 
Desire  to  be  interr'd  within  our  convent, 
And  left  his  sepulture  to  me ;  I  am  confident, 
Your  pieties  will  give  me  leave 

Fran.  His  will  in  all  things  I  obey,  and  yours, 
Most  reverend  father :  order  as  you  please 
His  body ;  we  may  after  celebrate 
"With  all  due  obsequies  his  funeral. 

Fer.  "Why  you  alone  obey  ?  I  am  your  brother : 
My  father's  eldest  son,  though  not  his  heir. 

Fran.  It  pleased  my  father,  sir,  to  think  me  worthy 
Of  such  a  title ;  you  shall  find  me  kind, 
If  you  can  look  on  matters  without  envy. 

Fer.  If  I  can  look  on  matters  without  envy ! 

Fran.  You  may  live  here  still. 

Fer.  I  may  live  here,  Francisco ! 

Enter  a  Gentleman  with  a  letter. 
Conditions !  I  would  not  understand 
This  dialect. 


THE  BEOTHEES.  403 

Fran.  "With  me,  from  madam ? 

Gent.  If  you  be  signer  Francisco. 
Fer.  Slighted!— 

I  find  my  father  was  not  dead  till  now. 

Crowd  not,  you  jealous  thoughts,  so  thick  into 

My  brain,  lest  you  do  tempt  me  to  an  act, 

Will  forfeit  all  again. 

FEENANDO  tells  FELISABDA  that  his  father  is  dead. 
Fer.  I  have  a  story  to  deliver ; 

A  tale,  will  make  thee  sad :  but  I  must  tell  it. 

There  is  one  dead,  that  loved  thee  not. 
Fel  One  dead, 

That  loved  not  me  ?  this  carries,  sir,  in  nature 

No  killing  sound1 :  I  shall  be  sad  to  know 

I  did  deserve  an  enemy  or  he  want 

A  charity  at  death. 
Fer.  Thy  cruel  enemy, 

And  my  best  friend,  hath  took  eternal  leave, 

And 's  gone,  to  heaven,  I  hope :  excuse  my  tears ; 

It  is  a  tribute  I  must  pay  his  memory ; 

For  I  did  love  my  father. 
Fel.  Ha!  your  father! 
Fer.  Yes,  Felisarda,  he  is  gone,  that  in 

The  morning  promised  many  years,  but  death 

Hath  in  a  few  hours  made  him  as  stiff,  as  all 

The  winds  and  winter  had  thrown  cold  upon  him, 

And  whisper 'd  him  to  marble. 

FRANCISCO  offers  to  restore  FEBKODO  hi?  birthright.   FEENANDO  dares 
not  take  it. 

FEANCISCO.    FEEKANDO.    DON  CAELOS. 

Fran.  What  demands 
Fernando  ? 

Fer.  My  inheritance,  wrought  from  me 

By  thy  sly  creeping  to  supplant  my  birth, 

Aid  cheat  our  father's  easy  soul,  unworthily 

Betraying  to  his  anger,  for  thy  lust 

Of  wealth,  the  love  and  promise  of  two  hearts. 

Poor  Felisarda  and  Fernando  now 

Wither  at  soul,  and  robb'd  by  thee  of  that 

1  Like  the  reply  of  Manoah  in  Samson  Agonistes :    "  Sad,  but  not 
saddest,  the  desolation  of  a  hostile  city." 

2D2 


401  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Should  cherish  virtue,  like  to  rifled  pilgrims 
Met  on  the  way,  and  having  told  their  story, 
And  dropp'd  their  even  tears  for  both  their  loss, 
Wander  from  one  another. 

Fran.  'Tis  not  sure 

Fernando,  but  his  passion  (that  obeys  not 
The  counsel  of  his  reason)  would  accuse  me  : 
And  if  my  father  now,  since  spirits  lose  not 
Intelligence,  but  more  active  when  they  have 
Shook  off  their  chains  of  flesh,)  would  leave  his  dwelling, 
And  visit  this  coarse  orb1  again ;  my  innocence 
Should  dare  the  appeal,  and  make  Fernando  see 
His  empty  accusations. 

Fer.  He  that  thrives 

By  wicked  art,  has  confidence  to  dress 
His  action  with  simplicity  and  shapes, 
To  cheat  our  credulous  natures  :  'tis  my  wonder 
Thou  durst  do  so  much  injury,  Francisco, 
As  must  provoke  my  justice  to  revenge, 
,    Yet  wear  no  sword. 

Fran.  I  need  no  guard ;  I  know 
Thou  darest  not  kill  me. 

Fer.  Dare  I  not  ? 

Fran.  And  name 

Thy  cause :  'tis  thy  suspicion,  not  Francisco, 

Hath  wrought  thee  high  and  passionate.    To  assure  it  j 

If  you  dare  violate,  I  dare  possess  you 

With  all  my  title  to  your  land. 

Car.  How  is  that? 

Fran.  Let  him  receive  it  at  his  peril. 

Fer.  Ha! 

Fran.  It  was  my  father's  act,  not  mine :  he  trembled 
To  hear  his  curse  alive  ;  what  horror  will 
His  conscience  feel,  when  he  shall  spurn  his  dust, 
And  call  the  reverend  shade  from  his  blest  seat 
To  this  bad  world  again,  to  walk  and  fright  him  ! 

Fer.  Can  this  be  more  than  a  dream  ? 

Fran.  (Gives  him  the  will.}  Sir,  you  may  cancel  it. 

But  think  withal, 

How  you  can  answer  him  that 's  dead,  when  he 
Shall  charge  your  timorous  soul  for  this  contempt 
1  Dirty  planet.— Sterne. 


THE  LADY  OF  PLEASUEE.  405 

To  nature  and  religion ;  to  break 

His  last  bequest,  and  breath,  that  seal'd  your  blessings ! 
Car.  These  are  fine  fancies. 
Fer.  (Returns  the  will)  Here ;  and  may  it  prosper, 

Where  my  good  father  meant  it :  I  am  overcome 

Forgive  me,  and  enjoy  it.  [ Is  going. 

His  father  BAMIRES  (supposed  dead)  appears  above,  with  FELigABDA. 
Ham.  Fernando,  stay. 
Fer.  Ha,  my  father  and  Felisarda :  \Kneels. 

Are  they  both  dead  ? — I  did  not  think 

To  find  thee  in  this  pale  society 

Of  ghosts  so  soon. 
Fel.  I  am  alive,  Fernando ; 

And  Don  Ramires  still  thy  living  father. 
Fran.  You  may  believe  it,  sir,  I  was  of  the  council. 
Car.  Men  thought  you  dead. 
Mam.  It  lay  within 

The  knowledge  of  Francisco,  and  some  few, 

By  this  device  to  advance  my  younger  son 

To  a  marriage  with  Jacinta,  sir,  and  try 

Fernando' s  piety,  and  his  mistress'  virtue ; 

Which  I  have  found  worth  him,  and  my  acceptance. 

With  her  I  give  thee  what  thy  birth  did  challenge : 

Receive  thy  Felisarda. 
Fer.  'Tis  a  joy 

So  flowing,  it  drowns  all  my  faculties, 

My  soul  will  not  contain,  I  fear,  but  loose, 

And  leave  me  in  this  ecstasy. 


THE  LADY  OP  PLEASUKE :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  JAMES  SHIELEY. 

SIB  THOMAS  BOBNEWELL  expostulates  with  his  Lady  on  her  extrava 
gance  and  love  of  pleasure. 

BOENEWELL.      AEETINA,  kis  lady. 

Are.  I  am  angry  with  myself; 

To  be  so  miserably  restrain' d  in  things, 
Wherein  it  doth  concern  your  love  and  honour 
To  see  me  satisfied. 

J5or.  In  what,  Aretina, 


406  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Dost  thou  accuse  me  ?  have  I  not  obey'd 

All  thy  desires,  against  mine  own  opinion ; 

Quitted  the  country,  and  removed  the  hope 

Of  our  return,  by  sale  of  that  fair  lordship 

We  lived  in :  changed  a  calm  and  retired  life 

For  this  wild  town,  composed  of  noise  and  charge  ? 

Are.  "What  charge,  more  than  is  necessary 
For  a  lady  of  my  birth  and  education  ? 

JSor.  I  am  not  ignorant  how  much  nobility 

Flows  in  your  blood,  your  kinsmen  great  and  powerful 

In  the  state ;  but  with  this  lose  not  your  memory 

Of  being  my  wife  :  I  shall  be  studious, 

Madam,  to  give  the  dignity  of  your  birth 

All  the  best  ornaments  which  become  my  fortune ; 

But  would  not  natter  it,  to  ruin  both, 

And  be  the  fable  of  the  town,  to  teach 

Other  men  wit  by  loss  of  mine,  employ 'd 

To  serve  your  vast  expenses. 

Are.  Am  I  then 

Brought  in  the  balance  ?  so,  sir, 

JSor.  Though  you  weigh 

Me  in  a  partial  scale,  my  heart  is  honest ; 

And  must  take  liberty  to  think,  you  have 

Obey'd  no  modest  counsel  to  effect, 

jS'ay,  study  ways  of  pride  and  costly  ceremony ; 

Your  change  of  gaudy  furniture,  and  pictures, 

Of  this  Italian  master,  and  that  Dutchman's ; 

Your  mighty  looking-glasses,  like  artillery 

Brought  home  on  engines ;  the  superfluous  plate 

Antic  and  novel ;  vanities  of  tires, 

Fourscore  pound  suppers  for  my  lord  your  kinsman, 

Banquets  for  the  other  lady,  aunt,  and  cousins ; 

And  perfumes,  that  exceed  all ;  train  of  servants, 

To  stifle  us  at  home,  and  show  abroad 

More  motley  than  the  French,  or  the  Venetian, 

About  your  coach,  whose  rude  postilion 

Must  pester  every  narrow  lane,  till  passengers 

And  tradesmen  curse  your  choking  up  their  stalls, 

And  common  cries  pursue  your  ladyship 

For  hindering  of  their  market. 

Are.  Have  you  done,  sir  ? 

Bar.  I  could  accuse  the  gaiety  of  your  wardrobe, 


THE  LADY  OP  PLEASUEE.  407 

And  prodigal  embroideries,  under  which, 

Rich  satins,  plushes,  cloth  of  silver,  dare 

Not  show  their  own  complexions ;  your  jewels, 

Able  to  burn  out  the  spectators'  eyes, 

And  show  like  bonfires  on  you  by  the  tapers : 

Something  might  here  be  spared,  with  safety  of 

Tour  birth  and  honour,  since  the  truest  wealth 

Shines  from  the  soul,  and  draws  up  just  admirers. 

I  could  urge  something  more. 

Are.  Pray,  do.     I  like 

Tour  homily  of  thrift. 

jBor.  I  could  wish,  madam, 

Tou  would  not  game  so  much. 

Are.  A  gamester,  too ! 

£or.  But  are  not  come  to  that  repentance  yet, 

Should  teach  you  skill  enough  to  raise  your  profit ; 
Tou  look  not  through  the  subtilty  of  cards, 
And  mysteries  of  dice,  nor  can  you  save 
Charge  with  the  box,  buy  petticoats  and  pearls, 
And  keep  your  family  by  the  precious  income ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  you  should :  my  poorest  servant 
Shall  not  upbraid  my  tables,  nor  his  hire 
Purchased  beneath  my  honour :  you  make  play 
Not  a  pastime,  but  a  tyranny,  and  vex 
Tourself  and  my  estate  by  it. 

Are.  Good,  proceed. 

£or.  Another  game  you  have,  which  consumes  more 
Tour  fame  than  purse,  your  revels  in  the  night, 
Tour  meetings,  call'd  the  ball,  to  which  appear, 
As  to  the  court  of  pleasure,  all  your  gallants 
And  ladies,  thither  bound  by  a  subpoena 
Of  Venus  and  small  Cupid's  high  displeasure : 
'Tis  but  the  family  of  Love,  translated 
Into  more  costly  sin ;  there  was  a  play  on  it ; 
And  had  the  poet  not  been  bribed  to  a  modest 
Expression  of  your  antic  gambols  in  it, 
Some  darks  had  been  discover 'd ;  and  the  deeds  too ; 
In  time  he  may  repent,  and  make  some  blush, 
To  see  the  second  part  danced  on  the  stage. 
My  thoughts  acquit  you  for  dishonouring  me 
By  any  foul  act ;  but  the  virtuous  know, 


408  JAMES  SHIELET. 

'Tis  not  enough  to  clear  ourselves,  but  the 
Suspicions  of  our  shame. 

Are.  Have  you  concluded 
Tour  lecture  ? 

JBor.  I  have  done ;  and  howsoever 

My  language  may  appear  to  you,  it  carries 
No  other  than  my  fair  and  just  intent 
To  your  delights,  without  curb  to  their  modest 
And  noble  freedom. 

Are.  I  '11  not  be  so  tedious 

In  my  reply,  but,  without  art  or  elegance, 
Assure  you  I  keep  still  my  first  opinion ; 
And  though  you  veil  your  avaricious  meaning 
With  handsome  names  of  modesty  and  thrift, 
I  find  you  wrould  intrench  and  wound  the  liberty 
I  was  born  with.     Were  my  desires  unprivileged 
By  example ;  while  my  judgment  thought  them  fit, 
You  ought  not  to  oppose ;  but  when  the  practice 
And  tract  of  every  honourable  lady 
Authorize  me,  I  take  it  great  injustice 
To  have  my  pleasures  circumscribed  and  taught  me. 

[This  dialogue  is  in  the  very  spirit  of  the  recriminating  scenes  between 
Lord  and  Lady  Townley  in  the  Provoked  Husband.  It  is  difficult  to 
believe,  but  it  must  have  been  Vanbrugh's  prototype.] 


EXTRACTS 

FEOM 

THE    GABRICK    PLAYS. 


ORIGINALLY  PUBLISHED  IN  HONE'S  TABLE  BOCK. 


LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR. 


DEAB  SIB, 

It  is  not  unknown  to  you,  that  about  nineteen  years  since  I 
published  "  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets,  who  lived 
about  the  tune  of  Shakspeare."  For  the  scarcer  Plays  I  had  re 
course  to  the  collection  bequeathed  to  the  British  Museum  by 
Mr.  Garriek.  But  my  time  was  but  short,  and  my  subsequent 
leisure  has  discovered  in  it  a  treasure  rich  and  exhaustless  beyond 
what  I  then  imagined.  In  it  is  to  be  found  almost  every  produc 
tion  in  the  shape  of  a  Play  that  has  appeared  in  print,  from  the 
time  of  the  old  Mysteries  and  Moralities  to  the  days  of  Crown  and 
D'Urfey.  Imagine  the  luxury  to  one  like  me,  who,  above  every 
other  form  of  poetry,  have  ever  preferred  the  Dramatic,  of  sitting 
in  the  princely  apartments,  for  such  they  are,  of  poor  condemned 
Montagu  House,  which  I  predict  will  no't  speedily  be  foDowed  by 
a  handsomer,  and  culling  at  will  the  flower  of  some  thousand 
Dramas.  It  is  like  having  the  range  of  a  Nobleman's  Library, 
with  the  Librarian  to  your  friend.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  courte- 
ousness  and  attentions  of  the  Gentleman  who  has  the  chief  di 
rection  of  the  Reading  Rooms  here ;  and  you  have  scarce  to  ask 
for  a  volume,  before  it  is  laid  before  you.  If  the  occasional  Ex 
tracts  which  I  have  been  tempted  to  bring  away,  may  find  an 
appropriate  place  in  your  Table  BooTc,  some  of  them  are  weekly 
at  your  service.  By  those  who  remember  the  "  Specimens,"  these 
must  be  considered  as  mere  after-gleanings,  supplementary  to  that 
work,  only  comprising  a  longer  period.  You  must  be  content 
with  sometimes  a  scene,  sometimes  a  song ;  a  speech,  or  passage, 
or  a  poetical  image,  as  they  happen  to  strike  me.  I  read  without 
order  of  time ;  I  am  a  poor  hand  at  dates ;  and  for  any  biography 
of  the  Dramatists,  I  must  refer  to  writers  who  are  more  skilful  in 
such  matters.  My  business  is  with  their  poetry  only. 

Your  well-wisher, 

C.  LAMB. 
January  27,  1827. 


411 

KING  JOHN  AND  MATILDA :  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  EGBERT  DAVENPORT.    ACTED  IN  1651. 

JOHN,  not  being  able  to  bring  MATILDA,  the  chaste  daughter  of  the 
old  Baron  FITZWATER,  to  compliance  with  his  wishes,  causes  Tier 
to  be  poisoned  in  a  nunnery. 

SCENE. — JOHN.  The  Barons  :  they  being  as  yet  ignorant  of  the 
murder ',  and  having  just  come  to  composition  with  the  King  after 
tedious  wars.  MATILDA'S  hearse  is  brought  in  by  HTJBEET. 

John.  Hubert,  interpret  this  apparition. 

Rub.  Behold,  sir, 

A  sad-writ  tragedy,  so  feelingly 
Languaged,  and  cast ;  with  such  a  crafty  cruelty 
Contrived,  and  acted ;  that  wild  savages 
Would  weep  to  lay  their  ears  to,  and  (admiring 
To  see  themselves  outdone)  they  would -conceive 
Their  wildness  mildness  to  this  deed,  and  call 
Men  more  than  savage,  themselves  rational. 
And  thou,  Fitzwater,  reflect  upon  thy  wa/we1, 
And  turn  the  Son  of  Tears.     O,  forget 
That  Cupid  ever  spent  a  dart  upon  thee ; 
That  Hymen  ever  coupled  thee ;  or  that  ever 
The  hasty,  happy,  willing  messenger 
Told  thee  thou  hadst  a  daughter.     O,  look  here ! 
Look  here,  King  John,  and  with  a  trembling  eye 
Read  your  sad  act,  Matilda's  tragedy. 

Barons.  Matilda! 

Fitzw.  By  the  labouring  soul  of  a  much-injured  man, 
It  is  my  child  Matilda ! 

Bruce.  Sweet  niece ! 

Leic.  Chaste  soul ! 

John.  Do  I  stir,  Chester? 

Good  Oxford,  do  I  move  ?  stand  I  not  still 

To  watch  when  the  grieved  friends  of  wrong'd  Matilda 

Will  with  a  thousand  stabs  turn  me  to  dust, 

That  in  a  thousand  prayers  they  might  be  happy  ? 

Will  no  one  do  it  ?  then  give  a  mourner  room, 

1  Fitzwater :  son  of  water.  A  striking  instance  of  the  compa 
tibility  of  the  serious  pwn,  with  the  expression  of  the  profoundest 
sorrows.  Grief,  as  well  as  joy,  finds  ease  in  thus  playing  with  a 
word.  Old  John  of  Gaunt  in  Shakspeare  thus  descants  on  his 
name :  "  Gaunt,  and  gaunt  indeed ; "  to  a  long  string  of  conceits, 
which  no  one  has  ever  yet  felt  as  ridiculous.  The  poet  Wither 
thus,  in  a  mournful  review  of  the  declining  estate  of  his  family, 
says  with  deepest  nature : — 

The  very  name  of  Wither  shows  decay. 


412  BOBEBT  DAVENPOBT. 

A  man  of  tears.     O,  immaculate  Matilda, 

These  shed  but  sailing  heat  -drops,  misling  showers, 

The  faint  dews  of  a  doubtful  April  morning ; 

But  from  mine  eyes  ship-sinking  cataracts, 

Whole  clouds  of  waters,  wealthy  exhalations, 

Shall  fall  into  the  sea  of  my  affliction, 

Till  it  amaze  the  mourners. 
Hub.  Unmatch'd  Matilda; 

.  Celestial  soldier,  that  kept  a  fort  of  chastity 

'Gainst  all  temptations. 
Fitzw.  Not  to  be  a  queen,  [reed : 

Would  she  break  her  chaste  vow.     Truth  crowns  your 

Unmatch'd  Matilda  was  her  name  indeed. 
John.  O  take  into  your  spirit-piercing  praise 

My  scene  of  sorrow.     I  have  well-clad  woes, 

Pathetic  epithets  to  illustrate  passion, 

And  steal  true  tears  so  sweetly  from  all  these 

Shall  touch  the  soul,  and  at  once  pierce  and  please. 

[Peruses  the  motto  and  emblems  on  the  hearse. 

"To  Piety  and  Purity"— and  "Lilies  mix'dwith  Roses"— 

How  well  you  have  apparel'd  wo !  this  pendant, 

To  Piety  and  Purity  directed, 

Insinuates  a  chaste  soul  in  a  clean  body, 

Virtue's  white  Virgin,  Chastity's  red  Martyr ! 

Suffer  me  then  with  this  well- suited  wreath 

To  make  our  griefs  ingenious.     Let  all  be  dumb, 

Whilst  the  king  speaks  her  Epicedium. 
Chest.  His  very  soul  speaks  sorrow. 
Oxf.  And  it  becomes  him  sweetly. 
John.  Hail  maid  and  martyr !  lo,  on  thy  breast, 

Devotion's  altar,  chaste  Truth's  nest, 

I  offer  (as  my  guilt  imposes) 

Thy  merit's  laurel,  lilies  and  roses ; 

Lilies,  intimating  plain 

Thy  immaculate  life,  stuck  with  no  stain ; 

Roses  red  and  sweet,  to  tell 

How  sweet  red  sacrifices  smell. 

Hang  round  then,  as  you  walk  about  this  hearse, 

The  songs  of  holy  hearts,  sweet  virtuous  verse. 
Fitzw.  Bring  Persian  silks,  to  deck  her  monument ; 
John.  Arabian  spices,  quickening  by  their  scent ; 
Fitzw.  Numidian  marble,  to  preserve  her  praise ; 
John.  Corinthian  ivory,  her  shape  to  praise : 
Fitzw.  And  write  in  gold  upon  it,  "  In  this  breast 

Virtue  sat  mistress,  Passion  but  a  guest." 
John.  Virtue  is  sweet ;  and,  since  griefs  bitter  be, 

Strew  her  with  roses,  and  give  rue  to  me. 


KING  JOHN  AND  MATILDA.  413 

Bruce.  My  noble  brother,  I  have  lost  a  wife  and  son1 

You  a  sweet  daughter.     Look  on  the  king's  penitence ; 
His  promise  for  the  public  peace.     Prefer 
A  public  benefit2.    When  it  shall  please, 
Let  Heaven  question  him.     Let  us  secure 
And  quit  the  land  of  Louis3. 

Fitzw.  Do  any  thing ; 

Do  all  things  that  are  honourable ;  and  the  Great  King 
Make  you  a  good  king,  sir !  and  when  your  soul 
Shall  at  any  time  reflect  upon  your  follies, 
Good  king  John,  weep,  weep  very  heartily; 
It  will  become  you  sweetly.     At  your  eyes 
Your  sin  stole  in ;  there  pay  your  sacrifice. 

John.  Back  unto  Dunmow  Abbey.     There  we  '11  pay 
To  sweet  Matilda's  memory,  and  her  sufferings, 
A  monthly  obsequy,  which  (sweeten' d  by 
The  wealthy  woes  of  a  tear-troubled  eye) 
Shall  by  those  sharp  afflictions  of  my  face 
Court  mercy,  and  make  grief  arrive  at  grace. 

SONG. 

Matilda,  now  go  take  thy  led 
In  the  dark  dwellings  of  the  dead; 
A.nd  rise  in  the  great  walcing-day 
Sweet  as  incense,  fresh  as  May. 

Rest  there,  chaste  soul,  fix'd  in  thy  proper  sphere, 
Amongst  Heaven's  fair  ones ;  all  are  fair  ones  there. 
Rest  there,  chaste  soul,  whilst  we  here  troubled  say; 
Time  gives  us  griefs,  Death  takes  our  joys  away. 

[This  scene  has  much  passion  and  poetry  in  it,  if  I  mistake  not. 
The  last  words  of  Fitzwater  are  an  instance  of  noble  temperament ; 
but  to  understand  him,  the  character  throughout  of  this  mad, 
merry,  feeling,  insensible- seeming  lord,  should  be  read.  That  the 
venomous  John  could  have  even  counterfeited  repentance  so  well, 
is  out  of  nature ;  but,  supposing  the  possibility,  nothing  is  truer 
than  the  way  in  which  it  is  managed.  These  old  playwrights  in 
vested  their  bad  characters  with  notions  of  good,  which  could  by 
no  possibility  have  coexisted  with  their  actions.  Without  a  soul 
of  goodness  in  himself,  how  could  Shakspeare's  Richard  the  Third 
have  lit  upon  those  sweet  phrases  and  inducements  by  which  he 

1  also  cruelly  slain  by  the  poisoning  John. 

2  i.  e.  of  peace ;  which  this  monstrous  act  of  John's  in  this  play 
comes  to  counteract,  in  the  same  way  as  the  discovered  death  of 
Prince  Arthur  is  like  to  break  the  composition  of  the  king  with 
his  barons  in  Shakspeare's  play. 

3  The  Dauphin  of  France,  whom  they  had  called  in, as  in  Shak- 


414  JOHN  DAT, 

attempts  to  win  over  the  dowager  queen  to  let  him  wed  her 
daughter?  It  is  not  Nature's  nature,  but  Imagination's  substi 
tuted  nature,  which  does  almost  as  well  in  a  fiction.] 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  BEES :  A  MASQUE. 
BY  JOHN  DAY.    PRINTED  1607 l. 

ULANIA,  a  female  Bee,  confesses  her  passion  for  MELETUS,  who 
loves  ABETHTJSA, 

not  a  village  fly,  nor  meadow  bee, 

That  traffics  daily  on  the  neighbouring  plain, 

But  will  report,  how  all  the  winged  train 

Have  sued  to  me  for  love ;  when  we  have  flown 

In  swarms  out  to  discover  fields  new-blown. 

Happy  was  he  could  find  the  forwardest  tree, 

And  cull  the  choicest  blossoms  out  for  me ; 

Of  all  their  labours  they  allow'd  me  some 

And  (like  my  champions)  mann'd  me  out,  and  home : 

Yet  loved  I  none  of  them.     Philon,  a  bee 

Well- skill' d  hi  verse  and  amorous  poetry, 

As  we  have  sat  at  work,  both  of  one  rose2, 

Has  humm'd  sweet  canzons,  both  in  verse  and  prose, 

Which  I  ne'er  minded.     Astrophel,  a  bee 

(Although  not  so  poetical  as  he) 

Yet  in  his  full  invention  quick  and  ripe, 

In  summer  evenings,  on  his  well-tuned  pipe, 

Upon  a  woodbine  blossom  in  the  sun, 

(Our  hive  being  clean-swept,  and  our  day's  work  done,) 

Would  play  me  twenty  several  tunes ;  yet  I 

Nor  minded  Astrophel,  nor  his  melody. 

Then  there 's  Amniter,  for  whose  love  fair  Leade 

(That  pretty  bee)  flies  up  and  down  the  mead 

With  rivers  in  her  eyes ;  without  deserving 

Sent  me  trim  acorn  bowls  of  his  own  carving, 

To  drink  May  dews  and  mead  in.    Yet  none  of  these. 

My  hive-born  playfellows  and  fellow  bees, 

1  Whether  this  singular  production,  in  which  the  characters  are 
all  bees,  was  ever  acted,  I  have  no  information  to  determine.     It 
it  is  at  least  as  capable  of  representation  aa  we  can  conceive  the 
"  Birds"  of  Aristophanes  to  have  been. 

2  Prettily  pilfered  from  the  sweet  passage  in  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  where  Helena  recounts  to  Hermia  their  school 
days'  friendship : — 

We  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 
Created  with  our  needles  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion. 


PABLIAMENT  OF  BEES.  415 

Could  I  affect,  until  this  strange  bee  came; 
And  him  I  love  with  such  an  ardent  flame, 
Discretion  cannot  quench. 

He  labours  and  toils, 
Extracts  more  honey  out  of  barren  soils 
Than  twenty  lazy  drones.     I  have  heard  my  father, 
Steward  of  the  hive,  profess  that  he  had  rather 
Lose  half  the  swarm  than  him.    If  a  bee,  poor  or  weak, 
Grows  faint  on  his  way,  or  by  misfortune  break 
A  wing  or  leg  against  a  twig ;  alive, 
Or  dead,  he  '11  bring  into  the  master's  hive 
Him  and  his  burthen.     But  the  other  day, 
On  the  next  plain  there  grew  a  fatal  fray 
Betwixt  the  wasps  and  us;  the  wind  grew  high, 
And  a  rough  storm  raged  so  impetuously, 
Our  bees  could  scarce  keep  wing ;  then  fell  such  rain, 
It  made  our  colony  forsake  the  plain, 
And  fly  to  garrison :  yet  still  he  stood, 
And  'gainst  the  whole  swarm  made  his  party  good ; 
And  at  each  blow  he  gave,  cried  out  His  Vow, 
His  Vow,  and  Arethusa ! — On  each  bough 
And  tender  blossom  he  engraves  her  name 
With  his  sharp  sting.     To  Arethusa's  fame 
He  consecrates  his  actions ;  all  his  worth 
Is  only  spent  to  character  her  forth. 
On  damask  roses,  and  the  leaves  of  pines, 
I  have  seen  him  write  such  amorous  moving  lines 
In  Arethusa's  praise,  as  my  poor  heart 
Has,  when  I  read  them,  envied  her  desert ; 
And  wept  and  sigh'd  to  think  that  he  should  be 
To  her  so  constant,  yet  not  pity  me. 

****** 

POBREX,  Viceroy  of  Bees  wader  KING  OBEEON,  describes  his  large 

prerogative. 

To  Us  (who,  warranted  by  Oberon's  love, 
Write  Ourself  Master  Bee),  both  field  and  grove, 
Garden  and  orchard,  lawns  and  flowery  meads, 
(Where  the  amorous  wind  plays  with  the  golden  heads 
Of  wanton  cowslips,  daisies  in  their  prime, 
Sun-loving  marigolds ;  the  blossom' d  thyme, 
The  blue-vein'd  violets  and  the  damask  rose ; 
The  stately  lily,  mistress  of  all  those) ; 
Are  allow'd  and  given,  by  Oberon's  free  areed, 
Pasture  for  me,  and  all  my  swarms  to  feed. 

[ the  doings, 

The  births,  the  wars,  the  wooings, 


416  JOHN  FOUNTAIN. 

of  these  pretty  little  winged  creatures  are  with  continued  liveliness 
portrayed  throughout  the  whole  of  this  curious  old  Drama,  hi  words 
which  bees  would  talk  with,  could  they  talk ;  the  very  air  seems 
replete  with  humming  and  buzzing  melodies,  while  we  read  them. 
Surely  bees  were  never  so  be-rhymed  before.] 


THE  KEWAEDS  OF  YIKTUE :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  JOHN  FOUNTAIN.    FEINTED  1661. 

Success  in  Battle  not  always  attributable  to  the  General. 

Generals  oft-times  famous  grow 

By  valiant  friends,  or  cowardly  enemies ; 

Or,  what  is  worse,  by  some  mean  piece  of  chance. 

Truth  is,  'tis  pretty  to  observe 

How  little  princes  and  great  generals 

Contribute  oft-times  to  the  fame  they  win. 

How  oft  hath  it  been  found,  that  noblest  minds 

With  two  short  arms,  have  fought  with  fatal  stars ; 

And  have  endeavour'd  with  their  dearest  blood 

To  mollify  those  diamonds,  where  dwell 

The  fate  of  kingdoms ;  and  at  last  have  fallen 

By  vulgar  hands,  unable  now  to  do 

More  for  their  cause  than  die ;  and  have  been  lost 

Among  the  sacrifices  of  their  swords ; 

No  more  remember'd  than  poor  villagers, 

"Whose  ashes  sleep  among  the  common  flowers, 

That  every  meadow  wears !  whilst  other  men 

With  trembling  hands  have  caught  a  victory, 

And  on  pale  foreheads  wear  triumphant  bays. 

Besides,  I  have  thought 

A  thousand  times ;  in  times  of  war,  when  we 

Lift  up  our  hands  to  Heaven  for  victory ; 

Suppose  some  virgin  shepherdess,  whose  soul 

Is  chaste  and  clean  as  the  cold  spring,  where  she 

Quenches  all  thirsts,  being  told  of  enemies, 

That  seek  to  fright  the  long-enjoyed  Peace 

Of  our  Arcadia  hence  with  sound  of  drums, 

And  with  hoarse  trumpets'  warlike  airs  to  drown 

The  harmless  music  of  her  oaten  reeds, 

Should  in  the  passion  of  her  troubled  sprite 

Repair  to  some  small  fane  (such  as  the  gods 

Hear  poor  folks  from),  and  there  on  humble  knees 

Lift  up  her  trembling  hands  to  holy  Pan, 

And  beg  his  helps  :  'tis  possible  to  think, 

That  Heaven,  which  holds  the  purest  vows  most  rich, 

May  not  permit  her  still  to  weep  in  vain, 


EEWARDS  OF  VIETUE.  417 

But  grant  her  wish  (for,  would  the  gods  not  hear 
The  prayers  of  poor  folks,  they  'd  ne'er  bid  them  pray); 
And  so,  in  the  next  action,  happeneth  out 
.     (The  gods  still  using  means)  the  enemy 
May  be  defeated.     The  glory  of  all  this 
Is  attributed  to  the  general, 
And  none  but  he  is  spoke  loud  of  for  the  act ; 
While  she,  from  whose  so  unaffected  tears 
His  laurel  sprung,  for  ever  dwells  unknown1. 

TTnlaivful  Solicitings. 

When  I  first 

Mentioned  the  business  to  her  all  alone, 
Poor  soul,  she  blush'd,  as  if  already  she 
Had  done  some  harm  by  hearing  of  me  speak ; 
Whilst  from  her  pretty  eyes  two  fountains  ran 
So  true,  so  native,  down  her  fairest  cheeks ; 
As  if  she  thought  herself  obliged  to  cry, 
'Cause  all  the  world  was  not  so  good  as  she. 

Proportion  in  Pity. 

There  must  be  some  proportion  still  to  pity 
Between  ourselves  and  what  we  moan  :  'tis  hard 
For  men  to  be  aught  sensible  how  moats 
Press  flies  to  death.     Should  the  lion,  in 
His  midnight  walks  for  prey,  hear  some  poor  worms 
Complain  for  want  of  little  drops  of  dew, 
What  pity  could  that  generous  creature  have 
(Who  never  wanted  small  things)  for  those  poor 
Ambitions  ?  yet  these  are  their  concernments, 
And  but  for  want  of  these  they  pine  and  die. 

Modesty  a  bar  to  preferment. 
Sure  'twas  his  modesty.     He  might  have  thriven 
Much  better  possibly,  had  his  ambition 
Been  greater  much.     They  oft-times  take  more  pains 
Who  look  for  pins,  than  those  who  find  out  stars. 

1  Is  it  possible  that  Cowper  might  have  remembered  this  sen 
timent  in  his  description  of  the  advantages  which  the  world,  that 
scorns  him,  may  derive  from  the  noiseless  hours  of  the  contem 
plative  man  ? 

Perhaps  she  owes 

Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 
And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  prayer  he  makes, 
When,  Isaac-like,  the  solitary  saint 
; . .     Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 

And  think  on  her,  who  thinks  not  on  herself. — Task. 

2B 


418  JOHN  FOUNTAIN. 

Innocence  vindicated  at  last. 
Heaven  may  awhile  correct  the  virtuous ; 
Yet  it  will  wipe  their  eyes  again,  and  make 
Their  faces  whiter  with  their  tears.     Innocence 
Conceal'd  is  the  stolen  pleasure  of  the  gods, 
Which  never  ends  in  shame,  as  that  of  men 
Doth  oft-times  do ;  but  like  the  sun,  breaks  forth, 
When  it  hath  gratified  another  world ; 
And  to  our  unexpecting  eyes  appears 
More  glorious  through  its  late  obscurity. 

Dying  for  a  beloved  person. 
There  is  a  gust  in  death,  when  'tis  for  love, 
That  's  more  than  all  that 's  taste  in  all  the  world. 
For  the  true  measure  of  true  love  is  death ; 
And  what  falls  short  of  this,  was  never  love : 
And  therefore  when  those  tides  do  meet  and  strive, 
And  both  swell  high,  but  love  is  higher  still, 
This  is  the  truest  satisfaction  of 
The  perfectest  love  :  for  here  it  sees  itself 
Endure  the  highest  test ;  and  then  it  feels 
The  sum  of  delectation,  since  it  now 
Attains  its  perfect  end ;  and  shows  its  object, 
By  one  intense  act,  all  its  verity : 
Which  by  a  thousand  and  ten  thousand  words 
It  would  have  took  a  poor  diluted  pleasure 
To  have  imperfectly  express'd. 

URANIA  makes  a  mock  assignation  with  the  King,  and  substitutes 
the  Queen  in  her  place.  The  King  describes  the  supposed  meet 
ing  to  the  Confident,  whom  he  had  employed  to  solicit  for  his 
guilty  passion. 

Pyrrhus,  I  '11  tell  thee  all.     When  now  the  night 

Grew  black  enough  to  hide  a  skulking  action ; 

And  Heaven  had  ne'er  an  eye  unshut  to  see 

Her  representative  on  earth  creep  'mongst 

Those  poor  defenceless  worms,  whom  nature  left 

An  humble  prey  to  every  thing,  and  no 

Asylum  but  the  dark ;  I  softly  stole 

To  yonder  grotto  through  the  upper  walks, 

And  there  found  my  Urania.     But  I  found  her, 

I  found  her,  Pyrrhus,  not  a  mistress,  but 

A  goddess  rather ;  which  made  me  now  to  be 

No  more  her  lover,  but  idolater. 

She  only  whisper'd  to  me,  as  she  promised, 

Yet  never  heard  I  any  voice  so  loud ; 

And,  though  her  words  were  gentler  far  than  those 

That  holy  priests  do  speak  to  dying  saints, 


ALL  FOOLS.  419 

Yet  never  thunder  signified  so  much. 

And  (what  did  more  impress  whate'er  she  said) 

Rethought  her  whispers  were  my  injured  Queen's, 

Her  manner  just  like  hers !  and  when  she  urged, 

Among  a  thousand  things,  the  injury 

I  did  the  faithfulest  princess  in  the  world ; 

Who  now  supposed  me  sick,  and  was  perchance 

Upon  her  knees  offering  up  holy  vows 

For  him  who  mock'd  both  Heaven  and  her,  and  was 

Now  breaking  of  that  vow  he  made  her,  when 

With  sacrifice  he  call'd  the  gods  to  witness ; 

When  she  urged  this,  and  wept,  and  spake  so  like 

My  poor  deluded  Queen,  Pyrrhus,  I  trembled ; 

Almost  persuaded  that  it  was  her  angel 

Spake  through  Urania's  lips,  who  for  her  sake 

Took  care  of  me,  as  something  she  much  loved. 

It  would  be  long  to  tell  thee  all  she  said, 

How  oft  she  sigh'd,  how  bitterly  she  wept : 

But  the  effect — Urania  still  is  chaste ; 

And  with  her  chaster  lips  hath  promised  to 

Invoke  blest  Heaven  for  my  intended  sin. 


ALL  FOOLS :  A  COMEDY,  BY  GEOEGKE  CHAPMAN. 

1605. 
Love's  Panegyric. 

'tis  Nature's  second  sun, 

Causing  a  spring  of  virtues  where  he  shines ; 
And  as  without  the  sun,  the  world's  great  eye, 
All  colours,  beauties,  both  of  art  and  nature, 
Are  given  in  vain  to  man ;  so  without  love 
All  beauties  bred  in  women  are  in  vain, 
All  virtues  born  in  men  lie  buried ; 
For  love  informs  them  as  the  sun  doth  colours : 
And  as  the  sun,  reflecting  his  warm  beams 
Against  the  earth,  begets  all  fruits  and  flowers, 
So  love,  fair  shining  in  the  inward  man, 
Brings  forth  in  him  the  honourable  fruits 
Of  valour,  wit,  virtue,  and  haughty  thoughts, 
Brave  resolution,  and  divine  discourse. 
Love  ^oith  Jealousy. 

such  love  is  like  a  smoky  fire 

In  a  cold  morning.     Though  the  fire  be  cheerful, 
Yet  is  the  smoke  so  foul  and  cumbersome, 
'Twere  better  lose  the  fire  than  find  the  smoke. 

2E2 


420  GEOBGE  CHAPMAN. 

Bailiff*  routed. 

I  walking  in  the  place  where  men's  law  suits 

Are  heard  and  pleaded,  not  so  much  as  dreaming 

Of  any  such  encounter ;  steps  me  forth 

Their  valiant  foreman  with  the  word  "  I  'rest  you." 

I  made  no  more  ado  but  laid  these  paws 

Close  on  his  shoulders,  tumbling  him  to  earth ; 

And  there  sat  he  on  his  posteriors 

Like  a  baboon ;  and  turning  me  about, 

I  straight  espied  the  whole  troop  issuing  on  me. 

I  step  me  back,  and  drawing  my  old  friend  here, 

Made  to  the  midst  of  them,  and  all  unable 

To  endure  the  shock,  all  rudely  fell  in  rout, 

And  down  the  stairs  they  ran  in  such  a  fury, 

As  meeting  with  a  troop  of  lawyers  there 

Mann'd  by  their  clients  (some  with  ten,  some  with  twenty, 

Some  five,  some  three ;  he  that  had  least  had  one), 

Upon  the  stairs,  they  bore  them  down  afore  them. 

But  such  a  rattling  then  there  was  amongst  them, 

Of  ravish'd  declarations,  replications, 

Rejoinders,  and  petitions,  all  their  books 

And  writings  torn,  and  trod  on,  and  some  lost, 

That  the  poor  lawyers  coming  to  the  bar 

Could  say  naught  to  the  matter,  but  instead 

Were  fain  to  rail,  and  talk  beside  their  books, 

Without  all  order. 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIRE  WITCHES :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

A  Household  "bewitched. 
My  uncle  has  of  late  become  the  sole 
Discourse  of  all  the  country ;  for  of  a  man  respected 
As  master  of  a  govern'd  family, 
The  house  (as  if  the  ridge  were  fix'd  below, 
And  groundsels  lifted  up  to  make  the  roof) 
All  now 's  turn'd  topsy-turvy, 
In  such  a  retrograde  and  preposterous  way 
As  seldom  hath  been  heard  of,  I  think  never. 
The  good  man 

In  all  obedience  kneels  unto  his  son ; 
He  with  an  austere  brow  commands  his  father. 
The  wife  presumes  not  in  the  daughter's  sight 
Without  a  prepared  curtsy ;  the  girl  she 
Expects  it  as  a  duty ;  chides  her  mother, 
Who  quakes  and  trembles  at  each  word  she  speaks. 


A.EDEN  OF  FEYEBSHAM.  421 

And  what 's  as  strange,  the  maid — she  domineers 
O'er  her  young  mistress,  who  is  awed  by  her. 
The  son,  to  whom  the  father  creeps  and  bends, 
Stands  in  as  much  fear  of  the  groom  his  man ! 
All  in  such  rare  disorder,  that  in  some 
As  it  breeds  pity,  and  in  others  wonder, 
So  in  the  most  part  laughter.     It  is  thought, 
This  comes  by  Witchcraft. 


WIT  IN  A  CONSTABLE :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  HENRY  GLAPTHOEN. 

Books, 
Collegian.  Did  you,  ere  we  departed  from  the  college, 

O'erlook  my  library  ? 
Servant.  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  find, 

Although  you  tell  me  Learning  is  immortal, 

The  paper  and  the  parchment  'tis  contain'd  in 

Savours  of  much  mortality. 

The  moths  have  eaten  more 

Authentic  learning,  than  would  richly  furnish 

A  hundred  country  pedants ;  yet  the  worms 

Are  not  one  letter  wiser. 


AEDEN  OF  FEYEESHAM  HIS  TEUE  AND  LA 
MENTABLE  TEAGEDY.    AUTHOE  UNKNOWN.    1592. 

ALICE  AEDEN  with  MOSBIE  her  Paramour  conspire  the  murder  of 

her  husband. 
Mos.  How  now,  Alice,  what  sad  and  passionate  ? 

Make  me  partaker  of  thy  pensiveness ; 

Fire  divided  burns  with  lesser  force. 
Al.  But  I  will  dam  that  fire  in  my  breast, 

Till  by  the  force  thereof  my  part  consume. 

AhMosbie! 
Mos.  Such  deep  pathaires,  like  to  a  cannon's  burst, 

Discharged  against  a  ruinated  wall, 

Breaks  my  relenting  heart  in  thousand  pieces. 

Ungentle  Alice,  thy  sorrow  is  my  sore ; 

Thou  know'st  it  well,  and  'tis  thy  policy 

To  forge  distressful  looks,  to  wound  a  breast 

Where  lies  a  heart  which  dies  when  thou  art  sad. 

It  is  not  Love  that  loves  to  anger  Love. 
Al.  It  is  not  Love  that  loves  to  murder  Love. 


422  ABDEN  OF  FEVEBSHAM. 

Mos.  How  mean  you  that  ? 

Al.  Thou  know'st  how  dearly  Arden  loved  me. 

Mos.  And  then 

AL  And  then — conceal  the  rest,  for  'tis  too  bad, 

Lest  that  my  words  be  carried  to  the  wind, 

And  publish'd  in  the  world  to  both  our  shames. 

I  pray  thee,  Mosbie,  let  our  spring-time  wither : 

Our  harvest  else  will  yield  but  loathsome  weeds. 

Forget,  I  pray  thee,  what  has  past  betwixt  us : 

For  I  now  blush  and  tremble  at  the  thoughts. 
Mos.  What,  are  you  changed  ? 
Al.  Ay,  to  my  former  happy  life  again ; 

From  title  of  an  odious  strumpet's  imme 

To  honest  Arden's  wife,  not  Arden's  honest  wife — 

Ah  Mosbie !  'tis  thou  hast  rifled  me  of  that, 

And  made  me  slanderous  to  all  my  kin. 

Ev'n  in  my  forehead  is  thy  name  engraven, 

A  mean  artificer,  that  low-born  name ! 

I  was  bewitch'd ;  wo-worth  the  hapless  hour 

And  all  the  causes  that  enchanted  me  ! 
Mos.  Nay,  if  thou  ban,  let  me  breathe  curses  forth ; 

And  if  you  stand  so  nicely  at  your  fame, 

Let  me  repent  the  credit  I  have  lost. 

I  have  neglected  matters  of  import, 

That  would  have  'stated  me  above  thy  state ; 

Forslow'd  advantages,  and  spurn'd  at  time ; 

Ay,  Fortune's  right  hand  Mosbie  hath  forsook, 

To  take  a  wanton  giglot  by  the  left. 

I  left  the  marriage  of  an  honest  maid, 

Whose  dowry  would  have  weigh'd  down  all  thy  wealth ; 

Whose  beauty  and  demeanour  far  exceeded  thee. 

This  certain  good  I  lost  for  changing  bad, 

And  wrapp'd  my  credit  in  thy  company. 

I  was  bewitch'd ;  that  is  no  theme  of  thine : 

And  thou  unhallow'd  hast  enchanted  me. 

But  I  will  break  thy  spells  and  exorcisms 

And  put  another  sight  upon  these  eyes, 

That  show'd  my  heart  a  raven  for  a  dove. 

Thou  art  not  fair ;  I  view'd  thee  not  till  now : 

Thou  art  not  kind ;  till  now  I  knew  thee  not : 

And  now  the  rain  hath  beaten  off  thy  gilt, 

Thy  worthless  copper  shows  thee  counterfeit. 

It  grieves  me  not  to  see  how  foul  thou  art, 

But  mads  me  that  ever  I  thought  thee  fair. 

Go,  get  thee  gone,  a  copesmate  for  thy  hinds; 

I  am  too  good  to  be  thy  favourite. 
Al.  Ay,  now  I  see,  and  too  soon  find  it  true, 


OF  FEYEESHAM.  423. 

Which  often  hath  been  told  me  by  my  friends, 

That  Mosbie  loves  me  not  but  for  my  wealth ; 

Which  too  incredulous  I  ne'er  believed. 

Nay,  hear  me  speak,  Mosbie,  a  word  or  two ; 

I  '11  bite  my  tongue  if  I  speak  bitterly. 

Look  on  me,  Mosbie,  or  else  I  '11  kill  myself. 

Nothing  shall  hide  me  from  thy  stormy  look ; 

If  thou  ery  war,  there  is  no  peace  for  me. 

I  will  do  penance  for  offending  thee ; 

And  burn  this  prayer-book,  which  I  here  use, 

The  Holy  Word  that  has  converted  me. 

See,  Mosbie,  I  will  tear  away  the  leaves, 

And  all  the  leaves ;  and  in  this  golden  cover 

Shall  thy  sweet  phrases  and  thy  letters  dwell, 

And  thereon  will  I  chiefly  meditate, 

And  hold  no  other  sect  but  such  devotion. 

Wilt  thou  not  look  ?  is  all  thy  love  o'erwhelm'd  1 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  1  what  malice  stops  thy  ears  1 

Why  speak'st  thou  not?  what  silence  ties  thy  tongue? 

Thou  hast  been  sighted  as  the  eagle  is, 

And  heard  as  quickly  as  the  fearful  hare, 

And  spoke  as  smoothly  as  an  orator, 

When>I  have  bid  thee  hear,  or  see,  or  speak : 

And  art  thou  sensible  in  none  of  these  ? 

Weigh  all  thy  good  turns  with  this  little  fault, 

And  I  deserve  not  Mosbie's  muddy  looks. 

A  fence  of  trouble  is  not  thicken'd  still : 

Be  clear  again ;  I  '11  ne'er  more  trouble  thee. 
Mos.  O  fie,  no ;  I  am  a  base  artificer ; 

My  wings  are  feather'd  for  a  lowly  flight. 

Mosbie,  fie,  no ;  not  for  a  thousand  pound 

Make  love  to  you ;  why,  'tis  unpardonable. 

We  beggars  must  not  breathe,  where  gentles  are. 
Al.  Sweet  Mosbie  is  as  gentle  as  a  king, 

And  I  too  blind  to  judge  him  otherwise. 

Flowers  sometimes  spring  in  fallow  lands  : 

Weeds  in  gardens,  roses  grow  on  thorns : 

So,  whatsoe'er  my  Mosbie's  father  was, 

Himself  is  valued  gentle  by  his  worth. 
Mos.  Ah,  how  you  women  can  insinuate, 

And  clear  a  trespass  with  your  sweet-set  tongue ! 

I  will  forget  this  quarrel,  gentle  Alice, 

Provided  I  '11  be  tempted  so  no  more. 

AKDEN,  with  his  friend  FRANKLIN,  travelling  at  night  to  ARDEN'S 
house  at  Fffrersham,  where  he  is  lain  in  wait  for  ly  Kuffians, 
hired  ly  ALICE  and  MOSBIE  to  murder  him;  FRANKLIN  is  in- 


424  THOMAS  MIDDLETOK. 

terrupted  in  a  story  Tie  ivas  beginning  to  tell  by  the  way  of  a 
BAD  WIFE,  by  an  indisposition,  ominous  of  the  impending  danger 
of  his  friend. 

Ard.  Come,  master  Franklin,  onwards  with  your  tale. 
Frank.  I  '11  assure  you,  sir.  you  task  me  much. 
A  heavy  blood" is  gather'd  at  my  heart : 
And  on  the  sudden  is  my  wind  so  short, 
As  hindereth  the  passage  of  my  speech. 
So  fierce  a  qualm  yet  ne'er  assailed  me. 
Ard.  Come,  master  Franklin,  let  us  go  on  softly ; 
The  annoyance  of  the  dust,  or  else  some  meat 
You  ate  at  dinner,  cannot  brook  with  you. 
I  have  been  often  so,  and  soon  amended. 
Frank.  Do  you  remember  where  my  tale  did  leave? 
Ard.  Ay,  where  the  gentleman  did  check  his  wife — 
Frank.  She  being  reprehended  for  the  fact, 

Witness  produced  that  took  her  with  the  fact, 
Her  glove  brought  in  which  there  she  left  behind, 
And  many  other  assured  arguments, 
Her  husband  ask'd  her  whether  it  were  not  so — 
Ard.  Her  answer  then?  I  wonder  how  she  look'd, 
Having  forsv/orn  it  with  so  vehement  oaths, 
And  at  the  instant  so  approved  upon  her. 
Frank.  First  did  she  cast  her  eyes  down  on  the  earth, 
Watching  the  drops  that  fell  amain  from  thence ; 
Then  softly  draws  she  out  her  handkerchief, 
And  modestly  she  wipes  her  tear-stain'd  face  : 
Then  hemm'd  she  out  (to  clear  her  voice  it  should  seem), 
And  with  a  majesty  address'd  herself 
To  encounter  all  their  accusations. 
Pardon  me,  master  Arden,  I  can  no  more ; 
This  fighting  at  my  heart  makes  short  my  wind. 
Ard.  Come,  we  are  almost  now  at  Raynum  Down ; 
Your  pretty  tale  beguiles  the  weary  way : 
I  would  you  were  in  ease  to  tell  it  out. 

[They  are  set  upon  by  the  Ruffians. . 


THE  CHASTE  MAID  IN  CHEAPSIDE :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THOMAS  MIDDKSTON.     1620. 

Citizen  to  a  Knight  complimenting  his  Daughter. 
Pish,  stop  your  words,  good  Knight,  'twill  make  her  blush 
else,  [dom ; 

Which  are  wound  too  high  for  the  daughters  of  the  free- 
Honour,  and  faithful  servant !  they  are  compliments 


THE  CHASTE  MAID  TS  CHEAPSIDE.  425 

For  the  worthy  ladies  of  Whitehall  or  Greenwich ; 
Ev'n  plain,  sufficient,  subsidy  words  serve  us,  sir. 
MASTEE  ALLWIT  (a  Wittot)  describes  his  contentment. 

I  am  like  a  man 

Finding  a  table  furnish'd  to  his  hand 
(As  mine  is  still  for  me),  prays  for  the  founder, 
Bless  the  right  worshipful,  the  good  founder's  life : 
I  thank  him,  he1  has  maintain'd  my  house  these  ten 
Not  only  keeps  my  wife,  but  he  keeps  me.  [years ; 

He.  gets  me  all  my  children,  and  pays  the  nurse 
Weekly  or  monthly,  puts  me  to  nothing, 
Rent,  nor  church  dues,  not  so  much  as  the  scavenger; 
The  happiest  state  that  ever  man  was  born  to. 
I  walk  out  in  a  morning,  come  to  breakfast, 
Find  excellent  cheer,  a  good  fire  in  winter ; 
Look  in  my  coal-house,  about  Midsummer  eve, 
That 's  full,  five  or  six  chaldron  new  laid  up ; 
Look  in  my  back  yard,  I  shall  find  a  steeple 
Made  up  with  Kentish  faggots,  which  o'erlooks 
The  water-house  and  the  windmills.     I  say  nothing, 
But  smile,  and  pin  the  door.     When  she  lies  in, 
(As  now  she  Js  ev'n  upon  the  point  of  grunting), 
A  lady  lies  not  in  like  her ;  there 's  her  imbossings, 
Embroiderings,  spanglings,  and  I  know  not  what, 
As  if  she  lay  with  all  the  gaudy  shops 
In  Gresham's  burse  about  her ;  then  her  restoratives, 
Able  to  set  up  a  young  'pothecary, 
And  richly  store  the  foreman  of  a  drug  shop ; 
Her  sugars  by  whole  loaves,  her  wines  by  rundlets. 
I  see  these  things,  but  like  a  happy  man 
I  pay  for  none  at  all,  yet  fools  think  it  mine ; 
I  have  the  name,  and  in  his  gold  I  shine : 
And  where  some  merchants  would  in  soul  kiss  hell 
To  buy  a  paradise  for  their  wives,  and  dye 
Their  conscience  in  the  blood  of  prodigal  heirs, 
To  deck  their  night-piece ;  yet,  all  this  being  done, 
Eaten  with  jealousy  to  the  inmost  bone  ; 
These  torments  stand  I  freed  of.     I  am  as  clear 
From  jealousy  of  a  wife,  as  from  the  charge. 

0  two  miraculous  blessings !  'tis  the  knight 
Has  taken  that  labour  quite  out  of  my  hands. 

1  may  sit  still,  and  play ;  he 's  jealous  for  me, 
Watches  her  steps,  sets  spies.     I  live  at  ease. 

He  has  both  the  cost  and  torment ;  when  the  string 
Of  his  heart  frets,  I  feed  fat,  laugh,  or  sing. 
»#*#** 
1  A  rich  old  knight,  who  keeps  Allwit's  wife. 


426  LONDOU  CHANTICLEEBS. 

I'll  go  bid  gossips1  presently  myself, 

That 's  all  the  work  I'  11  do ;  nor  need  I  stir, 

But  that  it  is  my  pleasure  to  walk  forth 

And  air  myself  a  little ;  I  am  tied 

To  nothing  in  this  business ;  what  I  do 

Is  merely  recreation,  not  constraint. 

Rescue  from  ^Bailiffs  by  the  Watermen. 

I  had  been  taken  by  eight  Serjeants, 

But  for  the  honest  watermen,  I  am  bound  to  them : 
They  are  the  most  requitefulest  people  living ; 
For,  as  they  get  their  means  by  gentlemen, 
They  are  still  the  forwardest  to  help  gentlemen. 
You  heard  how  one  'scaped  out  of  the  Blackfriars2 
But  awhile  since  from  two  or  three  varlets, 
Came  into  the  house  with  all  their  rapiers  drawn, 
As  if  they'd  dance  the  sword-dance  on  the  stage,    • 
With  candles  in  their  hands,  like  Chandlers'  ghosts ! 
Whilst  the  poor  gentleman,  so  pursued  and  banded, 
Was  by  an  honest  pair  of  oars  safe  landed. 


LONDON  CHANTICLEERS:  A  KTJDE   SKETCH  OF  A 
PLAY,    FEINTED    1659,    BUT    EVIDENTLY    MUCH 

.    OLDER. 

Song  in  praise  of  Ale, 

I. 

Submit,  bunch  of  grapes, 
To  the  strong  barley  ear; 
The  weak  wine  no  longer 
The  laurel  shall  wear. 

ii. 

Sack  and  all  drinks  else, 
Desist  from  the  strife ; 
Ale  's  the  only  aqua  vitae, 
And  liquor  of  life. 

in. 

Then  come,  my  boon  fellows, 
Let 's  drink  it  around ; 
It  keeps  us  from  grave, 
Though  it  lays  us  on  ground. 

IV. 

Ale  's  a  pnysician, 

No  mountebank  bragger; 

1  To  his  wife's  lying-in.  Alsatia,  I  presume. 


EOBTUNE  BY  LAND  AND  SEA.  427 

Can  cure  the  chill  ague, 
Though  it  be  with  the  stagger. 

v. 

Ale 's  a  strong  wrestler, 
Flings  all  it  hath  met ; 
And  makes  the  ground  slippery, 
Though  it  be  not  wet. 

VI. 

Ale  is  both  Ceres, 
And  good  Neptune  too  : 
Ale's  froth  was  the  sea, 
From  which  Venus  grew. 

VII. 

Ale  is  immortal : 
And  be  there  no  stops 
Tn  bonny  lads'  quaffing, 
Can  live  withodt  hops1. 

VIII. 

Then  come,  my  boon  fellows, 
Let 's  drink  it  around ; 
It  keeps  us  from  grave, 
Though  it  lays  us  on  ground. 


FOKTTJNE  BY  LAND  AND  SEA:  A  COMEDY,  BY 
T.  HEYWOOD  AND  W.  EOWLEY,  1655. 

Old  FoBEST/orfo'ds  Us  Son  to  swp  with  some  riotous  gallants  s 
who  goes  notwithstanding,  and  is  slain. 

SCENE. — A  Tavern. 

RAINSWORTH,  FOSTER,  GOODWIN.     To  them  enters 

FRANK  FOREST. 
Rain.  Now,  Frank,  how  stole  you  from  your  father's  arms  ? 

You  have  been  school'd,  no  doubt.     Fie,  fie  upon  it. 

Ere  I  would  live  in  such  base  servitude 

To  an  old  greybeard ;  'sfoot  I  'd  hang  myself. 

A  man  cannot  be  merry,  and  drink  drunk, 

But  he  must  be  control'd  by  gravity. 
Frank.  O,  pardon  him ;  you  know,  he  is  my  father. 

And  what  he  doth  is  but  paternal  love. 

Though  I  be  wild,  I  'm  not  yet  so  past  reason 

His  person  to  despise,  though  I  his  counsel 

Cannot  severely  follow. 

1  The  original  distinction  of  beer  from  the  old  drink  of  our  fore 
fathers,  which  was  made  without  that  ingredient. 


428  T.  HEYWOOD  AJfD  W.  EOWLET. 

Rain.  'Sfoot,  he  is  a  fool. 
Frank.  A  fool!  you  are  a — 
Fost.  Nay,  gentlemen — 
Frank.  Yet  I  restrain  my  tongue, 

Hoping  you  speak  out  of  some  spleenful  rashness, 

And  no  deliberate  malice ;  and  it  may  be 

You  are  sorry  that  a  word  so  unreverent, 

To  wrong  so  good  an  aged  gentleman, 

Should  pass  you  unawares, 

Rain.  Sorry,  Sir  boy !  you  will  not  take  exceptions  ? 
Frank.  Not  against  you  with  willingness,  whom  I 

Have  loved  so  long.     Yet  you  might  think  me  a 

Most  dutiless  and  ungracious  son  to  give 

Smooth  countenance  unto  my  father's  wrong. 

Come,  I  dare  swear 

'Twas  not  your  malice,  and  I  take  it  so. 

Let  *s  frame  some  other  talk.     Hear,  gentlemen — 
Rain.  But  hear  me,  boy !  it  seems,  sir,  you  are  angry — 
Frank.  Not  thoroughly  yet — 
Earn,  Then  what  would  anger  thee  ? 
Frank.  Nothing  from  you. 
Rain.  Of  all  things  under  heaven 

What  wouldst  thjou  loathest  have  me  do  ? 
Frank.  I  would 

Not  have  you  wrong  my  reverent  father ;  and 

I  hope  you  will  not. 
Rain.  Thy  father 's  an  old  dotard. 
Frank.  I  would  not  brook  this  at  a  monarch's  hand, 

Much  less  at  thine. 
Rain.  Ay,  boy?  then  take  you  that. 
Frank-  O,  I  am  stein. 

Good.  Sweet  coz,  what  have  you  done  *  Shift  for  yourself. 
Rain.  Away. —  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Two  Drawers. 
1st  Dr.  Stay  the  gentlemen ;  they  have  killed  &  man ! 

O  sweet  Mr.  Francis  1  One  run  to  his  father's. 
2nd  Dr.  Hark,  hark  i  I  hear  his  father's  voice  below,  'tis  ten 
to  one  he  is  come  to  fetch  him  home  to  supper,  and 
now  he  may  carry  him  home  to  his  grave. 

Enter  the  HOST,  OLD  FOREST,  and  SUSAN  his  daughter. 
Host.  You  must  take  comfort,  sir. 
For.  Is  he  dead,  is  he  dead,  girl  ? 
Sus.  O,  dead,  sir,  Frank  is  dead. 
For.  Alas,  alas,  my  boy !  I  have  not  the  heart 

To  look  upon  his  wide  and  gaping  woundg. 

Pray  tell  me,  sir,  does  this  appear  to  you 


BY  LAND  AITD  SEA.  429 


Fearful  and  pitiful — to  you  tliat  are 
A  stranger  to  my  dead  bo> 


stranger  to  my  dead  boy  ? 
Host .  How  can  it  otherwise  ? 
For.  O  me  most  wretched  of  all  wretched  men  I 

If  to  a  stranger  his  warm  bleeding  wounds 

Appear  so  grisly  and  so  lamentable, 

How  will  they  seem  to  me  that  am  his  father? 

Will  they  not  hale  my  eyebrows  from  their  rounds, 

And  with  an  everlasting  blindness  strike  them? 
Sus.  O,  sir,  look  here. 
For.  Dost  long  to  have  me  blind  ? 

Then  I  '11  behold  them,  since  I  know  thy  mind. 

Ome! 

Is  this  my  son  that  doth  so  senseless  lie, 

And  swims  in  blood  ?  my  soul  shall  fly  with  his 

Unto  the  knd  of  rest.     Behold,  I  crave, 

Being  kill'd  with  grief,  we  both  may  have  one  grave. 
Sus.  Alas,  my  father  5s  dead  too !  gentle  sir, 

Help  to  retire  his  spirits,  over-travail'd 

With  age  and  sorrow. 
Host.  Mr.  Forest— 
Sus.  Father— 
For.  What  says  my  girl  ?  good  morrow.    What 's  a  clock, 

That  you  are  up  so  early  ?  call  up  Frank ; 

Tell  him  he  lies  too  long  a-bed  this  morning. 

He  was  wont  to  call  the  sun  up,  and  to  raise 

The  early  lark,  and  mount  her  'mongst  the  clouds. 

Will  he  not  up  ?  rise,  rise,  thou  sluggish  boy  ! 
Sus.  Alas,  he  cannot,  father, 
For.  Cannot,  why? 

Sus.  Do  you  not  see  his  bloodless  colour  pale  ? 
For.  Perhaps  he 's  sickly,  that  he  looks  so  pale. 
Sus.  Do  you  not  feel  his  pulse  no  motion  keep ; 

How  still  he  lies? 
For.  Then  he  is  fast  asleep. 
Sus.  Do  you  not  see  his  fatal  eyeli d  close  ? 
For.  Speak  softly ;  hinder  not  his  soft  repose. 
Sus.  O,  see  you  not  these  purple  conduits  run  ? 

Know  you  these  wounds  ? 
For.  O  me !  my  murder*  d  son ! 

Enter  Young  MR.  FOREST. 
Y.  For.  Sister! 
Sus.  O  brother,  brother ! 
Y.  For.  Father,  how  cheer  you,  sir  ?  why,  you  were  wont 

To  store  for  others  comfort,  that  by  sorrow 

Were  any  ways  distress'd.    Have  you  all  wasted, 

And  spared  none  to  yourself? 


430  T.  HEYWOOD  AND  W.  EOWLET. 

0.  For.  O  son,  son,  son, 

See,  alas,  see  where  thy  brother  lies. 
He  dined  with  me  to-day,  was  merry,  merry, 
Ay,  that  corpse  was ;  he  that  lies  here,  see  here, 
Thy  murder'd  brother  and  my  son  was.     O  see, 
Dost  thou  not  weep  for  him  ? 

T.  For.  I  shall  find  time; 

When  you  have  took  some  comfort,  I  '11  begin 

To  mourn  his  death,  and  scourge  the  murderer's  sin. 

O.  For.  O,  when  saw  father  such  a  tragic  sight, 
And  did  outlive  it  ?  never,  son,  ah !  never, 
From  mortal  breast  ran  such  a  precious  river. 

Y.  For.  Come,  father,  and  dear  sister,  join  with  me; 
Let  us  all  learn  our  sorrows  to  forget. 
He  owed  a  death,  and  he  hath  paid  that  debt. 

[If  I  were  to  be  consulted  as  to  a  reprint  of  our  old  English 
dramatists,  I  should  advise  to  begin  with  the  collected  plays  of 
Heywood.  He  was  a  fellow  actor,  and  fellow  dramatist,  with 
Shakspeare.  He  possessed  not  the  imagination  of  the  latter ;  but 
in  all  those  qualities  which  gained  for  Shakspeare  the  attribute  of 
Gentle,  he  was  not  inferior  to  him ; — generosity,  courtesy,  tempe 
rance  in  the  depths  of  passion ;  sweetness,  in  a  word,  and  gentle 
ness  ;  Christiani sm,  and  true  hearty  Anglicism  of  feelings,  shaping 
that  Christianism,  shine  throughout  his  beautiful  writings  in  a 
manner  more  conspicuous  than  in  those  of  Shakspeare,  but  only 
more  conspicuous,  inasmuch  as  in  Heywood  these  qualities  are 
primary,  in  the  other  subordinate  to  poetry.  I  love  them  both 
equally,  but  Shakspeare  has  most  of  my  wonder.  Heywood 
should  be  known  to  his  countrymen,  as  he  deserves.  His  plots 
are  almost  invariably  English.  I  am  sometimes  jealous,  that 
Shakspeare  laid  so  few  of  his  scenes  at  home.  I  laud  Ben  Jonson, 
for  that  in  one  instance  having  framed  the  first  draught  of  his 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour  in  Italy,  he  changed  the  scene,  and 
anglicised  his  characters.  The  names  of  them,  in  the  first  edition, 
may  not  be  unamusing. 

Men. 

Lorenzo,  sen.  Bobadilla  (Bobadil). 

Lorenzo,  jun.  Musco. 

Prospero.  Cob  (the  same  in  English). 

Thorello.  Peto. 

Stephano  (Master  Stephen).          Pizo. 

Dr.  Clement  (Justice  Clement).     Matheo  (Master  Mathew). 
Women, 

G-uilliana.  Hesperida. 

Biancha.  Tib  (the  same  in  English). 

How  say  you,  reader  P  Do  not  Master  Kitely,  Mistress  Kitely, 
Master  EJj.owell,  Brainwonn,  &c.  read  better  than  these  Cisal- 
pines?] 


TANCBED  AKD  '(HSMTJND.  431 

TANCEED  AND  OISMUND :  ACTED  BEFOEE  THE 
COTJET  BY  THE  GENTLEMEN  OP  THE  INNEE 
TEMPLE,  1591. 

A  Messenger  brings  to  Q-ISMTJKD  a  cup  from  the  King  her  Father, 
enclosing  the  heart  of  her  Lord,  whom  she  had  espoused  without 


Mess.  Thy  father,  O  Queen,  here  in  this  cup  hath  sent 
The  thing  to  joy  and  comfort  thee  withal, 
Which  thou  lovedst  best ;  ev'n  as  thou  wast  content 
To  comfort  him  with  his  best  joy  of  all. 

Gis.  I  thank  my  father,  and  thee,  gentle  squire ; 
For  this  thy  travail :  take  thou  for  thy  pains 
This  bracelet,  and  commend  me  to  the  king. 

*  *  *  *  * 

So,  now  is  come  the  long-expected  hour, 
The  fatal  hour  I  have  so  looked  for. 
Now  hath  my  father  satisfied  his  thirst 
With  guiltless  blood,  which  he  so  coveted. 
What  brings  this  cup  ?  ay  me  !  I  thought  no  less ; 
It  is  my  earl's,  my  county's  pierced  heart. 
Dear  heart,  too  dearly  hast  thou  bought  my  love 
Extremely  rated  at  too  high  a  price. 
Ah,  my  dear  heart,  sweet  wast  thou  in  thy  life. 
But  in  thy  death  thou  provest  passing  sweet. 
A  fitter  hearse  than  this  of  beaten  gold 
Could  not  be  lotted  to  so  good  a  heart. 
My  father  therefore  well  provided  thus 
To  close  and  wrap  thee  up  in  massy  gold 
And  therewithal  to  send  thee  unto  me, 
To  whom  of  duty  thou  dost  best  belong. 
My  father  hath  in  all  his  life  bewray'd 
A  princely  care  and  tender  love  to  me ; 
But  this  surpasseth,  in  his  latter  days 
To  send  me  this  my  own  dear  heart  to  me. 
Wert  not  thou  mine,  dear  heart,  whilst  that  my  love 
Danced  and  play'd  upon  thy  golden  strings  ? 
Art  thou  not  mine,  dear  heart,  now  that  my  love 
Is  fled  to  heaven,  and  got  him  golden  wings  ? 
Thou  art  mine  own,  and  still  mine  own  shall  be ; 
Therefore  my  father  sendeth  thee  to  me. 
Ah  pleasant  harbourer  of  my  heart's  thought ! 
Ah  sweet  delight,  the  quickener  of  my  soul ! 
Seven  times  accursed  be  the  hand  that  wrought 
Thee  this  despite,  to  mangle  thee  so  foul ; 
Yet  in  this  wound  I  see  my  own  true  love, 


432  HENBT  POBTEB. 

Anil  in  this  wound  thy  magnanimity, 

And  in  this  wound  I  see  thy  constancy. 

Go,  gentle  heart,  go  rest  thee  in  thy  tomb ; 

Receive  this  token  as  thy  last  farewell.     [She  kisseth  it. 

Thy  own  true  heart  anon  will  follow  thee, 

Which  panting  hasteth  for  thy  company. 

Thus  hast  thou  run,  poor  heart,  thy  mortal  race, 

And  rid  thy  life  from  fickle  fortune's  snares ; 

Thus  hast  thou  lost  this  world  and  worldly  cares, 

And  of  thy  foe,  to  honour  thee  withal, 

Received  a  golden  grave  to  thy  desert. 

Nothing  doth  want  to  thy  just  funeral, 

But  my  salt  tears  to  wash  thy  bloody  wound ; 

Which  to  the  end  thou  mightst  receive,  behold, 

My  father  sends  thee  in  this  cup  of  gold : 

And  thou  shalt  have  them ;  though  I  was  resolved 

To  shed  no  tears ;  but  with  a  cheerful  face 

Once  did  I  think  to  wet  thy  funeral 

Only  with  blood,  and  with  no  weeping  eye. 

This  done,  my  soul  forthwith  shall  fly  to  thee ; 

For  therefore  did  my  father  send  thee  me. 

[Nearly  a  century  after  the  date  of  this  drama,  Dryden  pro 
duced  his  admirable  version  of  the  same  story  from  Boccacio. 
The  speech  here  extracted  maybe  compared  with  the  corresponding 
passage  in  the  Sigismonda  and  Guiscardo,  with  no  disadvantage 
to  the  elder  performance.  It  is  quite  as  weighty,  as  pointed,  and 
as  passionate.] 

THE  TWO  ANGEY  WOMEN  OF  ABINGDON :  A 
COMEDY.    BY  HENEY  POETEB,  1599. 

Proverb-monger. 

This  formal  fool,  your  man,  speaks  nought  but  proverbs  j 
And,  speak  men  what  they  can  to  him,  he  '11  answer 
With  some  rhyme-rotten  sentence,  or  old  saying, 
Such  spokes  as  the  ancient  of  the  parish  use ; 
With  "  Neighbour,  it  is  an  old  proverb  and  a  true, 
Goose  giblets  are  good  meat,  old  sack  better  than  new:'* 
Then  says  another,  "  Neighbour,  that  is  true." 
And  when  each  man  hath  drunk  his  gallon  round, 
(A  penny  pot,  for  that  is  the  old  man's  gallon), 
Then  doth  he  lick  his  lips,  and  stroke  his  beard, 
That  is  glued  together  with  the  slavering  drops 
Of  yesty  ale ;  and  when  he  scarce  can  trim 
His  gouty  fingers,  thus  he  '11  fillip  it, 
And  with  a  rotten  hem  say,  "  Hey  my  hearts  " 


TWO  ANGBl  WOMEN  OF  ABINCKDON.  433 

"  Merry  go  sorry  ! "  "  Cock  and  pie,  my  hearts ! " 

And  then  their  saving-penny  proverb  comes, 

And  that  is  this,  "  They  that  will  to  the  wine, 

By  our  lady,  mistress,  shall  lay  their  penny  to  mine." 

This  was  one  of  this  penny-father's  bastards ; 

For  on  my  life  he  never  was  begot 

Without  the  consent  of  some  great  proverb-monger. 

She-wit. 

Why,  she  will  flout  the  devil,  and  make  blush 
The  boldest  face  of  man  that  ever  man  saw. 
He  that  hath  best  opinion  of  his  wit, 
And  hath  his  brain-pan  fraught  with  bitter  jests 
(Or  of  his  own,  or  stolen,  or  howsoever), 
Let  him  stand  ne'er  so  high  in  his  own  conceit, 
Her  wit 's  a  sun  that  melts  him  down  like  butter, 
And  makes  him  sit  at  table  pancake-wise, 
Flat,  flat,  and  ne'er  a  word  to  say  ; 
Yet  she  '11  not  leave  him  then,  but  like  a  tyrant 
She  '11  persecute  the  poor  wit-beaten  man, 
And  so  be-bang  him  with  dry  bobs  and  scoffs, 
When  he  is  down  (most  cowardly,  good  faith  !), 
As  I  have  pitied  the  poor  patient. 
There  came  a  farmer's  son  a-wooing  to  her, 
A  proper  man,  well-landed  too  he  was, 
A  man  that  for  his  wit  need  not  to  ask 
What  time  a  year  't  were  need  to  sow  his  oats, 
Nor  yet  his  barley,  no,  nor  when  to  reap, 
To  plough  his  fallows,  or  to  fell  his  trees, 
Well-experienced  thus  each  kind  of  way ; 
After  a  two  months'  labour  at  the  most, 
(And  yet 't  was  well  he  held  it  out  so  long), 
He  left  his  love ;  she  had  so  laced  his  lips, 
He  could  say  nothing  to  her  but  "  God  be  with  ye  !" 
Why,  she,  when  men  have  dined,  and  call'd  for  cheese, 
Will  straight  maintain  jests  bitter  to  digest; 
And  then  some  one  will  fall  to  argument, 
Who  if  he  over-master  her  with  reason, 
Then  she  '11  begin  to  buffet  him  with  mocks. 

MASTEE  G-OTTRSEY  proposes  to  his  son  a  wife. 
Frank  Goursey.  Ne'er  trust  me,  father,  the  shape  of  marriage. 
Which  I  do  see  in  others,  seems  so  severe, 
I  dare  not  put  my  youngling  liberty 
Under  the  awe  of  that  instruction ; 
And  yet  I  grant,  the  limits  of  free  youth 
Going  astray  are  often  restrain'd  by  that. 
But  Mistress  Wedlock,  to  my  summer  thoughts, 


434  HENEY  POETEB. 

Will  be  too  curst,  I  fear  :  O,  should  she  snip 
My  pleasure-aiming  mind,  I  shall  be  sad ; 
And  swear,  when  I  did  marry,  I  was  mad. 
Old  Goursey.  But,  boy,  let  my  experience  teach  thee  this ; 
(Yet  in  good  faith  thou  speak' st  not  much  amiss) 
When  first  thy  mother's  fame  to  me  did  come, 
Thy  grandsire  thus  then  came  to  me  his  son, 
And  ev'n  my  words  to  thee  to  me  he  said ; 
And,  as  thou  say'st  to  me,  to  him  I  said, 
But  in  a  greater  huff  and  hotter  blood : 
I  tell  you,  on  youth's  tiptoes  then  I  stood. 
Says  he  (good  faith,  this  was  his  very  say), 
When  I  was  young,  I  was  but  Reason's  fool ; 
And  went  to  wedding,  as  to  Wisdom's  school : 
It  taught  me  much,  and  much  I  did  forget ; 
But,  beaten  much  by  it,  I  got  some  wit : 
Though  I  was  shackled  from  an  often-scout, 
Yet  I  would  wanton  it,  when  I  was  out ; 
JT  was  comfort  old  acquaintance  then  to  meet, 
Restrained  liberty  attain'd  is  sweet. 
Thus  said  my  father  to  thy  father,  son  ; 
And  thou  mayst  do  this  too,  as  I  have  done. 

Wandering  in  the  dark  all  night. 
O  when  will  this  same  year  of  night  have  end 
Long-look'd-for  day's  sun,  when  wilt  thou  ascend  ? 
Let  not  this  thief-friend  misty  veil  of  night 
Encroach  on  day,  and  shadow  thy  fair  light ; 
Whilst  thou  comest  tardy  from  thy  Thetis'  bed. 
Blushing  forth  golden  hair  and  glorious  red. 
O,  stay  not  long,  bright  lantern  of  the  day, 
To  light  my  mist-way  feet  to  my  right  way. 

[The  pleasant  comedy,  from  which  these  extracts  are  taken,  is 
contemporary  with  some  of  the  earliest  of  Shakspeare's,  and  is  no 
whit  inferior  to  either  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  or  the  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  for  instance.  It  is  full  of  business,  humour  and  merry 
malice.  Its  night-scenes  are  peculiarly  sprightly  and  wakeful ; 
the  versification  unencumbered,  and  rich  with  compound  epithets. 
WTiy  do  we  go  on  with  ever-new  editions  of  Ford,  and  Massinger, 
and  the  thrice-reprinted  Selections  of  Dodsley  ?  what  we  want  is 
as  many  volumes  more  as  these  latter  consist  of,  filled  with  plays 
(such  as  this),  of  which  we  know  comparatively  nothing.  Not  a 
third  part  of  the  treasures  of  old  English  dramatic  literature  has 
been  exhausted.  Are  we  afraid  that  the  genius  of  Shakspeare 
would  suffer  in  our  estimate  by  the  disclosure  ?  He  would  indeed 
be  somewhat  lessened  as  a  miracle  and  a  prodigy.  But  he  would 
lose  no  height  by  the  confession.  When  a  giant  is  shown  to  us, 
does  it  detract  from  the  curiosity  to  be  told  that  he  has  at  home  a 


THE  FAIS  MAID  OF  THE  EXCHANGE.  435 

gigantic  brood  of  brethren,  less  only  than  himself?  Along  with 
him,  not  from  him,  sprang  up  the  race  of  mighty  dramatists,  who, 
compared  with  the  Otways  and  Bowes  that  followed,  were  as 
Miltons  to  a  Young  or  an  Akenside.  That  he  was  their  elder 
brother,  not  their  parent,  is  evident  from  the  fact  of  the  very  few 
direct  imitations  of  him  to  be  found  in  their  writings.  Webster, 
Decker,  Heywood,  and  the  rest  of  his  great  contemporaries  went 
on  their  own  ways,  and  followed  their  individual  impulses,  not 
blindly  prescribing  to  themselves  his  track.  Marlowe,  the  true 
(though  imperfect)  father  of  our  tragedy,  preceded  him.  The 
comedy  of  Fletcher  is  essentially  unlike  to  that  of  his.  "Tis  out  of 
no  detracting  spirit  that  I  speak  thus,  for  the  plays  of  Shakspeare 
have  been  the  strongest  arid  the  sweetest  food  of  my  mind  from 
infancy ;  but  I  resent  the  comparative  obscurity  in  which  some  of 
his  most  valuable  co-operators  remain,  who  were  his  dear  inti 
mates,  his  stage  and  his  chamber-fellows  while  he  lived,  and  to 
whom  his  gentle  spirit  doubtlessly  then  awarded  the  full  portion 
of  their  genius,  as  from  them  toward  himself  appears  to  have  been 
no  grudging  of  his  acknowledged  excellence.^ 


THE  VIKCHN  WIDOW:  A  COMEDY,  1649;  THE  ONLY 

PEODUCTION,  IN  THAT  KIND,  OF  FEANCIS 

QUAELES,  AUTHOE  OF  "EMBLEMS." 

Song. 

How  blest  are  they  that  waste  their  weary  hours 
In  solemn"  groves  and  solitary  bowers, 
Where  neither  eye  nor  ear 
Can  see  or  hear 
The  frantic  mirth 
And  false  delights  of  frolic  earth ; 
Where  they  may  sit,  and  pant, 
And  breathe  their  pursy  souls ; 
Where  neither  grief  consumes,  nor  griping  want 
Afflicts,  nor  sullen  care  controls  ! 
Away,  false  joys !  ye  murder  where  ye  kiss  : 
There  is  no  heaven  to  that,  no  life  to  this. 


THE  FAIE  MAID  OF  THE  EXCHANGE  :  A  COMEDY. 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD,  1637. 

CEIPPLE  offers  to  fit  FBANK  GoLDiNa  with  ready-made  love 


Frank.  Of  thy  own  writing  ? 
Crip.  My  own,  I  assure  you,  Sir. 


436  THOMAS  HETWOOD. 

Frank.  Faith,  thou  hast  robb'd  some  sonnet-book  or  other, 
And  now  wouldst  make  me  think  they  are  thy  own. 

Crip.  Why,  think'st  thou  that  I  cannot  write  a  letter, 
Ditty,  or  sonnet,  with  judicial  phrase, 
As  pretty,  pleasing,  and  pathetical, 
As  the  best  Ovid-imitating  dunce 
In  the  whole  town  ? 

Frank.  I  think  thou  canst  not. 

Crip.  Yea,  I  '11  swear  I  cannot. 

Yet,  sirrah,  I  could  coney-catch  the  world, 
Make  myself  famous  for  a  sudden  wit, 
And  be  admired  for  my  dexterity, 
Were  T  disposed. 

Frank.  I  prithee,  how  ? 

Crip.  Why,  thus,  There  lived  a  poet  in  this  town 
(If  we  may  term  our  modern  writers  poets), 
Sharp-witted,  bitter-tongued ;  his  pen,  of  steel ; 
His  ink  was  temper'd  with  the  biting  juice 
And  extracts  of  the  bitterest  weeds  that  grew ; 
He  never  wrote  but  when  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water  tilted  in  his  brain. 
This  fellow,  ready  to  give  up  his  ghost 
To  Lucia's  bosom,  did  bequeathe  to  me 
His  library,  which  was  just  nothing 
But  rolls,  and  scrolls,  and  bundles  of  cast  wit, 
Such  as  durst  never  visit  Paul's  church-yard. 
Amongst  them  all  I  lighted  on  a  quire 
Or  two  of  paper,  fill'd  with  songs  and  ditties, 
And  here  and  there  a  hungry  epigram ; 
These  I  reserve  to  my  own  proper  use, 
And  Pater-noster-like  have  conn'd  them  all. 
I  could  now,  when  I  am  in  company, 
At  ale-house,  tavern,  or  an  ordinary, 
Upon  a  theme  make  an  extemporal  ditty 
(Or  one  at  least  should  seem  extemporal), 
Out  of  the  abundance  of  this  legacy, 
That  all  would  judge  it,  and  report  it  too, 
To  be  the  infant  of  a  sudden  wit, 
And  then  were  I  an  admirable  fellow. 

Frank.  This  were  a  piece  of  cunning. 

Crip.  I  could  do  more ;  for  I  could  make  inquiry, 
Where  the  best-witted  gallants  use  to  dine, 
Follow  them  to  the  tavern,  and  there  sit 
In  the  next  room  with  a  calf's  head  and  brimstone, 
And  over-hear  their  talk,  observe  their  humours, 
Collect  their  jests,  put  them  into  a  play, 
And  tire  them  too  with  payment  to  behold 


THE  FAIB  MAID  OP  THE  EXCHANGE.  437 

What  I  have  filch'd  from  them.     This  I  could  do. 
But  O,  for  shame  that  man  should  so  arraign 
Their  own  fee-simple  wits  for  verbal  theft ! 
Yet  men  there  be  that  have  done  this  and  that, 
And  more  by  much  more  than  the  most  of  them1. 

[After  this  specimen  of  the  pleasanter  vein  of  Hey  wood,  I  am 
tempted  to  extract  some  lines  from  his  "  Hierarchie  of  Angels, 
1634 ;  "  not  strictly  as  a  dramatic  poem,  but  because  the  passage 
contains  a  string  of  names,  all  but  that  of  Watson,  his  contem 
porary  dramatists.  He  is  complaining  in  a  mood  half-serious, 
half-comic,  of  the  disrespect  which  poets  in  his  own  times  meet 
with  from  the  world,  compared  with  the  honours  paid  them  by 
antiquity.  Then  they  could  afford  them  three  or  four  sonorous 
names,  and  at  full  length ;  as  to  Ovid,  the  addition  of  Publius 
Naso  Sulmensis  ;  to  Seneca,  that  of  Lucius  Annseus  Cordubensis ; 
and  the  like.  Now,  says  he, 

Our  modem  poets  to  that  pass  are  driven, 

Those  names  are  curtail'd  which  they  first  had  given ; 

And,  as  we  wish'd  to  have  their  memories  drown' d, 

We  scarcely  can  afford  them  half  their  sound. 

Greene,  who  had  in  both  academies  ta'en 

Degree  of  master,  yet  could  never  gain 

To  be  call'd  more  than  Robin :  who,  had  he 

Profess'd  aught  save  the  Muse,  served,  and  been  free 

After  a  seven  years  'prenticeship,  might  have 

(With  credit  too)  gone  Robert  to  his  grave. 

Marlowe,  renown' d  for  his  rare  art  and  wit, 

Could  ne'er  attain  beyond  the  name  of  Kit ; 

Although  his  Hero  and  Leander  did 

Merit  addition  rather.     Famous  Kid 

1  The  full  title  of  this  Play  is  "  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange, 
with  the  Humours  of  the  Cripple  of  Fenchurch."  The  above  satire 
against  some  dramatic  plagiarists  of  the  time,  is  put  into  the 
mouth  of  the  Cripple,  who  is  an  excellent  fellow,  and  the  hero  of 
the  comedy.  Of  his  humour  this  extract  is  a  sufficient  specimen  ; 
but  he  is  described  (albeit  a  tradesman,  yet  wealthy  withal)  with 
heroic  qualities  of  mind  and  body  ;  the  latter  of  which  he  evinces 
by  rescuing  his  mistress  (the  Fair  Maid)  from  three  robbers  by 
the  main  force  of  one  crutch  lustily  applied  ;  and  the  former  by 
his  foregoing  the  advantages  which  this  action  gained  him  in  her 
good  opinion,  and  bestowing  his  wit  and  finesse  in  procuring  for 
her  a  husband,  in  the  person  of  his  friend  Golding,  more  worthy 
of  her  beauty,  than  he  could  conceive  his  own  maimed  and  halting 
limbs  to  be.  It  would  require  some  boldness  in  a  dramatist  now- 
a-days  to  exhibit  such  a  character ;  and  some  luck  in  finding  a 
sufficient  actor,  who  would  be  willing  to  personate  the  infirmities, 
together  with  the  virtues,  of  the  noble  Cripple. 


438  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Was  call'd  but  Tom.    Tom  Watson,  though  he  wrote 

Able  to  make  Apollo's  self  to  dote 

Upon  his  Muse,  for  all  that  he  could  strive, 

Yet  never  could  to  his  full  name  arrive. 

Tom  Nash  (in  his  time  of  no  small  esteem) 

Could  not  a  second  syllable  redeem. 

Excellent  Beaumont,  in  the  foremost  rank 

Of  the  rarest  wits,  was  never  more  than  Frank. 

Mellifluous  Shakspeare,  whose  enchanting  quill 

Commanded  mirth  or  passion,  was  but  Will ; 

And  famous  Jonson,  though  his  learned  pen 

Be  dipp'd  in  Castaly,  is  still  but  Ben. 

Fletcher,  and  Webster,  of  that  learned  pack 

None  of  the  meanest,  neither  was  but  Jack ; 

Decker  but  Tom ;  nor  May,  nor  Middleton  ; 

And  he 's  now  but  Jack  Ford,  that  once  were  John.] 

[Possibly  our  poet  was  a  little  sore,  that  this  contemptuous 
curtailment  of  their  baptismal  names  was  chiefly  exercised  upon 
his  poetical  brethren  of  the  Drama.  We  hear  nothing  about 
Sam  Daniel,  or  Ned  Spenser,  in  his  catalogue.  The  familiarity 
of  common  discourse  might  probably  take  the  greater  liberties 
with  the  dramatic  poets,  as  conceiving  of  them  as  more  upon  a 
level  with  the  stage  actors.  Or  did  their  greater  publicity,  and 
popularity  in  consequence,  fasten  these  diminutives  upon  them 
out  of  a  feeling  of  love  and  kindness,  as  we  say  Harry  the  Fifth, 
rather  than  Henry,  when  we  would  express  good-will  ?  as  himself 
says,  in  those  reviving  words  put  into  his  mouth  by  Shakspeare, 
where  he  would  comfort  and  confirm  his  doubting  brothers : — 

Not  Amurath  an  Amurath  succeeds, 
But  Harry,  Harry ! 

and  doubtless  Heywood  had  an  indistinct  conception  of  this 
truth,  when,  coming  to  his  own  name,  with  that  beautiful  re 
tracting  which  is  natural  to  one  that,  not  satirically  given,  has 
wandered  a  little  out  of  his  way  into  something  recriminative, 
he  goes  on  to  say  : — 

Nor  speak  I  this,  that  any  here  express'd 
Should  think  themselves  less  worthy  than  the  rest 
Whose  names  have  their  full  syllables  and  sound ; 
Or  that  Frank,  Kit,  or  Jack,  are  the  least  wound 
Unto  their  fame  and  merit.     1  for  my  part 
(Think  others  what  they  please)  accept  that  heart, 
Which  courts  my  love  in  most  familiar  phrase ; 
And  that  it  takes  not  from  my  pains  or  praise, 
If  any  one  to  me  so  bluntly  come : 
I  hold  he  loves  me  best  that  calls  me  Tom. 


THE  GAME  AT  CHESS.  439 

ADEASTA :  A  TRAGICOMEDY.    BY  JOHN  JONES, 
1635. 

Dirge. 

Die,  die,  ah  die  ! 
We  all  must  die : 
'Tis  Fates'  decree  : 
Then  ask  not  why. 

When  we  were  framed,  the  Fates  consultedly 
Did  make  this  law,  that  all  things  born  should  die. 
Yet  Nature  strove, 
And  did  deny 
We  should  be  slaves 
To  Destiny. 
At  which,  they  heap'd 
Such  misery; 
That  Nature's  self 
Did  wish  to  die  : 

And  thank  their  goodness,  that  they  would  foresee 
To  end  our  cares  with  such  a  mild  decree. 

Another. 

Come,  lovers,  bring  your  cares, 
Bring  sigh-perfumed  sweets ; 
Bedew  the  grave  with  tears, 
Where  Death  with  Virtue  meets. 
Sigh  for  the  hapless  hour, 
That  knit  two  hearts  in  one ; 
And  only  gave  love  power 
To  die,  when  'twas  begun. 


THE  GAME  AT  CHESS  :  A  COMEDY.    BY  THOMAS 
MIDDLETON,  1624. 

Popish  Priest  to  a  great  Court  Lady,  whom,  he  hopes  to  make  a 
convert  of. 

Let  me  contemplate ; 

With  holy  wonder  season  my  access, 

And  by  degrees  approach  the  sanctuary 

Of  unmatch'd  beauty,  set  in  grace  and  goodness. 

Amongst  the  daughters  of  men  I  have  not  found 

A  more  Catholical  aspect.     That  eye 

Doth  promise  single  life,  and  meek  obedience. 

Upon  those  lips  (the  sweet  fresh  buds  of  youth) 

The  holy  dew  of  prayer  lies,  like  pearl 

Dropp'd  from  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn 


440  JACK  DBUM'S  ENTEETAINMENT. 

Upon  the  bashful  rose.     How  beauteously 

A  gentle  fast  (not  rigorously  imposed) 

Would  look  upon  that  cheek !  and  how  delightful 

The  courteous  physic  of  a  tender  penance, 

(Whose  utmost  cruelty  should  not  exceed 

The  first  fear  of  a  bride)  to  beat  down  frailty ! 


JACK  DEUM'S  ENTEKTAINMENT :  A  COMEDY. 

AUTHOK  UNKNOWN,  1601. 
The  free  humour  of  a  noble  housekeeper. 

Fortune  (  a  knight).  I  was  not  born  to  be  my  cradle's  drudge, 
To  choke  and  stifle  up  my  pleasure's  breath, 
To  poison  with  the  venom'd  cares  of  thrift 
My  private  sweet  of  life ;  only  to  scrape 
A  heap  of  muck,  to  fatten  and  manure 
The  barren  virtues  of  my  progeny, 
And  make  them  sprout  'spite  of  their  want  of  worth ; 
No,  I  do  wish  my  girls  should  wish  me  live ; 
Which  few  do  wish  that  have  a  greedy  sire, 
But  still  expect,  and  gape  with  hungry  lip, 
When  he  '11  give  up  his  gouty  stewardship. 

Friend.  Then  I  wonder, 

You  not  aspire  unto  the  eminence 

And  height  of  pleasing  life.     To  court,  to  court — 

There  burnish,  there  spread,  there  stick  in  pomp, 

Like  a  bright  diamond  in  a  lady's  brow. 

There  plant  your  fortunes  in  the  flowering  spring, 

And  get  the  sun  before  you  of  respect ; 

There  trench  yourself  within  the  people's  love, 

And  glitter  in  the  eye  of  glorious  grace. 

What 's  wealth,  without  respect  and  mounted  place  ? 

Fort.  Worse  and  worse ! — I  am  not  yet  distraught ; 
I  long  not  to  be  squeezed  with  my  own  weight, 
Nor  hoist  up  all  my  sails  to  catch  the  wind 
Of  the  drunk  reeling  commons.     I  labour  not 
To  have  an  awful  presence,  nor  be  fear'd, 
Since  who  is  fear'd  still  fears  to  be  so  fear'd. 
I  care  not  to  be  like  the  Horeb  calf, 
One  day  adored,  and  next  pasht  all  in  pieces. 
Nor  do  I  envy  Polyphemian  puffs, 
Switzers'  slopt  greatness.     I  adore  the  sun,  •  4 

Yet  love  to  live  within  a  temperate  zone. 
Let  who  will  climb  ambition's  glibbery  rounds, 
And  lean  upon  the  vulgar's  rotten  love, 
I  '11  not  corrival  him.     The  sun  will  give 
As  great  a  shadow  to  my  trunk  as  his ; 


THE  CHANGES.  441 

And  after  death,  like  chessmen  having  stood 

In  play,  for  bishops  some,  for  knights,  and  pawns, 

We  all  together  shall  be  tumbled  up 

Into  one  bag. 

Let  hush'd-calm  quiet  rock  my  life  asleep : 

And,  being  dead,  my  own  ground  press  my  bones ; 

Whilst  some  old  beldam,  hobbling  o'er  my  grave, 

May  mumble  thus : 

"  Here  lies  a  knight  whose  money  was  his  slave." 


THE  CHANGES :  A  COMEDY.    BY  JAMES  SHIRLEY, 

1632. 
Excess  of  epithets,  enfeebling  to  Poetry. 

Friend.  Master  Caperwit,  before  you  read,  pray  tell  me, 
Have  your  verses  any  adjectives  ? 

Caperwit.  Adjectives !  would  you  have  a  poem  without 

Adjectives !  they  are  the  flower,  the  grace  of  all  our  lan- 

A  well-chosen  epithet  doth  give  new  soul  [guage. 

To  fainting  poesy,  and  makes  every  verse 

A  bride !     With  adjectives  we  bait  our  lines, 

When  we  do  fish  for  gentlewomen's  loves, 

And  with  their  sweetness  catch  the  nibbling  ear 

Of  amorous  ladies ;  with  the  music  of 

These  ravishing  nouns  we  charm  the  silken  tribe, 

And  make  the  gallant  melt  with  apprehension 

Of  the  rare  word.     I  will  maintain  it  against 

A  bundle  of  grammarians,  in  poetry 

The  substantive  itself  cannot  subsist 

Without  its  adjective. 

Friend.  But  for  all  that, 

Those  words  would  sound  more  full,  methinks,  that  are 

So  larded ;  and  if  I  might  counsel  you,  [not 

You  should  compose  a  sonnet  clean  without  them. 

A  row  of  stately  substantives  would  march 

Like  Switzers,  and  bear  all  the  fields  before  them ; 

Carry  their  weight ;  show  fair,  like  deeds  enroll'd ; 

Not  writs,  that  are  first  made  and  after  fill'd. 

Thence  first  came  up  the  title  of  blank  verse ; — 

You  know,  sir,  what  blank  signifies  ? — when  the  sense, 

First  framed,  is  tied  with  adjectives  like  points, 

And  could  not  hold  together  without  wedges  : 

Hang  it,  'tis  pedantic,  vulgar  poetry. 

Let  children,  when  they  versify,  stick  here 

And  there  these  peddling  words  for  want  of  matter. 

Poets  write  masculine  numbers. 


412  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


THE  GUAEDIAN :  A  COMEDY.    BY  ABEAHAM 

COWLEY,  1650 l. 

DOGGKELL,  the  foolish  poet,  described. 

Cutter.  the  very  emblem  of  poverty  and  poor  poetry. 

The  feet  are  worse  patched  of  his  rhymes  than  of 

his  stockings.    If  one  line  forget  itself,  and  run  out 

beyond  his  elbow,  while  the^next  keeps  at  home 

(like  him),  and  dares  not  show  his  head,  he  calls 

that  an  Ode     *     *     * 
Tabitha.  Nay,  they  mocked  and  fleered  at  us,  as  we  sung  the 

psalm  the  last  Sunday  night. 
Cutt.  That  was  that  mongrel  rhymer ;  by  this  light  he  envies 

his  brother  poet  John  Sternhold,  because  he  cannot 

reach  his  heights.     *     *     * 
Dogff.  (reciting  his  own  verses).  Thus  pride  doth  still  with 

beauty  dwell, 

And  like  the  Baltic  ocean  swell. 
Blade.  Why  the  Baltic,  Doggrell? 
Dogg.  Why  the   Baltic! — this  'tis  not  to  have  read  the 

poets.     *     *     * 

She  looks  like  Niobe  on  the  mountain's  top. 

Cutt.  That  Niobe,  Doggrell,  you  have  used  worse  than 
Phoebus  did.  Not  a  dog  looks  melancholy  but 
he  's  compared  to  Niobe.  He  beat  a  villainous 
tapster  t'  other  day,  to  make  him  look  like  Niobe. 


THE  BEAZEN  AGKE :  AN  HISTOEICAL  PLAY. 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD,  1613. 

VENUS  courts  ADONIS. 

Ven.  Why  doth  Adonis  fly  the  Queen  of  Love, 
And  shun  this  ivory  girdle  of  my  arms  ? 

1  This  was  the  first  draught  of  that  wlu'ch  he  published  after 
wards  under  the  title  of  the  "  Cutter  of  Coleman  Street ; "  and 
contains  the  character  of  a  foolish  poet,  omitted  in  the  latter.  I 
give  a  few  scraps  of  this  character,  both  because  the  edition  is 
scarce,  and  as  furnishing  no  unsuitable  corollary  to  the  critical 
admonitions  in  the  preceding  extract. — The  "  Cutter"  has  always 
appeared  to  me  the  link  between  the  comedy  of  Fletcher  and  of 
Congreve.  In  the  elegant  passion  of  the  love  scenes  it  approaches 
the  former :  and  Puny  (the  character  substituted  for  the  omitted 
poet)  is  the  prototype  of  the  half-witted  wits,  the  Brisks  and 
Dapperwits,  of  the  latter. 


THE  BRAZEN  AGE.  443 

To  be  thus  scarf  d  the  dreadful  God  of  War 

Would  give  me  conquer'd  kingdoms.     For  a  kiss, 

But  half  like  this,  I  could  command  the  Sun 

Rise  'fore  his  hour,  to  bed  before  his  time ; 

And,  being  love-sick,  change  his  golden  beams, 

And  make  his  face  pale  as  his  sister  Moon. 

Look  on  me,  Adon,  with  a  stedfast  eye, 

That  in  these  crystal  glasses  I  may  see 

My  beauty  that  charms  gods,  makes  men  amazed 

And  stown'd  with  wonder.     Doth  this  roseate  pillow 

Offend  my  love? 

With  my  white  fingers  will  I  clap  thy  cheek; 

Whisper  a  thousand  pleasures  in  thy  ear. 

Adon.  Madam,  you  are  not  modest.     I  affect 
The  unseen  beauty  that  adorns  the  mind  : 
This  looseness  makes  you  foul  in  Aden's  eye. 
If  you  will  tempt  me,  let  me  in  your  face 
Read  blushfulness  and  fear ;  a  modest  fear 
Would  make  your  cheek  seem  much  more  beautiful. 

Ven.  wert  thou  made  of  stone, 

I  have  heat  to  melt  thee ;  I  am  Queen  of  Love. 

There  is  no  practice  art  of  dalliance 

Of  which  I  am  not  mistress,  and  can  use. 

I  have  kisses  that  can  murder  unkind  words, 

And  strangle  hatred  that  the  gall  sends  forth ; 

Touches  to  raise  thee,  were  thy  spirits  half-dead; 

Words  that  can  pour  affection  down  thy  ears. 

Love  me  !  thou  canst  not  choose ;  thou  shalt  not  choose. 

Adon.  Madam,  you  woo  not  well.     Men  covet  not 
These  proffer'd  pleasures,  but  love  sweets  denied. 
These  prostituted  pleasures  surfeit  still ; 
Where 's  fear,  or  doubt,  men  sue  with  best  good  will. 

Ven.  Thou  canst  instruct  the  Queen  of  Love  in  love. 
Thou  shalt  not,  Adon,  take  me  by  the  hand ; 
Yet,  if  thou  needs  will  force  me,  take  my  palm. 
I  '11  frown  on  him  :  alas  !  my  brow 's  so  smooth, 
It  will  not  bear  a  wrinkle. — Hie  thee  hence 
Unto  the  chace,  and  leave  me ;  but  not  yet : 
I  '11  sleep  this  night  upon  Endymion's  bank, 
On  which  the  swain  was  courted  by  the  Moon. 
Dare  not  to  come ;  thou  art  in  our  disgrace  • 
Yet,  if  thou  come,  I  can  afford  thee  place 

PH  CEBITS  yeers  VULCAN. 

Vul.  Good  morrow,  Phoebus;  what's  the  news  abroad? — 
For  thou  seest  all  things  in  the  world  are  done, 
Men  act  by  day-light,  or  the  sight  of  sun. 


444  THOMAS  HETWOOD. 

i 

Phab.  Sometime  I  cast  my  eye  upon  the  sea, 

To  see  the  tumbling  seal  or  porpoise  play. 

There  see  I  merchants  trading,  and  their  sails 

Big-bellied  with  the  wind ;  sea  fights  sometimes 

Rise  with  their  smoke-thick  clouds  to  dark  my  beams ; 

Sometimes  I  fix  my  face  upon  the  earth, 

With  my  warm  fervour  to  give  metals,  trees, 

Herbs,  plants  and  flower,  life.     Here  in  gardens  walk 

Loose  ladies  with  their  lovers  arm  in  arm. 

Yonder  the  labouring  ploughman  drives  his  team. 

Further  I  may  behold  main  battles  pitch'd; 

And  whom  I  favour  most  (by  the  wind's  help) 

I  can  assist  with  my  transparent  rays. 

Here  spy  I  cattle  feeding ;  forests  there 

Stored  with  wild  beasts ;  here  shepherds  with  their  lasses, 

Piping  beneath  the  trees  while  their  flocks  graze. 

In  cities  I  see  trading,  walking,  bargaining, 

Buying  and  selling,  goodness,  badness,  all  things — 

And  shine  alike  on  all. 
Vul.  Thrice  happy  Phoebus, 

That,  whilst  poor  Vulcan  is  confined  to  Lemnos, 

Hast  every  day  these  pleasures !     What  news  else  ? 
Phoeb.  No  emperor  walks  forth,  but  I  see  his  state ; 

Nor  sports,  but  I  his  pastimes  can  behold. 

I  see  all  coronations,  funerals, 

Marts,  fairs,  assemblies,  pageants,  sights  and  shows. 

No  hunting,  but  I  better  see  the  chase 

Than  they  that  rouse  the  game.     What  see  I  not  ? 

There  's  not  a  window,  but  my  beams  break  in ; 

No  chink  or  cranny,  but  my  rays  pierce  through ; 

And  there  I  see,  O  Vulcan,  wondrous  things  : 

Things  that  thyself,  nor  any  god  besides, 

Would  give  belief  to. 

And,  shall  I  tell  thee,  Vulcan,  t5  other  day 

What  I  beheld  ? — I  saw  the  great  god  Mars — 
Vul  God  Mars— 

Phoeb.  As  I  was  peeping  through  a  cranny,  abed — 
Vul.  Abed !  with  whom  ? — some  pretty  wench,  I  warrant. 
Phoeb.  She  was  a  pretty  wench. 
Vul.  Tell  me,  good  Phoebus, 

That,  when  I  meet  him,  I  may  flout  god  Mars; 

Tell  me,  but  tell  me  truly,  on  thy  life. 
Phoeb.  Not  to  dissemble,  Vulcan,  'twas  thy  wife ! 

The  peers  of  Greece  go  in  quest  of  HEBOTTLES,  and  find  him  in. 
woman's  weeds,  spinning  with  OMPTTAT/R. 

Jason.  Our  business  was  to  Theban  Hercules. 


THE  BBAZEN  AGE.  445 

'Twas  told  us,  he  reinain'd  with  Omphale, 

The  Theban  queen. 

Telamon.  Speak,  which  is  Omphale  ?  or  which  Alcides  ? 
Pollux.  Lady,  our  purpose  was  to  Hercules ; 

Show  us  the  man. 
Omph.  Behold  him  here. 
Atreus.  Where? 
Omph.  There,  at  his  task. 
Jas.  Alas,  t his  Hercules ! 

This  is  some  base  effeminate  groom,  not  he 

That  with  his  puissance  frighted  all  the  earth. 
Her.  Hath  Jason,  Nestor,  Castor,  Telamon, 

Atreus,  Pollux,  all  forgot  their  friend  ? 

We  are  the  man. 
Jas.  Woman,  we  know  thee  not : 

We  came  to  seek  the  Jove-born  Hercules, 

That  in  his  cradle  strangled  Juno's  snakes, 

And  triumph'd  in  the  brave  Olympic  games.  . 

He  that  the  Cleonean  lion  slew, 

The  Erymanthian  bear,  the  bull  of  Marathon, 

The  Lernean  hydra,  and  the  winged  hart. 
Tel.  We  would  see  the  Theban 

That  Cacus  slew,  Busiris  sacrificed, 

And  to  his  horses  hurl'd  stern  Diomed 

To  be  devour'd. 
Pol.  That  freed  Hesione 

From  the  sea  whale,  and  after  ransack'd  Troy, 

And  with  his  owh  hand  slew  Laomedon. 
Nes.  He  by  whom  Dercilus  and  Albion  fell ; 

He  that  (Ecalia  and  Betncia  won. 
Atr.  That  monstrous  Geryon  with  his  three  heads  vanquish'd, 

With  Linus,  Lichas  that  usurp'd  in  Thebes, 

And  captived  there  his  beauteous  Megara. 
Pol.  That  Hercules  by  whom  the  Centaurs  fell, 

Great  Achelous,  the  Stymphalides, 

And  the  Cremona  giants :  where  is  he  ? 
Tel.  That  traitorous  Nessus  with  a  shaft  transfix'd, 

Strangled  Antheus,  purged  Augeas'  stalls, 

Won  the  bright  apples  of  the  Hesperides. 
Jas.  He  that  the  Amazonian  baldrick  won ; 

That  Achelous  with  his  club  subdued, 

And  won  from  him  the  pride  of  Caledon, 

Fair  Deianeira,  that  now  mourns  in  Thebes 

For  absence  of  the  noble  Hercules  ! 
Atr.  To  him  we  came;  but,  since  he  lives  not  here, 

Come,  lords  ;  we  will  return  these  presents  back 
Unto  the  constant  lady,  whence  they  came. 


446          THE  BATTLE  OF  ALCAZAR. 

Her.  Stay,  lords — 

Jas.  'Mongst  women? — 

Her.  For  that  Theban's  sake, 

Whom  you  profess  to  love,  and  came  to  seek, 
Abide  awhile ;  and  by  my  love  to  Greece, 
I  '11  bring  before  you  that  lost  Hercules, 
For  whom  you  came  to  inquire. 

Tel.  It  works,  it  works — 

Her.  How  have  I  lost  myself! 

Did  we  all  this  ?     Where  is  that  spirit  become, 

That  was  in  us  ?  no  marvel,  Hercules, 

That  thou  be'st  strange  to  them,  that  thus  disguised 

Art  to  thyself  unknown ! — hence  with  this  distaff, 

And  base  effeminate  chars  :  hence,  womanish  tires  ; 

And  let  me  once  more  be  myself  again. 

Your  pardon,  Omphale ! 

[I  cannot  take  leave  of  this  drama  without  noticing  a  touch  of 
the  truest  pathos,  which  the  writer  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Me- 
leager,  as  he  is  wasting  away  by  the  operation  of  the  fatal  brand, 
administered  to  him  by  his  wretched  mother : — 

My  flame  increaseth  still — O,  father  CEneus ; 
And  you,  Althea,  whom  I  would  call  mother, 
But  that  my  genius  prompts  me  thou  art  unkind : 
And  yet  farewell ! 

What  is  the  boasted  "  Forgive  me,  but  forgive  me !"  of  the  dying 
wife  of  Shore  in  Eowe,  compared  with  these  three  little  words  ?] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ALCAZAE :  A  TEAGEDY,  1594. 

MULT  MAHAMET,  driven  from  his  throne  into  a  desert,  robs  the 

lioness  to  feed  his  fainting  wife  CALIPOLIS. 
Muly.  Hold  thee,  Calipolis :  feed,  and  faint  no  more. 

This  flesh  I  forced  from  a  lioness ; 

Meat  of  a  princess,  for  a  princess*  meat. 

Learn  by  her  noble  stomach  to  esteem 

Penury  plenty  in  extremest  dearth ; 

Who,  when  she  saw  her  foragement  bereft, 

Pined  not  in  melancholy  or  childish  fear ; 

But,  as  brave  minds  are  strongest  in  extremes, 

So  she,  redoubling  her  former  force, 

Ranged  through  the  woods,  and  rent  the  breeding  vaults 

Of  proudest  savages,  to  save  herself. 

Feed  then,  and  faint  not,  fair  Calipolis ; 

For,  rather  than  fierce  famine  shall  prevail 

To  gnaw  thy  entrails  with  her  thorny  teeth, 


THE  SEYEN  CHAMPIONS  OF  CHKISTEKDOM.       447 

The  conquering  lioness  shall  attend  on  thee, 
And  lay  huge  heaps  of  slaughter'd  carcases 
As  bulwarks  in  her  way  to  keep  her  back. 
I  will  provide  thee  of  a  princely  ospray, 
That,  as  she  flieth  over  fish  in  pools, 
The  fish  shall  turn  their  glistering  bellies  up, 
And  thou  shalt  take  the  liberal  choice  of  all. 
Jove's  stately  bird  with  wide  commanding  wings 
Shall  hover  still  about  thy  princely  head, 
And  beat  down  fowls  by  shoals  into  thy  lap. 
Feed  then,  and  faint  not,  fair  Calipolis. 

[This  address,  for  its  barbaric  splendour  of  conception,  extrava 
gant  vein  of  promise,  not  to  mention  some  idiomatic  peculiarities, 
and  the  very  structure  of  the  verse,  savours  strongly  of  Marlowe ; 
but  the  real  author,  I  believe,  is  unknown.] 


THE  SEVEN  CHAMPIONS  OF  CHRISTENDOM: 
BY  JOHN  KIRK.    ACTED  1638. 

CALIB,  the  Witch,  in  the  opening  scene,  in  a  storm. 

Calib.  Ha !  louder  a  little  j  so,  that  burst  wras  well. 
Again ;  ha,  ha !  house,  house  your  heads,  ye  fear- 
-struck  mortal  fools,  when  Calib's  consort  plays 
A  hunts-up  to  her.     How  rarely  doth  it  languell 
In  mine  ears !  these  are  mine  organs ;  the  toad 
The  bat,  the  raven,  and  the  fell  whistling  bird, 
Are  all  my  anthem-singing  quiristers. 
Such  sapless  roots,  and  liveless  wither'd  woods, 
Are  pleasanter  to  me  than  to  behold 
The  jocund  month  of  May,  in  whose  green  head  of  youth 
The  amorous  Flora  strews  her  various  flowers, 
And  smiles  to  see  how  brave  she  has  deck'd  her  girl. 
But  pass  we  May,  as  game  for  fangled  fools, 
That  dare  not  set  a  foot  in  Art's  dark,  se 
cret,  and  bewitching  path,  as  Calib  has. 
Here  is  my  mansion. 
Within  the  rugged  bowels  of  this  cave, 
This  crag,  this  cliff,  this  den ;  which  to  behold 
Would  freeze  to  ice  the  hissing  trammels  of  Medusa. 
Yet  here  enthroned  I  sit,  more  richer  in  my  spells 
And  potent  charms,  than  is  the  stately  mountain  queen, 
Dress'd  with  the  beauty  of  her  sparkling  gems, 
To  vie  a  lustre  'gainst  the  heavenly  lamps. 
But  we  are  sunk  in  these  antipodes ;  so  choked 
With  darkness  is  great  Calib's  cave,  that  it 


448  EOBEET  YABBINGTOtf. 

Can  stifle  day.     It  can  ? — it  shall — for  we  do  loathe  the 

And,  as  our  deeds  are  black,  we  hug  the  night,     [light  j 

But  where  's  this  boy,  my  George,  my  love,  my  life, 

Whom  Calib  lately  dotes  on  more  than  life  ? 

I  must  not  have  him  wander  from  my  love 

Farther  than  summons  of  my  eye,  or  beck, 

Can  call  him  back  again.     But  'tis  my  fiend- 

-begotten  and  deform'd  issue l,  misleads  him ; 

For  which  I  '11  rock  him  in  a  storm  of  hail, 

And  dash  him  'gainst  the  pavement  on  the  rocky  den ; 

He  must  not  lead  my  joy  astray  from  me. 

The  parents  of  that  boy,  begetting  him, 

Begot  and  bore  the  issue  of  their  deaths ; 

Which  done2,  the  child  I  stole, 

Thinking  alone  to  triumph  in  his  death, 

And  bathe  my  body  in  his  popular  gore ; 

But  dove-like  Nature  favour' d  so  the  child, 

That  Calib's  killing-knife  fell  from  her  hand; 

And,  'stead  of  stabs,  I  kiss'd  the  red-lipp'd  boy. 


TWO  TEAGEDIES  IN  ONE :  BY  EOBEET  YAEEINOTON, 
WrHO  WEOTE  IN  THE  EEIQN  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Truth,  the  Chorus,  to  the  spectators. 
All  you,  the  sad  spectators  of  this  act, 
Whose  hearts  do  taste  a  feeling  pensiveness 
Of  this  unheard-of  savage  massacre ; 
O,  be  far  off  to  harbour  such  a  thought, 
As  this  audacious  murderer  put  in  act ! 
I  see  your  sorrows  flow  up  to  the  brim, 
And  overflow  your  cheeks  with  brinish  tears : 
But  though  this  sight  bring  surfeit  to  the  eye, 
Delight  your  ears  with  pleasing  harmony, 
That  ears  may  countercheck  your  eyes,  and  say, 
"  Why  shed  you  tears  ?  this  deed  is  but  a  Play3." 

Murderer  to  his  sister,  about  to  stow  away  the  trunk  of  the  body, 

having  severed  it  from  the  limbs. 
Hark,  Rachael !  I  will  cross  the  water  straight, 

1  A  sort  of  young  Caliban,  her  son,  who  presently  enters,  com 
plaining  of  a  "  bloody  coxcomb"  which  the  young  St.  George  had 
given  him. 

2,  Calib  had  killed  the  parents  of  the  young  St.  George. 

9  The  whole  theory  of  the  reason  of  our  delight  in  tragic  repre 
sentations,  which  has  cost  so  many  elaborate  chapters  of  criticism, 
is  condensed  in  these  four  last  lines. — Aristotle  quintessentialised. 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  OF  PARIS.  449 

And    ing  this  middle  mention  of  a  man 
Into  tome  ditch. 

[It  is  curious,  that  this  old  play  comprises  the  distinct  action 
of  two  atrocities ;  the  one  a  vulgar  murder,  committed  in  our  own 
Thames-street,  with  the  names  and  incidents  truly  and  historically 
set  down ;  the  other  a  murder  in  high  life,  supposed  to  be  acting 
at  the  same  time  in  Italy,  the  scenes  alternating  between  that  coun 
try  and  England :  the  story  of  the  latter  is,  mutatis  mutandis,  no 
>ther  than  that  of  our  own  "Babes  in  the  Wood,"  transferred  to 
Italy,  from  delicacy  no  doubt  to  some  of  the  family  of  the  rich 
wicked  uncle,  who  might  yet  be  living.  The  treatment  of  the  two 
differs  as  the  romance-like  narratives  in  "  G-od's  Revenge  against 
Murder,"  in  which  the  actors  of  the  murders  (with  the  trifling  ex 
ception  that  they  were  murderers)  are  represented  as  most  accom 
plished  and  every  way  amiable  young  gentlefolks  of  either  sex — 
as  much  as  that  differs  from  the  honest  unglossing  pages  of  the 
homely  Newgate  Ordinary.] 


THE  AEEAIONMENT  OF  PAEIS :   A  DEAMATIC 
PASTOEAL,  BY  GHEOEGKE  PEELE,  1584. 

FLOBA  dresses  IDA  HILL,  to  honour  the  coming  of  the  Three 
Goddesses. 

Flora.  Not  Iris  in  her  pride  and  bravery 
Adorns  her  Arch  with  such  variety ; 
Nor  doth  the  Milk-white  Way  in  frosty  night 
Appear  so  fair  and  beautiful  in  sight, 
As  done  these  fields,  and  groves,  and  sweetest  bowers, 
Bestrew'd  and  deck'd  with  parti-colour'd  flowers. 
Along  the  bubbling  brooks,  and  silver  glide, 
That  at  the  bottom  doth  in  silence  slide, 
The  watery  flowers  and  lilies  on  the  banks 
Like  blazing  comets  burgeon  all  in  ranks ; 
Under  the  hawthorn  and  the  poplar  tree, 
Where  sacred  Phoebe  may  delight  to  be : 
The  primrose,  and  the  purple  hyacinth, 
The  dainty  violet,  and  the  wholesome  minth ; 
The  double  daisy,  and  the  cowslip  (queen- 
Of  summer  flowers),  do  overpeer  the  green ; 
And  round  about  the  valley  as  ye  pass, 
Ye  may  ne  see  (for  peeping  flowers)  the  grass. — 
They  are  at  hand  by  this. 
Juno  hath  left  her  chariot  long  ago, 
And  hath  retura'd  her  peacocks  by  her  rainbow; 
And  bravely,  as  becomes  the  wife  of  Jove, 
Doth  honour  by  her  presence  to  our  grove : 

it  IB 


450  GEOEGE  PEELE. 

Fair  Venus  she  hath  let  her  sparrows  fly, 

To  tend  on  her,  and  make  her  melody ; 

Her  turtles  and  her  swans  unyoked  be, 

And  nicker  near  her  side  for  company  : 

Pallas  hath  set  her  tigers  loose  to  feed, 

Commanding  them  to  wait  when  she  hath  need : 

And  hitherward,  with  proud  and  stately  pace, 

To  do  us  honour  in  the  sylvan  chase, 

They  march,  like  to  the  pomp  of  heaven  above, 

Juno,  the  wife  and  sister  of  King  Jove, 

The  warlike  Pallas,  and  the  Queen  of  Love. 

The  Muses  and  Country  Girls  assemble  to  welcome  the  Goddesses. 

Pomona.  with  country  store  like  friends  we  venture  forth. 

Think'st,  Faunus,  that  these  goddesses  will  take  our  gifts 

in  worth  ? 
Faun.  Nay,  doubtless ;  for, 'shall  tell  thee,  dame,  'twere  better 

give  a  thing, 

A  sign  of  love,  unto  a  mighty  person,  or  a  king, 
Than  to  a  rude  and  barbarous  swain  both  bad  and  basely 
born :  [scorn. 

For  gently  takes  the  gentleman  that  oft  the  clown  will 

The  welcoming  Song. 
Country  Gods.  O  Ida,  O  Ida,  O  Ida,  happy  hill ! 

Tliis  honour  done  to  Ida  may  it  continue  still ! 
Muses.  Ye  country  gods,  that  in  this  Ida  wonne, 
Bring  down  your  gifts  of  welcome, 
For  honour  done  to  Ida. 

Gods.  Behold  in  sign  of  joy  we  sing, 
And  signs  of  joyful  welcome  bring, 
For  honour  done  to  Ida. 

Pan.  The  god  of  shepherds,  and  his  mates, 
With  country  cheer  salutes  your  States : 
Fair,  wise,  and  worthy,  as  you  be ! 
And  thank  the  gracious  Ladies  Three, 
For  honour  done  to  Ida. 

PARIS.     (ENONE. 
Par.  CEnone,  while  we  bin  disposed  to  walk, 

Tell  me,  what  shall  be  subject  of  our  talk  ? 

Thou  hast  a  sort  of  pretty  tales  in  store ; 

'Dare  say  no  nymph  in  Ida's  woods  hath  more. 

Again,  beside  thy  sweet  alluring  face, 

In  telling  them  thou  hast  a  special  grace. 

Then  prithee,  sweet,  afford  some  pretty  thing, 

Some  toy  that  from  thy  pleasant  wit  doth  spring. 
(En.  Paris,  my  heart's  contentment,  and  my  choice, 


I 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  Or  PARIS.  451 

Use  thou  thy  pipe,  and  I  will  use  my  voice ; 
So  shall  thy  just  request  not  be  denied, 
And  time  well-spent,  and  both  be  satisfied. 

Par.  Well,  gentle  nymph,  although  thou  do  me  wrong, 
That  can  ne  tune  my  pipe  unto  a  song, 
Me  list  this  once,  CEnone,  for  thy  sake, 
This  idle  task  on  me  to  undertake. 

[They  sit  wnder  a  tree  together. 

(En.  And  whereon  then  shall  be  my  roundelay  ? 

For  thou  hast  heard  my  store  long  since,  'dare  say- 
How  Saturn  did  divide  his  kingdom  tho; 
To  Jove,  to  Neptune,  and  to  Dis  below : 
How  mighty  men  made  foul  successless  war 
Against  the  gods,  and  state  of  Jupiter : 
How  Phorcyas'  'ympe,  that  was  so  trick  and  fair 
That  tangled  Neptune  in  her  golden  hair, 
Became  a  Gorgon  for  her  lewd  misdeed ; — 
A  pretty  fable,  Paris,  for  to  read ; 
A  piece  of  cunning,  trust  me  for  the  nonce, 
That  wealth  and  beauty  alter  men  to  stones : 
How  Salmacis,  resembling  Idleness, 
Turns  men  to  women  all  through  wantonness : 
How  Pluto  raught  Queen  Pluto's  daughter  thence, 
And  what  did  follow  of  that  love  offence : 
Of  Daphne  turn'd  into  the  laurel  tree, 
That  shows  a  mirror  of  virginity  : 
How  fair  Nai  cissus,  tooting  on  his  shade, 
Reproves  disdain,  and  tells  how  form  doth  vade : 
How  cunning  Philomela's  needle  tells, 
What  force  in  love,  what  wit  in  sorrow,  dwells  : 
What  pains  unhappy  souls  abide  in  hell, 
They  say,  because  on  earth  they  lived  not  well, — 
Ixion's  wheel,  proud  Tantal's  pining  wo-, 
Prometheus'  torment,  and  a  many  moe ; 
How  Danaus'  daughters  ply  their  endless  task ; 
What  toil  the  toil  of  Sysiphus  doth  ask. 
All  these  are  old,  and  known,  I  know;  yet,  if  thou  wilt 

have  any, 

Choose  some  of  these ;  for,  trust  me  else,  CEnone  hath 
not  many. 

Par.  Nay,  what  thou  wilt ;  but  since  my  cunning  not  com 
pares  with  thine, 
Begin  some  toy  that  I  can  play  upon  this  pipe  of  mine. 

(En.  There  is  a  pretty  sonnet  then,  we  call  it  Cupid's  Curse  : 

"  They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new,  pray  gods  they 

change  for  worse."  [They  sing. 

2  e2 


452  GEORGE  PEELB. 

(En.  Fair,  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be, 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 

A  love  for  any  lady. 
Par.  Fair,  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be, 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 

And  for  no  other  lady. 
(En.  My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay, 

And  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 
And  of  my  love  my  roundelay, 
My  merry,  merry,  merry  roundelay, 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  Curse  : 
They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse. 


(En.  My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing, 
My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry,  merry  roundelays. 
Amen  to  Cupid's  Curse  : 
They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse. 

T>  ,7       f  Fair,  and  fair,  &c.  1 

Sot*'    {  Fairi  and  fair,  &c.| 

To  my  esteemed  friend,  and  excellent  musician,  V.  2V.,  Esq. 

DEAB  SIB, 

I  conjure  you,  in  the  name  of  all  the  sylvan  deities,  and  of  the 
Muses,  whom  you  honour,  and  they  reciprocally  love  and  honour 
you,  —  rescue  this  old  and  passionate  ditty  —  the  very  flower  of  an 
old  forgotten  pastoral,  which  had  it  been  in  all  parts  equal,  the 
Faithful  Shepherdess  of  Fletcher  had  been  but  a  second  name  in 
this  sort  of  writing  -  rescue  it  from  the  profane  hands  of  every 
common  composer  ;  and  in  one  of  your  tranquillest  moods,  when 
you  have  most  leisure  from  those  sad  thoughts,  which  sometimes 
unworthily  beset  you  ;  yet  a  mood,  in  itself  not  unallied  to  the 
better  sort  of  melancholy  ;  laying  by  for  once  the  lofty  organ,  with 
which  you  shake  the  Temples  ;  attune,  as  to  the  pipe  of  Paris 
himself,  to  some  milder  and  more  love-according  instrument,  this 
pretty  courtship  between  Paris  and  his  (then-not  as  yet-forsaken) 
CEnone.  Oblige  me,  and  all  more  knowing  judges  of  music  and 
of  poesy,  by  the  adaptation  of  fit  musical  numbers,  which  it  only 
wants  to  be  the  rarest  love  dialogue  in  our  language. 

Your  implorer, 

O.X. 


THE  CITY  NIGHT-CAP.  453 

THE  CITY  NiaHT-CAP:  A  TEAGII-COMEDY, 
BY  BOBEET  DAVENPOET,  1651. 

LOBENZO  MEDICO  suborns  three  Slaves  to  swear  falsely  to  an 
adultery  between  his  virtuous  wife  ABSTEMIA,  and  his  friend 
PHILIPPO.  They  give  their  testimony  before  the  Duke  of  Ve 
rona,  and  the  Senators. 

Phil.  —  how  soon 

Two  souls,  more  precious  than  a  pair  of  worlds, 
Are  levell'd  below  death ! 

Abst.  O,  hark !  did  you  not  hear  it  ? 

Sen.  What,  lady  ? 

Abst.  This  hour  a  pair  of  glorious  towers  is  fallen ; 
Two  godly  buildings  beaten  with  a  breath 
Beneath  the  grave  :  you  all  have  seen  this  day 
A  pair  of  souls  both  cast  and  kiss'd  away. 

Sen.  What  censure  gives  your  grace  ? 

Duke.  In  that  I  am  kinsman 

To  the  accuser,  that  I  might  not  appear 
Partial  in  judgment,  let  it  seem  no  wonder, 
If  unto  your  gravities  I  leave 
The  following  sentence :  but  as  Lorenzo  stands 
A  kinsman  to  Verona,  so  forget  not, 
Abstemia  still  is  sister  unto  Venice. 

Phil.  Misery  of  goodness ! 

Abst.  O  Lorenzo  Medico, 

Abstemia's  lover  once,  when  he  did  vow, 

And  when  I  did  believe ;  then  when  Abstemia 

Denied  so  many  princes  for  Lorenzo, 

Then  when  you  swore : — O,  maids,  how  men  can  weep, 

Print  protestations  on  their  breasts,  and  sigh, 

And  look  so  truly,  and  then  weep  again, 

And  then  protest  again,  and  again  dissemble ! — 

When  once  enjoy'd,  like  strange  sights,  we  grow  stale ; 

And  find  our  comforts,  like  their  wonder,  fail. 

Phil.  O,  Lorenzo  1 

Look  upon  tears,  each  one  of  which  well-valued 
Is  worth  the  pity  of  a  king ;  but  thou 
Art  harder  far  than  rocks,  and  canst  not  prize 
The  precious  waters  of  truth's  injured  eyes. 
Lor.  Please  your  grace,  proceed  to  censure. 
Duke.  Thus  'tis  decreed,  as  these  lords  have  set  down, 
Against  all  contradiction.     Signor  Philippe, 
In  that  you  have  thus  grossly,  sir,  dishonour'd 
Even  our  blood  itself  in  this  rude  injury, 
Lights  on  our  kinsman ;  his  prerogative 
Implies  death  on  your  trespass ;  but,  (your  merit 


454-  EOBEET  DAYETfPOET. 

Of  more  antiquity  than  is  your  trespass,) 

That  death  is  blotted  out ;  perpetual  banishment, 

On  pain  of  death  if  you  return,  for  ever 

From  Verona  and  her  signories. 
Phil.  Verona  is  kind. 
Sen.  Unto  you,  madam, 

This  censure  is  allotted  :  your  high  blood 

Takes  off  the  danger  of  the  law  ;  nay,  from 

Even  banishment  itself:  this  lord,  your  husband, 

Sues  only  for  a  legal  fair  divorce, 

Which  \ve  think  good  to  grant,  the  church  allowing : 

And  in  that  the  injury 

Chiefly  reflects  on  him,  he  hath  free  licence 

To  marry  when  and  whom  he  pleases. 
Abs.  I  thank  ye, 

That  you  are  favourable  unto  my  love, 

Whom  yet  I  love  and  weep  for. 
Phil.  Farewell,  Lorenzo; 

This  breast  did  never  yet  harbour  a  thought 

Of  thee,  but  man  was  in  it,  honest  man : 

There 's  all  the  words  that  thou  art  worth.    Of  your  grace 

I  humbly  thus  take  leave.     Farewell,  my  lords ; — 

And  lastly  farewell  Thou,  fairest  of  many, 

Yet  by  far  more  unfortunate ! — look  up, 

And  see  a  crown  held  for  thee ;  win  it,  and  die 

Love's  martyr,  the  sad  map  of  injury. — 

And  so  remember,  sir,  your  injured  lady 

Has  a  brother  yet  in  Venice. 

PniLipro,  at  an  after-trial,  challenges  LOEENZO. 
Phil.  —  in  the  integrity 

And  glory  of  the  cause,  I  throw  the  pawn 
Of  my  afflicted  honour ;  and  on  that 
I  openly  affirm  your  absent  lady 
Chastity's  well-knit  abstract ;  snow  in  the  fall, 
Purely  refined  by  the  bleak  northern  blast, 
Not  freer  from  a  soil ;  the  thoughts  of  infants 
But  little  nearer  heaven  :  and  if  these  princes 
Please  to  permit,  before  their  guilty  thoughts 
Injure  another  hour  upon  the  lady, 
My  right-drawn  sword  shall  prove  it. — 

ABSTEMIA,  decoyed,  to  a  Irothel  in  Milan,  is  attempted  ty  the 
Duke's  Son. 

Prince.  Do  you  know  me  ? 
Abst.  Yes,  sir,  report  hath  given  intelligence, 
You  are  the  prince,  the  duke's  son. 


THE  CITY  FIGHT-CAP.  455 

Prince.  Both  in  one. 
Abst.  Report,  sure, 

Spoke  but  her  native  language.     You  are  none 

Of  either. 
Prince.  How ! 
Abst.  Were  you  the  prince,  you  would  not  sure  be  slaved 

To  your  blood's  passion.     I  do  crave  your  pardon 

For  my  rough  language.     Truth  hath  a  forehead  free 

And  in  the  tower  of  her  integrity 

Sits  an  unvanquish'd  virgin.     Can  you  imagine, 

'Twill  appear  possible  you  are  the  prince  ? 

Why,  when  you  set  your  foot  first  in  this  house, 

You  crush'd  obedient  duty  unto  death ; 

And  even  then  fell  from  you  your  respect. 

Honour  is  like  a  goodly  old  house,  which 

If  we  repair  not  still  with  virtue's  hand, 

Like  a  citadel  being  madly  raised  on  sand, 

It  falls,  is  swallow' d,  and  not  found. 
Prince.  If  thou  rail  upon  the  place,  prithee  how  earnest  tliou 

hither? 
Abst.  By  treacherous  intelligence ;  honest  men  so, 

In  the  way  ignorant,  through  thieves'  purlieus  go. — 

Are  you  son  to  such  a  father  ? 

Send  him  to  his  grave  then, 

Like  a  white  almond  tree,  full  of  glad  days 

With  joy  that  he  begot  so  good  a  son. 

O  sir,  methinks,  I  see  sweet  majesty 

Sit  with  a  mourning  sad  face  full  of  sorrows, 

To  see  you  in  this  place.     This  is  a  cave 

Of  scorpions  and  of  dragons.     O,  turn  back ; 

Toads  here  engender :  'tis  the  steam  of  death ; 

The  very  air  poisons  a  good  man's  breath. 
Prince.  Let  me  borrow  goodness  from  thy  lips.     Farewell ! 

Here 's  a  new  wonder ;  I  've  met  heaven  in  hell. 

Undue  praise  declined. 

you  are  far  too  prodigal  in  praise, 

And  crown  me  with  the  garlands  of  your  merit ; 
As  we  meet  barks  on  rivers, — the  strong  gale 
Being  best  friends  to  us, — our  own  swift  motion 
Makes  us  believe  that  t'  other  nimbler  rows ; 
Swift  virtue  thinks  small  goodness  fastest  goes. 


456  HENET  KILLIGEEW. 

THE  CONSPIRACY :  A  TRAGEDY, 
BY  HENRY  KELLIGREW,  1638.    AUTHOR'S  AGE  17. 

The  rightful  heir  to  the  crown  kept  from  Ms  inheritance :  <m  Angel 
sings  to  him  sleeping. 


While  Morpheus  thus  does  gently  lay 
His  powerful  charge  upon  each  part 

Making  thy  spirits  ev'n  obey 

The  silver  charms  of  his  dull  art ; 

I,  thy  Good  Angel,  from  thy  side, — 
As  smoke  doth  from  the  altar  rise, 

Making  no  noise  as  it  doth  glide, — 
Will  leave  thee  in  this  soft  surprise ; 

And  from  the  clouds  will  fetch  thee  down 

A  holy  vision,  to  express 
Thy  right  unto  an  earthly  crown ; 

No  power  can  make  this  kingdom  less. 

But  gently,  gently,  lest  I  bring 
A  start  in  sleep  by  sudden  flight, 

Playing  aloof,  and  hovering, 
Till  I  am  lost  unto  the  sight. 

This  is  a  motion  still  and  soft ; 

So  free  from  noise  and  cry, 
That  Jove  himself,  who  hears  a  thought, 

Knows  not  when  we  pass  by. 


TOTTENHAM  COURT:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THOMAS  NABBS,  1638. 

Lovers  pursued. 

WOETHGOOD,  BELLAMIE,  as  travelling  together  before  daylight. 
Worth.  Come,  my  delight !  let  not  such  painted  griefs 

Press  down  thy  soul :  the  darkness  but  presents 

Shadows  of  fear,  which  should  secure  us  best 

From  danger  of  pursuit. 
Bell.  Would  it  were  day ! 

My  apprehension  is  so  full  of  horror ; 

I  think  each  sound,  the  air's  light  motion 

Makes  in  these  thickets,  is  my  uncle's  voice, 

Threatening  our  ruins. 
Worth.  Let  his  rage  persist 

To  enterprise  a  vengeance,  we  '11  prevent  it. 

Wrapp'd  in  the  arms  of  Night,  that  favours  lovers, 


TOTTENHAM  COTJET.  457 

We  hitherto  have  'scaped  his  eager  search ; 
And  are  arrived  near  London.     Sure  I  hear 
The  bridge's  cataracts,  and  such-like  murmurs 
As  night  and  sleep  yield  from  a  populous  number. 

Bell  But  when  will  it  be  day?  the  light  hath  comfort  j 
Our  first  of  useful  senses  being  lost, 
The  rest  are  less  delighted. 

Worth.  The  early  cock 

Hath  sung  his  summons  to  the  day's  approach : 
'Twill  instantly  appear.     Why  startled,  Bellamie? 

Bell.  Did  no  amazing  sounds  arrive  thy  ear? 
Pray,  listen. 

Worth.  Come,  come ;  'tis  thy  fear  suggests 
Elusive  fancies.     Under  love's  protection 
We  may  presume  of  safety. 

(Within.}  Follow, follow, follow. 

Bell.  Ay  me,  'tis  sure  my  uncle ;  dear  love  Worthgood  ? 

Worth.  Astonishment  hath  seized  my  faculties. 
My  love,  my  Bellamie,  ha ! 

Bell.  Dost  thou  forsake  me,  Worthgood  ?  [Exit,  as  losing  him. 

Worth.  Where 's  my  love  ? 

Dart  from  thy  silver  crescent  one  fair  beam 
Through  this  black  air,  thou  Governess  of  Night, 
To  show  me  whither  she  is  led  by  fear ; 
Thou  envious  Darkness,  to  assist  us  here, 
And  then  prove  fatal ! 

(Within.}  Follow, follow, follow. 

Worth.  Silence  your  noise,  ye  clamorous  ministers 
Of  this  injustice.     Bellamie  is  lost ; 
She  's  lost  to  me.     Not  her  fierce  uncle's  rage, 
Who  whets  your  eager  aptness  to  pursue  me 
With  threats  or  promises ;  nor  his  painted  terrors 
Of  laws'  severity ;  could  ever  work 
Upon  the  temper  of  my  resolute  soul 
To  soften  it  to  fear,  till  she  was  lost. 
Not  all  the  illusive  horrors,  which  the  night 
Presents  unto  the  imagination, 
To  affright  a  guilty  conscience,  could  possess  me, 
While  I  possess'd  my  love.     The  dismal  shrieks 
Of  fatal  owls,  and  groans  of  dying  mandrakes, 
Whilst  her  soft  palm  warm'd  mine,  were  music  to  me. — 
Their  light  appears. — No  safety  does  consist 
In  passion  or  complaints.     Night,  let  thine  arms 
Again  assist  me ;  and,  if  no  kind  minister 
Of  better  fate  guide  me  to  Bellamie, 
Be  thou  eternal. 

( Within.}  Follow,  follow,  follow. 


458  T.  HEYWOOD. 


,  in  Marylone  Park. 
Bell.  The  day  begins  to  break  ;  a-nd  trembling  light, 
As  if  affrighted  with  this  night's  disaster, 
Steals  through  the  farthest  air,  and  by  degrees 
Salutes  my  weary  longings.  —  O,  my  Worthgood, 
Thy  presence  would  have  check'd  these  passions  ; 
And  shot  delight  through  all  the  mists  of  sadness, 
To  guide  my  fear  safe  through  the  paths  of  danger  : 
Now  fears  assault  me.  —  'Tis  a  woman's  voice. 
She  sings  ;  and  in  her  music's  cheerfulness 
Seems  to  express  the  freedom  of  a  heart, 
Not  chain'd  to  any  passions. 

Song,  witMn. 

What  a  dainty  life  the  milkmaid  leads  ! 

When  over  the  flowery  meads 

She  dabbles  in  the  dew, 

And  sings  to  her  cow  ; 

And  feels  not  the  pain 

Of  love  or  disdain. 

She  sleeps  in  the  night,  though  she  toils  in  the  day  ; 

And  merrily  passeth  her  time  away. 

Bell.  O,  might  I  change  my  misery 
For  such  a  shape  of  quiet  ! 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  SUFFOLK :  AN  HISTOEICAL  PLAY, 
BY  T.  HEYWOOD,  1631. 

A.  tragic  pursuit. 

The  DUCHESS,  with  Tier  little  child,  preparing  to  escape  ly  night 
from  the  relentless  persecution  of  the  Romanists. 

Duch.  (to  the  Nurse}  Give  me  my  child,  and  mantle ; — now 
Heaven's  pleasure : 

Farewell ; — come  life  or  death,  I  '11  hug  my  treasure. 

Nay,  chide  not,  pretty  babe;  our  enemies  come  : 

Thy  crying  will  pronounce  thy  mother's  doom. 

Be  thou  but  still ; 

This  gate  may  shade  us  from  their  envious  will.  [Exit. 
[A  noise  of  pursuers.  She  re-enters. 
Duch.  O  fear,  what  art  thou  ?  lend  me  wings  to  fly ; 

Direct  me  in  this  plunge  of  misery. 

Nature  has  taught  the  child  obedience ; 

Thou  hast  been  humble  to  thy  mother's  wish. 

O  let  me  kiss  these  duteous  lips  of  thine, 

That  would  not  kill  thy  mother  with  a  cry. 

Now  forward,  whither  Heaven  directs ;  for  I 


THE  PABLIAMENT  OP  BEES.  459 

Can  guide  no  better  than  thine  infancy. 

Here  are  two  pilgrims  bound  for  Lion  Quay1, 

And  neither  knows  one  footstep  of  the  way. 

[Noise  again  heard. 
Duch.  Return  you?  then 'tis  time  to  shift  me  hence. 

[Exit,  and  presently  re-enters. 
Duch.  Thus  far,  but  Heaven  knows  where,  we  have  escaped 

The  eager  pursuit  of  our  enemies, 

Having  for  guidance  my  attentive  fear. 

Still  I  look  back,  still  start  my  tired  feet, 

Which  never  till  now  measured  London  street : 

My  honours  scorn'd  that  custom ;  they  would  ride ; 

Now  forced  to  walk,  more  weary  pain  to  bide. 

Thou  shalt  not  do  so,  child ;  I  '11  carry  thee 

In  sorrow's  arms  to  welcome  misery. 

Custom  must  steel  thy  youth  with  pinching  want, 

That  thy  great  birth  in  age  may  bear  with  scant. 

Sleep  peaceably,  sweet  duck,  and  make  no  noise ; 

Methinks  each  steD  is  death's  arresting  voice. 

We  shall  meet  nurse  anon ;  a  dug  will  come, 

To  please  my  quiet  infant :  when,  nurse,  when? 

The  DTJCITESS,  pewecut.ed  from  place  to  place,  with  BEETT,  her 

husband,  takes  comfort  from  her  baby's  smiles. 
Duch.  Yet  we  have  scaped  the  danger  of  our  foes ; 

And  I,  that  whilom  was  exceeding  weak 

Through  my  hard  travail  in  this  infant's  birth, 

Am  now  grown  strong  upon  necessity. 

How  forwards  are  we  towards  Windham  Castle  ? 
Berty.  Just  half  our  way ;  but  we  have  lost  our  friends, 

Through  the  hot  pursuit  of  our  enemies. 
Duch.  We  are  not  utterly  devoid  of  friends ; 

Behold,  the  young  lord  Willoughby  smiles  on  us : 

And  'tis  great  help  to  have  a  lord  our  friend. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  BEES. 
[FURTHER  EXTRACTS.] 

OBEBON.    FLOEA,  a  See. 
Ober.  A  female  bee !  thy  character  ? 
Flo.  Flora,  Oberon's  gardener, 

Huswife  both  of  herbs  and  flowers, 

To  strew  thy  shrine,  and  trim  thy  bowers, 

With  violets,  roses,  eglantine, 

Daffadown,  and  blue  columbine. 

1  From  which  place  she  hopes  to  embark  for  Flanders. 


460  THE  PAELIAMENT  OF  BEES. 

Hath  forth  the  bosom  of  the  spring 
Pluck'd  this  nosegay,  which  I  bring 
From  Eleusis  (mine  own  shrine) 
To  thee,  a  monarch  all  divine ; 
And,  as  true  impost  of  my  grove, 
Present  it  to  great  Oberon's  love, 
Ober.  Honey  dews  refresh  thy  meads. 
Cowslips  spring  with  golden  heads; 
July-flowers  and  carnations  wear 
Leaves  double- streak' d,  with  maiden-hair; 
May  thy  lilies  taller  grow, 
Thy  violets  fuller  sweetness  owe ; 
And  last  of  all,  may  Phrebus  love 
To  kiss  thee ;  and  frequent  thy  grove, 
As  thou  in  service  true  shalt  be 
Unto  our  crown  and  royalty.  t 

OBEEON  holds  a  court,  in  which  he  sentences  the  Wasp,  the  Drone, 
and  the  Humble  Bee,  for  divers  offences  against  the  Common 
wealth  of  Sees. 

OBEEON.     PEOEEX,  his  viceroy,  and  other  Sees. 
Pro.  And  whither  must  these  flies  be  sent? 
Ober.  To  everlasting  banishment. 

Underneath  two  hanging  rocks 

(Where  babbling  Echo  sits  and  mocks 

Poor  travellers)  there  lies  a  grove, 

With  whom  the  sun  's  so  out  of  love, 

He  never  smiles  on 't :  pale  Despair 

Calls  it  his  monarchal  chair. 

Fruit  half-ripe  hang  rivelFd  and  shrunk 

On  broken  arms,  torn  from  the  trunk : 

The  moorish  pools  stand  empty,  left 

By  water,  stolen  by  cunning  theft 

To  hollow  banks,  driven  out  by  snakes, 

Adders,  and  newts,  that  man  these  lakes : 

The  mossy  leaves,  half-swelter'd,  served 

As  beds  for  vermin  hunger-sterved : 

The  woods  are  yew-trees,  bent  and  broke 

By  whirlwinds;  here  and  there  an  oak, 

Half-cleft  with  thunder.     To  this  grove 

We  banish  them. 
Culprits.  Some  mercy,  Jove ! 
Ober.  You  should  have  cried  so  in  your  youth, 

When  Chronos  and  his  daughter  Truth 

Sojourn'd  among  you ;  when  you  spent 

Whole  years  in  riotous  merriment. 

Thrusting  poor  Bees  out  of  their  hivea, 


DAYID  AND  BETHSABE.  4.61 

Seizing  both  honey,  wax,  and  lives. 
You  should  have  call'd  for  mercy  when 
You  impaled -common  blossoms ;  when, 
Instead  of  giving  poor  Bees  food, 
You  ate  their  flesh,  and  drank  their  blood. 
Fairies,  thrust  them  to  their  fate. 

OBEBON  then,  confirms  PROEEX  in  his  government,  and  breaks  up 

session. 
Ober.  now  adieu ! 

Prorex  shall  again  renew 

His  potent  reign :  the  massy  world, 

Which  in  glittering  orbs  is  hurl'd 

About  the  poles,  be  lord  of :  we 

Only  reserve  our  royalty — 

Yield  Music1.     Obevon  must  away; 

For  us  our  gentle  fairies  stay : 

In  the  mountains  and  the  rocks 

We  '11  hunt  the  gray,  and  little  fox, 

Who  destroy  our  lambs  at  feed, 

And  spoil  the  nests  where  turtles  feed. 


DAVID  AND  BETHSABE:  A  SACKED  DEAMA, 
BY  GEORGE  PEELE,  1599. 

NATHAN.    DAVID. 

Nath.  Thus  Nathan  saith  unto  his  lord  the  King : 
There  were  two  men  both  dwellers  in  one  town ; 
The  one  was  mighty,  and  exceeding  rich 
In  oxen,  sheep,  and  cattle  of  the  field ; 
The  other  poor,  having  nor  ox,  nor  calf, 
Nor  other  cattle,  save  one  little  lamb, 
Which  he  had  bought,  and  nourish'd  by  his  hand ; 
And  it  grew  up,  and  fed  with  him  and  his, 
And  ate  and  drank  as  he  and  his  were  wont, 
And  in  his  bosom  slept,  and  was  to  live 
As  was  his  daughter  or  his  dearest  child. — 
There  came  a  stranger  to  this  wealthy  man, 
And  he  refused  and  spared  to  take  his  own, 
Or  of  his  store  to  dress  or  make  his  meat, 
But  took  the  poor  man's  sheep,  partly  poor  man's  store ; 
And  dress'd  it  for  this  stranger  in  his  house. 
What,  tell  me,  shall  be  done  to  him  for  this  ? 
J.  Now,  as  the  Lord  doth  live,  this  wicked  man 
Is  judged,  and  shall  become  the  child  of  death ; 
Fourfold  to  the  poor  man  he  shall  restore, 

1  The  hum  of  Bees. 


462  GEOBGE  PEELE. 

That  without  mercy  took  his  lamb  away.    [THYSELF. — 
Nath.  THOU  ART  THE  MAN,  AND  THOU  HAST  JUDGED 

David,  thus  saith  the  Lord  thy  God  by  me : 

I  thee  anointed  king  in  Israel, 

And  saved  thee  from  the  tyranny  of  Saul ; 

Thy  master's  house  I  gave  thee  to  possess, 

His  wives  unto  thy  bosom  I  did  give, 

And  Judah  and  Jerusalem  withal ; 

And  might,  thou  know'st,  if  this  had  been  too  small, 

Have  given  thee  more. 

Wherefore  then  hast  thou  gone  so  far  astray, 

And  hast  done  evil,  and  sinned  in  my  sight  ? 

Urias  thou  hast  killed  with  the  sword, 

Yea  with  the  sword  of  the  uncircumcised 

Thou  hast  him  slain ;  wherefore  from  this  day  forth 

The  sword  shall  never  go  from  thee  and  thine : 

For  thou  hast  taken  this  Hethite's  wife  to  thee ; 

Wherefore  behold  I  will,  saith  Jacob's  God, 

In  thine  own  house  stir  evil  up  to  thee. 

Yea,  I  before  thy  face  will  take  thy  wives, 

And  give  them  to  thy  neighbour  to  possess. 

This  shall  be  done  to  David  in  the  day, 
That  Israel  openly  may  see  thy  shame. 
Dav.  Nathan,  I  have  against  the  Lord,  I  have 

Sinned,  O,  sinned  grievously,  and  lo  ! 
From  heaven's  throne  doth  David  throw  himself, 
And  groan  and  grovel  to  the  gates  of  hell. 
Nath.  David,  stand  up ;  thus  saith  the  Lord  by  me, 
David  the  king  shall  live,  for  he  hath  seen 
The  true  repentant  sorrow  of  thy  heart ; 
But  for  thou  hast  in  this  misdeed  of  thine 
Stirr'd  up  the  enemies  of  Israel 
To  triumph  and  blaspheme  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
And  say,  "  He  set  a  wicked  man  to  reign 
Over  his  loved  people  and  his  tribes;" 
The  child  shall  surely  die,  that  erst  was  born, 
His  mother's  sin,  his  kingly  father's  scorn. 
Dav.  How  just  is  Jacob's  God  in  all  his  works ! 
But  must  it  die,  that  David  loveth  so  ? 
O,  that  the  mighty  one  of  Israel 
Nill  change  his  doom,  and  says  the  babe  must  die ! 
Mourn,  Israel,  and  weep  in  Sion  gates  j 
Wither,  ye  cedar  trees  of  Lebanon ; 
Ye  sprouting  almonds,  with  your  flowing  tops, 
Droop,  drown,  and  drench  in  Hebron's  fearful  streams : 
The  babe  must  die,  that  was  to  David  born, 
His  mother's  sin,  his  kingly  father's  scorn. 


DAVID  AND  BETHSABE.  463 

ABSALOM,  rebelling. 

Now  for  the  crown  and  throne  of  Israel, 
To  be  confirm' d  with  virtue  of  my  sword, 
And  writ  with  David's  blood  upon  the  blade. 
Now,  Jove1,  let  forth  the  golden  firmament, 
And  look  on  him  with  all  thy  fiery  eyes, 
Which  thou  hast  made  to  give  their  glorious  light. 
To  show  thou  lovest  the  virtue  of  thy  hand, 
Let  fall  a  wreath  of  stars  upon  my  head, 
Whose  influence  may  govern  Israel 
With  state  exceeding  all  her  other  kings. 
Fight,  lords  and  captains,  that  your  sovereign 
May  shine  in  honour  brighter  than  the  sun, 
And  with  the  virtue  of  my  beauteous  rays 
Make  this  fair  land  as  fruitful  as  the  fields, 
That  with  sweet  milk  and  honey  overflow 'd. 
God  in  the  whizzing  of  a  pleasant  wind 
Shall  march  upon  the  tops  of  mulberry  trees, 
To  cool  all  breasts  that  burn  with  any  griefs ; 
As  whilom  he  was  good  to  Moses'  men. 
By  day  the  Lord  shall  sit  within  a  cloud, 
To  guide  your  footsteps  to  the  fields  of  joy; 
And  in  the  night  a  pillar  bright  as  fire 
Shall  go  before  you  like  a  second  sun, 
Wherein  the  Essence  of  his  Godhead  is ; 
That  day  and  night  you  may  be  brought  to  peace, 
And  never  swerve  from  that  delightsome  path 
That  leads  your  souls  to  perfect  happiness : 
This  he  shall  do  for  joy  when  I  am  king. 
Then  fight,  brave  captains,  that  these  joys  may  fly 
Into  your  bosoms  with  sweet  victory. 

****** 

ABSALOM,  triumphant. 

Abs.  First  Absalom  was  by  the  trumpet's  sound 
Proclaim'd  through  Hebron  king  of  Israel ; 
And  now  is  set  in  fair  Jerusalem 
With  complete  state  and  glory  of  a  crown. 
Fifty  fair  footmen  by  my  chariot  run ; 
And  to  the  air,  whose  rupture  rings  my  fame, 
Where'er  I  ride,  they  offer  reverence. 
Why  should  not  Absalom,  that  in  his  face 
Carries  the  final  purpose  of  his  God, 
(That  is,  to  work  him  grace  in  Israel), 
Endeavour  to  achieve  with  all  his  strength 
The  state  that  most  may  satisfy  his  joy — 
1  Jove,  for  Jehovah. 


464     THOMAS  LODGE  AND  BOBEBT  GBEEK. 

Keeping  his  statutes  and  his  covenants  sure  ? 

His  thunder  is  entangled  in  my  hair, 

And  with  my  beauty  is  his  lightning  quench'd. 

I  am  the  man  he  made  to  glory  in, 

"When  by  the  errors  of  my  father's  sin 

He  lost  the  path,  that  led  into  the  land 

Wherewith  our  chosen  ancestors  were  bless'd. 


TETHYS'  FESTIVAL :  BY  SAMUEL  DANIEL,  1610. 

Song  at  a  Court  Masque. 
Are  they  shadows  that  we  see 
And  can  shadows  pleasure  give  ? — 
Pleasures  only  shadows  be, 
Cast  by  bodies  we  conceive ; 
And  are  made  the  things  we  deem 
In  those  figures  which  they  seem. — 
But  these  pleasures  vanish  fast, 
Which  by  shadows  are  express'd : — 
Pleasures  are  not,  if  they  last ; 
In  their  passing  is  their  best. 
Glory  is  most  bright  and  gay 
In  a  flash,  and  so  away. 
Feed  apace  then,  greedy  eyes, 
On  the  wonder  you  behold ; 
Take  it  sudden  as  it  flies, 
Though  you  take  it  not  to  hold : 
When  your  eyes  have  done  their  part, 
Thought  must  lengthen  it  in  the  heart. 


A  LOOKING  G-LASS  FOE  ENGLAND  AND  LONDON: 
A  TRAGI- COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  LODGE  AND 
ROBERT  GREEN,  1598. 

ALVIDA,  Paramour  to  RASNI,  the  great  king  of  Assyria,  courts  a 
petty  king  of  Cilicia. 

Alv.  Ladies,  go  sit  you  down  amidst  this  bower, 
And  let  the  eunuchs  play  you  all  asleep : 
Put  garlands  made  of  roses  on  your  heads, 
And  play  the  wantons,  whilst  I  talk  awhile. 

Ladies.  Thou  beautiful  of  all  the  world,  we  will.      [Exeunt. 

Alv.  King  of  Cilicia,  kind  and  courteous; 
Like  to  thyself,  because  a  lovely  king ; 
Come  lay  thee  down  upon  thy  mistress'  knee, 
And  I  will  sing  and  talk  of  love  to  thee. 


A  LOOKING  GLASS  FOE  ENGLAND  AND  LONDON.  465 

Cil.  Most  gracious  paragon  of  excellence, 
It  fits  not  such  an  abject  wretch  as  I 
To  talk  with  Rasni' s  paramour  and  love. 
Alv.  To  talk,  sweet  friend !  who  would  not  talk  with  thee  ? 
O,  be  not  coy;  art  thou  not  only  fair? 
Come  twine  thine  arms  about  this  snow-white  neck, 
A  love-nest  for  the  great  Assyrian  king. 
Blushing  I  tell  thee,  fair  Cilician  prince, 
None  but  thyself  can  merit  such  a  grace. 
Cil.  Madam,  I  hope  you  mean  not  for  to  mock  me. 
Alv.  No,  king,  fair  king,  my  meaning  is  to  yoke  thee, 
Hear  me  but  sing  of  love :  then  by  my  sighs, 
My  tears,  my  glancing  looks,  my  changed  cheer, 
Thou  shalt  perceive  how  I  do  hold  thee  dear. 
Cil.  Sing,  madam,  if  you  please ;  but  love  in  jest. 
Alv.  Nay,  I  will  love,  and  sigh  at  every  jest. 

She  sings. 

Beauty,  alas!  where  wast  thou  born, 
Thus  to  hold  thyself  in  scorn, 
,         When  as  Beauty  kiss'd  to  woo  thee ; 
Thou  by  beauty  dost  undo  me  ? 
Heigho,  despise  me  not. 
I  and  thou  in  sooth  are  one, 
Fairer  thou,  I  fairer  none : 
Wanton  thou ;  and,  wilt  thou,  wanton, 
Yield  a  cruel  heart  to  plant  on  ? 
Do  me  right,  and  do  me  reason ; 
Cruelty  is  cursed  treason. 

Heigho,  I  love ;  heigho,  I  love ; 
Heigho,  and  yet  he  eyes  me  not. 

Cil.  Madam,  your  song  is  passing  passionate. 
Alv.  And  wilt  thou  then  not  pity  my  estate? 
Cil.  Ask  love  of  them  who  pity  may  impart. 
Alv.  I  ask  of  thee,  sweet ;  thou  hast  stole  my  heart. 
Cil.  Your  love  is  fixed  on  a  greater  king. 
Alv.  Tut,  women's  love — it  is  a  fickle  thing. 

I  love  my  Rasni  for  my  dignity : 

I  love  Cilician  king  for  his  sweet  eye. 

I  love  my  Rasni,  since  he  rules  the  world : 

But  more  I  love  this  kingly  little  world. 

How  sweet  he  looks ! — O  were  I  Cynthia's  sphere, 

And  thou  Endymion,  I  should  hold  thee  dear : 

Thus  should  mine  arms  be  spread  about  thy  neck, 

Thus  would  I  kiss  my  love  at  every  beck. 

Thus  would  I  sigh  to  see  thee  sweetly  sleep ; 

And  if  thou  wakest  not  soon,  thus  would  I  weep ; 

And  thus,  and  thus,  and  thus :  thus  much  I  love  thee. 

2H 


466  THOMAS  HETWOOD. 

THE  SILYER  AGE :  AN  HISTOEICAL  PLAY, 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD,  1613. 

PEOSEKPINE  seeking  flowers. 

Pros.  0,  may  these  meadows  ever  barren  be, 
That  yield  of  flowers  no  more  variety  ! 
Here  neither  is  the  white  nor  sanguine  rose, 
The  strawberry  flower,  the  raunce,  nor  violet. 
Methinks  I  have  too  poor  a  meadow  chose  : 
Going  to  beg,  I  am  with  a  beggar  met, 
That  wants  as  much  as  I.     I  should  do  ill 
To  take  from  them  that  need. — 

CEE.ES,  after  the  rape  of  her  daughter. 

Cer.  Where  is  my  fair  arid  lovely  Proserpine  ? 

Speak,  Jove's  fair  daughter,  whither  art  thou  stray'd  ? 
I  have  sought  the  meadows,  glebes,  and  new-reap'd  fields, 
Yet  cannot  find  my  child.     Her  scatter'd  flowers, 
And  garland  half  made  up,  I  have  lit  upon ; 
But  her  I  cannot  spy.     Behold  the  trace 
Of  some  strange  wagon1,  that  hath  scorch'd  the  trees, 
And  singed  the  grass :  these  ruts  the  sun  ne'er  sear'd. 
Where  art  thou,  love,  where  art  thou,  Proserpine? — 
She  questions  Triton  for  her  daughter. 

Cer.  thou  that  on  thy  shelly  trumpet 

Summons  the  sea-god,  answer  from  the  depth. 

Trit.  On  Neptune's  sea-horse  with  my  concave  trump 

Through  all  the  abyss  I  have  shrill'd  thy  daughter's  loss. 
The  channels  clothed  in  waters,  the  low  cities 
In  which  the  water-gods  and  sea-nymphs  dwell, 
I  have  perused ;  sought  through  whole  woods  and  forests 
Of  leafless  coral,  planted  in  the  deeps ; 
Toss'd  up  the  beds  of  pearl ;  roused  up  huge  whales, 
And  stern  sea-monsters,  from  their  rocky  dens ; 
Those  bottoms,  bottomless ;  shallows  and  shelves, 
And  all  those  currents  where  the  earth's  springs  break  in 
Those  plains  where  Neptune  feeds  his  porpoises, 
Sea-morses,  seals,  and  all  his"  cattle  else : 
Through  all  our  ebbs  and  tides  my  trump  hath  blazed  her. 
Yet  can  no  cavern  show  me  Proserpine. 
She  questions  the  Earth. 

Cer.  Fair  sister  Earth,  for  all  these  beauteous  fields, 
Spread  o'er  thy  breast ;  for  all  these  fertile  crops, 
With  which  my  plenty  hath  enrich'd  thy  bosom ; 
For  all  those  rich  and  pleasant  wreaths  of  grain, 
\  The  car  of  Dis. 


SILYEB  AGE.  467 

With  which  so  oft  thy  temples  I  have  crown'd ; 
For  all  the  yearly  liveries,  and  fresh  robes, 
Upon  thy  summer  beauty  I  bestow — 
Show  me  my  child ! 

Earth.  Not  in  revenge,  fair  Ceres, 

That  your  remorseless  ploughs  have  raked  my  breast, 

Nor  that  your  iron-tooth'd  harrows  print  my  face 

So  full  of  wrinkles ;  that  you  dig  my  sides 

For  marl  and  soil,  and  make  me  bleed  my  springs 

Through  all  my  open'd  veins  to  weaken  me — 

Do  I  conceal  your  daughter.     I  have  spread 

My  arms  from  sea  to  sea,  look'd  o'er  my  mountains, 

Examined  all  my  pastures,  groves,  and  plains, 

Marshes  and  wolds,  my  woods  and  champain  fields, 

My  dens  and  caves — and  yet,  from  foot  to  head, 

I  have  no  place  on  which  the  Moon1  doth  tread. 

Cer.  Then,  Earth,  thou  hast  lost  her ;  and  for  Proserpine, 
I  '11  strike  thee  with  a  lasting  barrenness. 
No  more  shall  plenty  crown  thy  fertile  brows : 
I  '11  break  thy  ploughs,  thy  oxen  murrain-strike  : 
With  idle  agues  I  '11  consume  thy  swains ; 
Sow  tares  and  cockles  in  thy  lands  of  wheat, 
Wliose  spikes  the  weed  and  cooch-grass  shall  outgrow, 
And  choke  it  in  the  blade.     The  rotten  showers 
Shall  drown  thy  seed,  which  the  hot  sun  shall  parch, 
Or  mildews  rot;  and  what  remains,  shall  be 
A  prey  to  ravenous  birds. — O  Proserpine  i — 
You  gods  that  dwell  above,  and  you  below, 
Both  of  the  woods  and  gardens,  rivers,  brooks, 
Fountains  and  wells,  some  one  among  you  all 
Show  me  herself  or  grave :  to  you  I  call. 

AretJiusa  riseth. 

Are.  That  can  the  river  Arethusa  do. 

My  streams  you  know,  fair  goddess,  issue  forth 

From  Tartary  by  the  Tajuarian  isles : 

My  head 's  in  Hell  where  Stygian  Pluto  reigns ; 

There  did  I  see  the  lovely  Proserpine, 

Whom  Pluto  hath  rapt  hence :  behold  her  girdle, 

Which  on  her  way  dropp'd  from  her  lovely  waist, 

And  scatter'd  in  my  streams. — Fair  Queen,  adieu ! 

Crown  you  my  banks  with  flowers,  as  I  tell  true. 

1  Proserpine ;  who  was  also  Luna  in  Heaven,  Diana  on  Earth. 


2n2 


468  (THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE :  AN  HISTOEICAL  PLAT, 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR,  1611. 

SIBILLA,  the  wife  of  SATURN,  is  by  Mm  enjoined  to  slay  the  new 
born  JUPITEH.     None  can  do  it  for  his  smiles. 
SIBILLA.    VESTA.    NTJKSE. 

Sib.  Mother,  of  all  that  ever  mothers  were 

Most  wretched  !  Kiss  thy  sweet  babe  ere  he  die, 
That  hath  life  only  lent  to  suffer  death. 
Sweet  lad,  I  would  thy  father  saw  thee  smile. 
Thy  beauty,  and  thy  pretty  infancy, 
Would  mollify  his  heart,  were  it  hew'd  from  flint, 
Or  carved  with  iron  tools  from  Corsic  rock. 
Thou  laugh'st  to  think  thou  must  be  kill'd  in  jest. 
O !  if  thou  needs  must  die,  I  '11  be  thy  murderess, 
And  kill  thee  with  my  kisses,  pretty  knave. — 
And  canst  thou  laugh  to  see  thy  mother  weep  ? 
Or  art  thou  in  thy  cheerful  smiles  so  free, 
In  scorn  of  thy  rude  father's  tyranny  ? 
I  '11  kiss  thee  ere  I  kill  thee  :  for  my  life 
The  lad  so  smiles,  I  cannot  hold  the  knife. 

Vest.  Then  give  him  me ;  I  am  his  grandmother, 
And  I  will  kill  him  gently :  this  sad  office 
Belongs  to  me,  as  to  the  next  of  kin. 

Sib.  For  heaven's  sake,  when  you  kill  him,  hurt  him  not. 

Vest.  Come,  little  knave,  prepare  your  naked  throat : 
I  have  not  heart  to  give  thee  many  wounds ; 
My  kindness  is  to  take  thy  life  at  once. 
Now— 

Alack,  my  pretty  grandchild,  smilest  thou  still  ? 
I  have  lust  to  kiss,  but  have  no  heart  to  kill. 

Nurse.  You  may  be  careless  of  the  king's  command 
But  it  concerns  me ;  and  I  love  my  life 
More  than  I  do  a  stripling's.     Give  him  me, 
I  '11  make  him  sure  ;  a  sharp  wreapon  lend, 
I  '11  quickly  bring  the  youngster  to  his  end. 
Alack,  my  pretty  knave,  'twere  more  than  sin 
With  a  sharp  knife  to  touch  thy  tender  skin. 

0  madam,  he 's  so  full  of  angel  grace, 

1  cannot  strike,  he  smiles  so  in  my  face. 

Sib.  I  '11  wink,  and  strike ;  come,  once  more  reach  him  hither ; 
For  die  he  must,  so  Saturn  hath  decreed : 
'Las  for  a  world  I  would  not  see  him  bleed ! 

Vest.  Ne  shall  he  do.     But  swear  me  secrecy ; 
The  babe  shall  live,  and  we  be  dangerless. 


BTJSST  D'AMBOIS  HIS  EEVENGE.  469 

BUSSY  D'AMBOIS  HIS  REVENGE :  A  TKAGKEDY, 

BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN,  1613. 

Plays  and  Players. 

Guise.  I  would  have  these  things 

Brought  upon  stages,  to  let  mighty  misers 
See  all  their  grave  and  serious  mischiefs  play'd, 
As  once  they  were  in  Athens  and  old  Rome. 

Clermont.  Nay,  we  must  now  have  nothing  brought  on  stages 
But  puppetry,  and  pied  ridiculous  antics. 
Men  thither  come  to  laugh,  and  feed  fool-fat ; 
Check  at  all  goodness  there,  as  being  profaned : 
When,  wheresoever  Goodness  comes,  she  makes 
The  place  still  sacred,  though  with  other  feet 
Never  so  much  'tis  scandal'd  and  polluted. 
Let  me  learn  any  thing,  that  fits  a  man, 
In  any  stables  shown,  as  well  as  stages. — 

Baligny.  Why,  is  not  all  the  world  esteem'd  a  stage  ? 

Clermont.  Yes,  and  right  worthily ;  and  stages  too 
Have  a  respect  due  to  them,  if  but  only 
For  what  the  good  Greek  moralist  says  of  them : 
"  Is  a  man  proud  of  greatness,  or  of  riches  ? 
Give  me  an  expert  actor ;  I  '11  show  all 
That  can  within  his  greatest  glory  fall : 
Is  a  man  'fraid  with  poverty  and  lowness  ? 
Give  me  an  actor ;  I  '11  show  every  eye 
What  he  laments  so,  and  so  much  does  fly : 
The  best  and  worst  of  both."— If  but  for  this  then, 
To  make  the  proudest  outside,  that  most  swells 
With  things  without  him,  and  above  his  worth, 
See  how  small  cause  he  has  to  be  so  blown  up ; 
And  the  most  poor  man,  to  be  grieved  with  poorness ; 
Both  being  so  easily  borne  by  expert  actors  : 
The  stage  and  actors  are  not  so  contemptful, 
As  every  innovating  puritan, 
And  ignorant  swearer  out  of  jealous  envy, 
Would  have  the  world  imagine.     And  besides 
That  all  things  have  been  liken'd  to  the  mirth 
Used  upon  stages,  and  to  stages  fitted ; 
The  splenetive  philosopher,  that  ever 
Laugh'd  at  them  all,  were  worthy  the  enstaging  : 
All  objects,  were  they  ne'er  so  full  of  tears, 
He  so  conceited,  that  he  could  distil  thence 
Matter,  that  still  fed  his  ridiculous  humour. 
Heard  he  a  lawyer,  never  so  vehement  pleading, 
He  stood  and  laugh'd.    Heard  he  a  tradesman,  swearing 
Never  so  thriftily,  selling  of  his  wares, 


470  THOMAS  DECKEB. 

He  stood  and  laugh'd.     Heard  he  a  holy  brother, 
For  hollow  ostentation,  at  his  prayers 
Ne'er  so  impetuously,  he  stood  and  laugh'd. 
Saw  he  a  great  man,  never  so  insulting, 
Severely  inflicting,  gravely  giving  laws, 
Not  for  their  good,  but  his — he  stood  and  laugh'd. 
Saw  he  a  youthful  widow, 
Never  so  weeping,  wringing  of  her  hands 
For  her  dead  lord,  still  the  philosopher  laugh'd. — 
Now,  whether  he  supposed  all  these  presentments 
Were  only  maskeries,  and  wore  false  faces, 
Or  else  were  simply  vain,  I  take  no  care ; 
But  still  he  laugh'd,  how  grave  soe'er  they  were. 
Stoicism. 

in  this  one  thing  all  the  discipline 

Of  manners  and  of  manhood  is  eontain'd ; 
A  man  to  join  himself  with  the  universe 
In  his  main  sway ;  and  make  (in  all  things  fit) 
One  with  that  All ;  and  go  on,  round  as  it ; 
Not  plucking  from  the  whole  his  wretched  part, 
And  into  straits,  or  into  naught  revert ; 
Wishing  the  complete  universe  might  be 
Subject  to  such  a  rag  of  it  as  he. 
Apparitions  before  the  body's  death  :  Scotice,  second  sight. 

these  true  shadows  of  the  Guise  and  cardinal, 

Forerunning  thus  their  bodies,  may  approve, 
That  all  things  to  be  done,  as  here  we  live, 
Are  done  before  all  times  in  the  other  life. 


SATIEOMASTIX :  A  COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  DECKEB. 
1602 ». 

Horace.  What  could  I  do,  out  of  a  just  revenge, 
But  bring  them  to  the  stage  ?  they  envy  me, 
Because  I  hold  more  worthy  company. 

Demetrius.  Good  Horace,  no ;  my  cheeks  do  blush  for  thine, 
As  often  as  thou  speak'st  so.    Where  one  true 
And  nobly-virtuous  spirit  for  thy  best  part 
Loves  thee,  I  wish  one  ten  ev'n  from  my  heart. 
I  make  account  I  put  up  as  deep  share 
In  any  good  man's  love,  which  thy  worth  owns, 
As  thou  thyself;  we  envy  not  to  see 
Thy  friends  with  bays  to  crown  thy  poesy. 

1  In  this  comedy,  Ben  Jonson,  under  the  name  of  Horace,  is 
reprehended,  in  retaliation  of  his  "  Poetaster ; "  in  which  he  had 
attacked  two  of  his  brother  .dramatists,  probably  Marston  and 
Decker,  under  the  name  of  Crispinus  and  Demetrius. 


T±IE  ANTIPODES.  471 

No,  here  the  gall  lies ;  we,  that  know  what  stuff 
Thy  very  heart  is  made  of,  know  the  stalk 
On  which  thy  learning  grows,  and  can  give  life 
To  thy  (once-dying)  baseness,  yet  must  we 
Dance  antics  on  thy  paper. 

Crispinus.  This  makes  us  angry,  but  not  envious. 
No ;  were  thy  warp'd  soul  put  in  a  new  mould, 
I  'd  wear  thee  as  a  jewel  set  in  gold. 


THE  ANTIPODES:  A  COMEDY, 

BY  EICHAED  BEOOME,  1633. 

Directions  to  players. 

Nobleman.  My  actors 

Are  all  in  readiness,  and  I  think  all  perfect 

But  one,  that  never  will  be  perfect  in  a  thing 

He  studies ;  yet  he  makes  such  shifts  extempore, 

(Knowing  the  purpose  what  he  is  to  speak  to), 

That  he  moves  mirth  in  me  'bove  all  the  rest. 

For  I  am  none  of  those  poetic  furies, 

That  threats  the  actor's  life,  in  a  whole  play 

That  adds  a  syllable,  or  takes  away. 

If  he  can  fribble  through,  and  move  delight 

In  others,  I  am  pleased.     *      *      * 

Let  me  not  see  you  now, 

In  the  scholastic  way  you  brought  to  town  with  you, 

With  see-saw,  sack-a-down,  like  a  sawyer ; 

Nor  in  a  comic  scene  play  Hercules  Furens, 

Tearing  your  throat  to  split  the  audients'  ears ; — 

And  you,  sir,  you  had  got  a  trick  of  late 

Of  holding  out  your  breech  in  a  set  speech ; 

Your  fingers  fibulating  on  your  breast, 

As  if  your  buttons  or  your  bandstrings  were 

Helps  to  your  memory ;  let  me  see  you  in  it 

No  more,  I  charge  you.     No,  nor  you,  sir, 

In  that  o'er-action  of  your  legs  I  told  you  of, 

Your  singles  and  your  doubles — look  you — thus — 

Like  one  of  the  dancing-masters  of  the  bear-garden ; 

And  when  you  have  spoke,  at  end  of  every  speech, 

Not  minding  the  reply,  you  turn  you  round 

As  tumblers  do,  when  betwixt  every  feat 

They  gather  wind  by  firking  up  their  breeches. 

I  '11  none  of  these  absurdities  in  my  house ; 

But  words  and  actions  married  so  together, 

That  shall  strike  harmony  in  the  ears  and  eyes 

Of  the  severest,  if  judicious,  critics 

Flayers.  My  l«w«l.  we  are  corrected. 


472  EICHAED  BECOME. 

Nobleman.  Go,  be  ready. — 

But  you,  sir,  are  incorrigible,  and 

Take  licence  to  yourself  to  add  unto 

Your  parts  your  own  free  fancy ;  and  sometimes 

To  alter  or  diminish  what  the  writer 

With  care  and  skill  composed ;  and  when  you  are 

To  speak  to  your  co-actors  in  the  scene, 

You  hold  interlocutions  with  the  audients. 
Player.  That  is  a  way,  my  lord,  has  been  allow'd 

On  elder  stages,  to  move  mirth  and  laughter. 
Nobleman.  Yes,  in  the  days  of  Tarleton  and  Kemp, 

Before  the  stage  was  purged  from  barbarism, 

And  brought  to  the  perfection  it  now  shines  with. 

Then  fools  and  jesters  spent  their  wits,  because 

The  poets  were  wise  enough  to  save  their  own 

For  profitabler  uses. 

A.  Doctor  humours  his  patient,  who  is  crazed  ivith  reading  lying 
books  of  travels,  by  pretending  that  he  himself  has  been  a  great 
traveller  in  his  time. 

PEREGRINE,  the  patient.     DOCTOR.     LADY. 
Per.  All  the  world  over  have  you  been  ? 
Doct.  Over  and  under  too. 
Per.  In  the  Antipodes? 
Doct.  Yes,  through  and  through. 

Nor  isle  nor  angle  in  the  other  world 

But  I  have  made  discovery  of.     Do  you 

Think,  sir,  to  the  Antipodes  such  a  journey  ? 
Per.  I  think  there  's  none  beyond  it,  and  that  Mandevil 

Was  the  only  man  came  near  it. 
Doct.  Mandevil  went  far. 

Per.  Beyond  all  English  legs  that  I  can  read  of. 
Doct.  What  think  you,  sir,  of  Drake,  our  famous  countryman? 
Per.  Drake  was  a  Didapper  to  Mandevil. 

Candish  and  Hawkins,  Frobisher,  all  our  voyagers 

Went  short  of  Mandevil :  but  had  he  reached 

To  this  place — here — yes  here — this  wilderness ; 

And  seen  the  trees  of  the  sun  and  moon,  that  speak, 

And  told  king  Alexander  of  his  death ; 

He  then 

Had  left  a  passage  ope  for  travellers, 

That  now  is  kept  and  guarded  by  wild  beasts ; 

Dragons  and  serpents,  elephants  white  and  blue  ; 

Unicorns  and  lions,  of  many  colours ; 

And  monsters  more,  as  numberless  as  nameless. 
Doct.  Stay  there— 
Per.  Read  here  else :  can  you  read? 

Is  it  not  true  ? 


THE  ANTIPODES.  473 

Doct.  No  truer,  than  I  have  seen  it. 

You  hear  me  not  deny  that  all  is  true. 

That  Mandevil  delivers  of  his  travels ; 

Yet  I  myself  may  be  as  well  believed. 
Per.  Since  you  speak  reverently  of  him,  say  on. 
Doct.  Of  Europe  I  '11  not  speak,  'tis  too  near  home ; 

Who 's  not  familiar  with  the  Spanish  garb, 

The  Italian  cringe,  French  shrug,  and  German  hug  ? 

Nor  will  I  trouble  you  with  my  observations 

Fetch'd  from  Arabia,  Paphlagonia, 

Mesopotamia,  Mauritania, 

Syria,  Thessalia,  Persia,  India ; 

All  still  is  too  near  home :  though  I  have  touch'd 

The  clouds  upon  the  Pyrenean  mountains, 

And  been  on  Paphos  hill,  where  I  have  kiss'd 

The  image  of  bright  Venus ;  all  is  still 

Too  near  home  to  be  boasted.     They  sound 

In  a  far  traveller's  ear, 

Like  the  reports  of  those,  that  beggingly 

Have  put  out  on  returns  from  Edinburgh, 

Paris,  or  Venice ;  or  perhaps  Madrid, 

Whither  a  Milaner  may  with  half  a  nose 

Smell  out  his  way ;  and  is  not  near  so  difficult, 

As  for  some  man  in  debt,  and  unprotected, 

To  walk  from  Charing  Cross  to  the  Old  Exchange. 

No,  I  will  pitch  no  nearer  than  the  Antipodes  j 

That  which  is  furthest  distant ;  foot  to  foot 

Against  our  region. 
Lady.  What,  with  their  heels  upwards  ? 

Bless  us,  how  'scape  they  breaking  of  their  necks  ? 
Doct.  They  walk  upon  firm  earth,  as  we  do  here ; 

And  have  the  firmament  over  their  heads, 

As  we  have  here. 
Lady.  And  yet  just  under  us ! 

Where  is  Hell  then?  if  they,  whose  feet  are' towards  us 

At  the  lower  part  of  the  world,  have  Heaven  too 

Beyond  their  heads,  where 's  Hell? 
Doct.  You  may  find  that 

Without  inquiry. 

Scene,  at  the  Antipodes. 

N.S.  In  the  Antipodes,  every  thing  goes  contrary  to  our  manners; 
wives  rule  their  husbands;  servants  govern  their  masters;  old 
men  go  to  school  again,  fyc. 

SON.    SERVANT.     GENTLEMAN,  and  LADY,  natives. 

ENGLISH  TRAVELLER. 
Servant  (to  his  young  master}.     How  well  you  saw 


474  EiuilAilD  BBOOME, 

Your  father  to  school  to  day,  knowing  how  apt 

He  is  to  play  the  truant ! 
Son.  But  he  is  not 

Yet  gone  to  school. 
Servant.  Stand  by,  and  you  shall  see. 

Enter  three  Old  Men  with  satchels. 
All  three  (singing}.  Domine,  domine,  duster  : 
Three  knaves  in  a  cluster. 
Son.  O,  this  is  gallant  pastime.     Nay,  come  on. 

Is  this  your  school  ?  was  that  your  lesson,  ha  ? 
1  st  Old  Man.  Pray  now,  good  son,  indeed,  indeed — 
Son.  Indeed 

You  shall  to  school.     Away  with  him ;  and  take 

Their  wagships  with  him,  the  whole  cluster  of  them. 
2nd  Old  Man.  You  sha'nt  send  us  now,  so  you  sha'nt. 
3rd  Old  Man.  We  be  none  of  your  father,  so  we  be'n't. 
Son.  Away  with  them,  I  say;  and  tell  their  school-mistress 

What  truants  they  are,  and  bid  her  pay  them  soundly. 
All  three.  O,  O,  O  ! 
Lady.  Alas !  will  nobody  beg  pardon  for 

The  poor  old  boys  ?  [school  ? 

English  Traveller.    Do  men  of  such  fair  years  here  go  to 
Gentleman.  They  would  die  dunces  else. 

These  were  great  scholars  in  their  youth ;  but  when 

Age  grows  upon  men  here,  their  learning  wastes, 

And  so  decays,  that  if  they  live  until 

Threescore,  their  sons  send  them  to  school  again ; 

They  'd  die  as  speechless  else  as  new-born  children. 
English  Traveller.  "Tis  a  wise  nation ;  and  the  piety 

Of  the  young  men  most  rare  and  commendable. 

Yet  give  me,  as  a  stranger,  leave  to  beg 

Their  liberty  this  day. 
Son.  Tis  granted. 

Hold  up  your  heads,  and  thank  the  gentleman, 

Like  scholars,  with  your  heels  now. 
All  three.  Gratiast  gratias,  gratias.  [Exeunt  singing. 


THE  ASPARAGUS  GARDEN:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR,  1634. 

Private  conference. 

Father-in-Law.  You  '11  not  assault  me  in  my  own  house,  nor 

urge  me  beyond  my  patience  with  your  borrowing 

attempts.  [rowing ; 

Spendthrift  Knight.  I  have  not  used  the  word  of  loan  or  bor- 

Only  some  private  conference  I  requested. 


THE  ASEAKAGUS  GABDEW.  475 

Fath.  Private  conference  !  a  new-coined  word  for  borrowing 
of  money.  I  tell  you,  your  very  face,  your  coun 
tenance,  though  it  be  glossed  with  knighthood,  looks 
so  borrowingly,  that  the  best  words  you  give  me  are 
as  dreadful  as  Stand  and  Deliver. — Your  riotousness 
abroad,  and  her  long  night-watchings  at  home,  short 
ened  my  daughter's  days,  and  cast  her  into  her  grave ; 
and  'twas  not  long  before  all  her  estate  was  buried 

Spend.  I  wish  my  life  might  have  excused  [too. 

Her's  far  more  precious ;  never  had  a  man 
A  juster  cause  to  mourn. 

Fath.  Nor  mourned  more  justly  ;  it  is  your  only  wearing ;  you 
have  just  none  other ;  nor  have  had  any  means  to 
purchase  better  any  time  these  seven  years,  I  take 
it ;  by  which  means  you  have  got  the  name  of  the 
Mourning  Knight. 

TIMOTHY  HOYDEN,  the  Yeoman's  son,  desires  to  be  made  a  gentle" 

man.     He  consults  with  his  friends. 

Moneylack.  Well,  sir,  we  will  take  the  speediest  course  with 
Hoyd.  But  must  I  bleed  ?  [you. 

Mon.  Yes,  you  must  bleed ;  your  father's  blood  must  out. 

He  was  but  a  yeoman,  was  he  ?  [shire. 

Hoyd.  As  rank  a  clown  (none  dispraised)  as  any  in  Somerset- 
Mow.  His  foul  rank  blood  of  bacon  and  pease  porridge 

Must  out  of  you  to  the  last  dram — 
Springe.  Fear  nothing,  sir. 

Your  blood  shall  be  taken  out  by  degrees ;  and  your  veins 
replenished  with  pure  blood  still,  as  you  lose  the 
puddle. 

Hoyd.  I  was  bewitched,  I  think,  before  I  was  begot,  to  have 

a  clown  to  my  father.    Yet  my  mother  said  she  was 

Spr.  Said!  what  will  not  women  say ?  [a  gentlewoman. 

Mon.  Be  content,  sir ;  here  's  half  a  labour  saved :  you  shall 

bleed  but  of  one  side.  The  mother  vein  shall  not  be 

pricked. 

Old  STKIKER,  after  a  quarrelling  lout  with  old  TOUCHWOOD. 
Touchwood.  I  have  put  him  into  these  fits  this  forty  years,  and 
hope  to  choke  him  at  last.  [Aside  j  and  exit. 

Striker.  Huh,  huh,  huh  !  so  he  is  gone,  the  villain 's  gone  in 
hopes  that  he  has  killed  me,  when  my  comfort  is  he 
has  recovered  me.  I  was  heart-sick  with  a  conceit, 
which  lay  so  mingled  with  my  phlegm,  that  I  had 
perished  if  I  had  not  broke  it,  and  made  me  spit  it 
out ;  hem,  he  is  gone,  I  '11  home  merrily.  I  would 
not  he  should  know  the  good  he  has  done  me  for 
half  my  estate ;  nor  would  I  be  at  peace  with  him  to 


476  MENDOZA. 

save  it  all.     I  would  not  lose  his  hatred  for  all  the 

good  neighbourhood  of  the  parish. 
His  malice  works  upon  me 
Past  all  the  drugs  and  all  the  doctor'  counsels, 
That  e'er  I  coped  with ;  he  has  been  my  vexation 
E'er  since  my  wife  died ;  if  the  rascal  knew  it, 
He  would  be  friends,  and  I  were  instantly 
But  a  dead  man ;  I  could  not  get  another 
To  anger  me  so  handsomely. 


SIE  EICHAED  FANSHAWS  TEANSLATION  OF 
"QTJEEEE  POE  SOLO  QUEEEE"— "TO  LOVE  FOE 
LOYE'S  SAKE:"  A  EOMANTIC  DEAMA.  WEITTEN 
IN  SPANISH  BY  MENDOZA.  1649. 

FELISBRAVO,  prince  of  Persia,  from  a  picture  sent  Mm  of  the  brave 
Amazonian  queen  of  Tartary,  ZELIDAURA,  becoming  enamoured, 
sets  out  for  that  realm;  in  his  way  thither  disenchants  a  queen 
ofAraby ;  but  first,  overcome  by  fatigue,  falls  asleep  in  the  En 
chanted  Grove,  where  ZELIDATJRA  herself,  coming  by,  steals  the 
picture  from  him.  The  passion  of  the  romance  arises  from  his 
remorse  at  being  taken  so  negligent ;  and  her  disdain  that  he 
should  sleep,  having  the  company  of  her  picture.  She  here  plays 
upon  him,  who  does  not  yet  know  her,  in  the  disguise  of  a  rustic. 

Fel.  What  a  spanking  Labradora ! 

Zel.  You,  the  unkent  Knight,  God  ye  gud  mora1 ! 

Fel.  The  time  of  day  thou  dost  mistake. 

Zel.  — and  joy — 

Fel.  —of  what— 

Zel.  That  I  discover, 

By  a  sure  sign,  you  are  awake. 

Fel.  Awake  ?  the  sign — 

Zel.  Your  being  a  lover. 

Fel.  In  love  am  I  ? 

Zel.  — and  very  deep. 

Fel.  Deep  in.  love  ?  how  is  that  seen ! 

Zel.  Perfectly.     You  do  not  sleep. 

Fel.  Rustic  excellence,  unscreen, 
And  discover  that  sweet  face, 
Which  covers  so  much  wit  and  grace. 

Zel.  You  but  dream  so :  sleep  again, 
And  forget  it. 

Fel.  Why,  now,  saint  ? 

Zel.  Why,  the  lady,  that  went  in2, 
Looks  as  if  that  she  did  paint. 
1  She  affects  rusticity. 
a  The  enchanted  queen  of  Araby,  of  whom  Zelidaura  is  jealous. 


QT7EEEE  POB  SOLO  QUEEEE.  477 

Fel.  What  has  that  to  do  with  sleeping  ? 

She  is  indeed  angelical. 
ZeL  That  picture  now  's  well  worth  your  keeping. 

For  why  ?  'tis  an  original. 
Fel.  Is  this  shepherdess  a  witch  ? 

Or  saw  the  sleeping  treason,  which 

I  committed  against  love 

Erst,  in  the  Enchanted  Grove  ? 

Me  hast  thou  ever  seen  before  ? 
ZeL  Seen  ?  ay,  and  know  thee  for  a  man 

That  will  turn  him,  and  sleep  more 

Than  a  dozen  dunces  can. 

Thou  ken'st  little  what  sighs  mean. 
Pel.  Unveil,  by  Jove,  that  face  serene. 
ZeL  What,  to  make  thee  sleep  again  ? 
FeL  Still  in  riddles? 
ZeL  Now  he  sees : 

This  pinching  wakes  him  by  degrees. 
FeL  Art  thou  a  nymph  ? 
ZeL  Of  Parnass  Green. 
FeL  Sleep  I  indeed,  or  am  I  mad? 
ZeL  None  serve  thee  but  the  enchanted  queen  ? 

I  think  what  dull  conceits  ye  have  had 

Of  the  bird  phoenix,  which  no  eye 

E'er  saw ;  an  odoriferous  lie : 

How  of  her  beauty's  spells  she 's  told ; 

That  by  her  spirit  thou  art  haunted ; 

And,  having  slept  away  the  old, 

With  this  new  mistress  worse  enchanted. 
FeL  I  affect  not,  shepherdess, 

Myself  in  such  fine  terms  to  express ; 

Sufficeth  me  aii  humble  strain : 

Too  little  happy  to  be  vain. — 

Unveil ! 

ZeL  Sir  Gallant,  not  so  fast. 
FeL  See  thee  I  will. 
ZeL  See  me  you  shall : 

But  touch  not  fruit  you  must  not  taste.      [She  takes  off" 

What  says  it,  now  the  leaf  doth  fall  ?  her  veil. 

FeL  It  says  'tis  worthy  to  comprise 

The  kernel  of  so  rare  a  wit ; 

Nor,  that  it  grows  in  Paradise, 

But  Paradise  doth  grow  in  it. 

The  tall  and  slender  trunk  no  less  divine, 

Though  in  a  lowly  shepherdess's  rine.         [He  begins  to 

This  should  be  that  so  famous  queen  know  her. 

For  unquell'd  valour  and  disdain. — 


478  MENDOZA. 

In  these  enchanted  woods  is  seen 

Nothing  but  illusions  vain. 
Zel.  What  stares  the  man  at? 
Fel.  I  compare 

A  picture — I  once  mine  did  call — 

With  the  divine  original. 
Zel.  Fallen  again  asleep  you  are  : 

We  poor  human  shepherd  lasses 

Nor  are  pictured,  nor  use  glasses. 

Who  skip  their  rank,  themselves  and  betters  wrong ; 

To  our  dames,  God  bless  them,  such  quaint  things  belong. 

Here  a  tiny  brook  alone, 

Which  fringed  with  borrow'd  flowers  (he  has 

Gold  and  silver  enough  on  his  own) 

Is  heaven's  proper  looking-glass, 

Copies  us  :  and  its  reflections, 

Showing  natural  perfections, 

Free  from  soothing,  free  from  error, 

Are  our  pencil,  are  our  mirror. 
Fel.  Art  thou  a  shepherdess  ? 
Zel.  • —  and  bore 

On  a  mountain,  called  There. 
Fel.  WTear'st  thou  ever  heretofore 

Lady's  clothes? 
Zel.  I  lady's  gear?— 

Yes — what  a  treacherous  poll  have  I ! — 

In  a  country  comedy 

I  once  enacted  a  main  part ; 

Still  I  have  it  half  by  heart : 

The  famous  history  it  was 

Of  an  Arabian — let  me  see — 

No,  of  a  queen  of  Tartary, 

Who  all  her  sex  did  far  surpass 

In  beauty,  wit,  and  chivalry  : 

Who  with  invincible  disdain 

Would  fool,  when  she  was  in  the  vein, 

Princes  with  all  their  wits  about  them  ; 

But,  an  they  slept,  to  death  she  'd  flout  them  : 

And,  by  the  mass,  with  such  a  mien 

My  majesty  did  play  the  queen ; 

Our  curate  had  my  picture  made 

In  the  same  robes  in  which  I  play'd. 

[To  my  taste  this  is  fine,  elegant,  queen-like  raillery :  a  second 
part  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  to  which  title  this  extraordinary 
play  has  still  better  pretensions  than  even  Shakspeare's ;  for  after 
leading  three  pair  of  royal  lovers  through  endless  mazes  of  doubts, 
difficulties,  oppositions  of  dead  fathers'  wills,  a  labyrinth  of  losings 


QTIEEEE  POE  SOLO  QUEEEE.  479 

and  findings,  jealousies,  enchantments,  conflicts  with  giants,  and 
single-handed  against  armies,  to  the  exact  state  in  which  aU.  the 
lovers  might  with  the  greatest  propriety  indulge  their  reciprocal 
wishes — when,  the  deuce  is  in  it,  you  think,  but  they  must  all  be 
married  now — suddenly  the  three  ladies  turn  upon  their  lovers ; 
and,  as  an  exemplification  of  the  moral  of  the  play,  "  Loving  for 
loving' s  sake,"  and  a  hyper-platonic,  truly  Spanish  proof  of  then* 
affections — demand  that  the  lovers  shall  consent  to  their  mistresses' 
taking  upon  them  the  vow  of  a  single  life ;  to  which  the  gallants, 
with  becoming  refinement,  can  do  no  less  than  consent.  The  fact 
is  that  it  was  a  court  play,  in  which  the  characters,  males,  giants, 
and  all,  were  played  by  females,  and  those  of  the  highest  order  of 
grandeeship.  No  nobleman  might  be  permitted  amongst  them ; 
and  it  was  against  the  forms,  that  a  great  court  lady  of  Spain  should 
consent  to  such  an  unrefined  motion,  as  that  of  wedlock,  though 
but  in  a  play. 

Appended  to  the  drama,  the  length  of  which  may  be  judged  from 
its  having  taken  nine  days  in  the  representation,  and  me  three 
hours  in  the  reading  of  it — hours  well- wasted — is  a  poetical  account 
of  a  fire,  which  broke  out  in  the  theatre  on  one  of  the  nights  of  its 
acting,  when  the  whole  of  the  Dramatis  Personse  were  nearly  burnt, 
because  the  common  people  out  of  "  base  fear,"  and  the  nobles  out 
of  "pure  respect,"  could  not  think  of  laying  hands  upon  such 
"great  donnas;"  till  the  young  king,  breaking  the  etiquette,  by 
snatching  up  his  queen,  and  bearing  her  through  the  flames  upon 
his  back,  the  grandees,  (dilatory  .ZEneases),  followed  his  example, 
and  each  saved  one  (Anchises-fashion),  till  the  whole  courtly  com 
pany  of  comedians  were  got  off  in  tolerable  safety. — Imagine  three 
or  four  stout  London  firemen,  on  such  an  occasion,  standing  off  in 
mere  respect.] 

Address  to  Solitude. 

Sweet  solitude !  still  Mirth !  that  fear'st  no  wrong, 
Because  thou  dost  none  :  Morning  all  day  long ! 
Truth's  sanctuary  !  Innocency's  spring ! 
Invention's  limbeck !  Contemplation's  wing ! 
Peace  of  my  soul,  which  I  too  late  pursued ; 
That  know'st  not  the  world's  vain  inquietude  j 
Where  friends,  the  thieves  of  time,  let  us  alone 
Whole  days,  and  a  man's  hours  are  all  his  own. 

Song  in  praise  of  the  same. 
Solitude,  of  friends  the  best, 
And  the  best  companion ; 
Mother  of  truths,  and  brought  at  least 
Every  day  to  bed  of  one ; 
In  this  flowery  mansion 
I  contemplate  how  the  rose 
Stands  upon  thorns,  how  quickly  goes 
The  dismaying  jessamine : 


480  MENDOZA. 

Only  the  soul,  which  is  divine,       , 

No  decay  of  beauty  knows. 

The  world  is  beauty's  mirror.     Flowers, 

In  their  first  virgin  purity, 

Flatterers  both  of  the  nose  and  eye. — 

To  be  cropp'd  by  paramours 

Is  their  best  of  destiny ; 

And  those  nice  darlings  of  the  land, 

Which  seem'd  heaven's  painted  bow  to  scorn, 

And  bloom' d  the  envy  of  the  morn, 

Are  the  gay  trophy  of  a  hand. 

Unwilling  to  love  again. 
—  sadly  I  do  live  in  fear; 
For,  though  I  would  not  fair  appear, 
And  though  in  truth  I  am  not  fair, 
Haunted  I  am  like  those  that  are ; 
And  here,  among  these  rustling  leaves, 
With  which  the  wanton  wind  must  play, 
Inspired  by  it,  my  sense  perceives 
This  snowy  jasmin  whispering  say, 
How  much  more  frolic,  white  and  fair 
In  her  green  lattice  she  doth  stand, 
To  enjoy  the  free  and  cooler  air, 
Than  in  the  prison  of  a  hand1 ! 

Loving  without  hope. 
look'd  if  underneath  the  cope 
Were  one  that  loved,  and  did  not  hope ; 
But  from  his  nobler  soul  remove 
That  modern  heresy  in  love  ; 
When,  hearing  a  shrill  voice,  I  turn, 
And,  lo !  a  sweet-tongued  nightingale, 
Tender  adorer  of  the  morn, — 
In  him  I  found  that  one  and  all, 
For  that  same  faithful  bird  and  true. 
Sweet  and  kind  and  constant  lover, 
Wondrous  passion  did  discover, 
From  the  terrace  of  an  eugh. 
And  though  ungrateful  she  appear'd 
Unmoved  with  all  she  saw  and  heard ; 
Every  day,  before  'twas  day, 
More  and  kinder  things  he  'd  say ; 
Courteous,  and  never  to  be  lost, 
Return' d  not  with  complaints,  but  praise 
Loving,  and  all  at  his  own  cost ; 

1  Claridiana,  the  enchanted  queen,  speaks  this,  and  the  follow 
ing  speech. 


QTJEEEE  POE  SOLO  QUEEEE.  481 

Suffering,  and  without  hope  of  ease  : 
For  with  a  sad  and  trembling  throat 
He  breathes  into  her  breast  this  note : — 
"  I  love  thee  not,  to  make  thee  mine  j 
But  love  thee,  'cause  thy  form 's  divine." 

The  true  absence  in  love. 
Zelidaura,  star  divine, 
That  dost  in  highest  orb  of  beauty  shine ; 
Pardon'd  murderess,  by  that  heart 
Itself,  which  thou  dost  kill,  and  coveted  smart ; 
Though  my  walk  so  distant  lies  ' 

From  the  sunshine  of  thine  eyes ; 
Into  sullen  shadows  hurl'd, 
To  lie  here  buried  from  the  world 
'Tis  the  least  reason  of  my  moan 
That  so  much  earth  is  'twixt  us  thrown. 
'Tis  absence  of  another  kind, 
Grieves  me ;  for  where  you  are  present  too 
Love's  geometry  does  find, 
I  have  ten  thousand  miles  to  you. 
'Tis  not  absence  to  be  far, 
But  to  abhor  is  to  absent ; 
To  those  who  in  disfavour  are, 
Sight  itself  is  banishment1. 

To  a  warrioress. 

Heaven,  that  created  thee  thus  warlike,  stole 
Into  a  woman's  body  a  man's  soul. 
But  nature's  law  in  vain  dost  thou  gainsay ; 
The  woman's  valour  lies  another  way. 
The  dress,  the  tear,  the  blush,  the  witching  eye, 
More  witching  tongue,  are  beauty's  armoury  : 
To  rally,  to  discourse  in  companies, 
Who 's  fine,  who  courtly,  who  a  wit,  who  wise ; 
And  with  the  awing  sweetness  of  a  dame, 
As  conscious  of  a  face  can  tigers  tame, 
By  tasks  and  circumstances  to  discover, 
Amongst  the  best  of  princes,  the  best  lover ; 
(The  fruit  of  all  those  flowers)  who  serves  with  most 
Self-diffidence,  who  with  the  greatest  boast ; 
Who  twists  an  eye  of  hope  in  braids  of  fear ; 
Who  silent  (made  for  nothing  but  to  bear 
Sweet  scorn  and  injuries  of  love)  envies 
Unto  his  tongue  the  treasure  of  his  eyes : 
Who,  without  vaunting  shape,  hath  only  wit ; 
Nor  knows  to  hope  reward,  though  merit  it ; 

1  Claridoro,  rival  to  Felisbravo,  speaks  this. 

2i 


482  MENDOZA. 

Then,  out  of  all,  to  make  a  choice  so  rare, 
So  lucky- wise,  as  if  thou  wert  not  fair1. 

All  mischiefs  repayable  but  a  lost  love. 
I. 

A  second  Argo,  freighted 

With  fear  and  avarice, 

Between  the  sea  and  skies 

Hath  penetrated 

To  the  new  world,  unworn 

With  the  red  footsteps  of  the  snowy  mom. 
II, 

Thirsty  of  mines : 

She  comes  rich  back :  and  (the  curl'd  rampire  past 

Of  watery  mountains,  cast 

Up  by  the  winds) 

Ungrateful  shelf  near  home 

Gives  her  usurped  gold  a  silver  home, 
in. 

A  devout  pilgrim,  who 

To  foreign  temple  bare 

Good  pattern,  fervent  prayer, 

Spurr'd  by  a  pious  vow ; 

Measuring  so  large  a  space, 

That  earth  lack'd  regions  for  his  plants2  to  tracer 

IV. 

Joyful  returns,  though  poor : 

And,  just  by  his  abode, 

Falling  into  a  road 

Which  laws  did  ill  secure, 

Sees  plunder'd  by  a  thief 

(0  happier  man  than  I !  for  'tis)  his  life. 

v. 

Conspicuous  grows  a  tree, 
Which  wanton  did  appear, 
First  fondling  of  the  year, 
With  smiling  bravery, 
And  in  his  blooming  pride 
The  lower  house  of  flowers  did  deride : 

VI. 

When  his  silk  robes  and  fair 
(His  youth's  embroidery, 
The  crownet  of  a  spring, 
Narcissus  of  the  air) 
Rough  Boreas  doth  confound, 
And  with  his  trophies  strews  the  scorned  ground. 
1  Addressed  to  Zelidaura.  2  Soles  of  his  feet. 


QTJEEEE  POE  SOLO  QUEEEE.  483 

VII. 

Trusted  to  tedious  hope 

So  many  months  the  corn ; 

Which  now  begins  to  turn 

Into  a  golden  crop : 

The  lusty  grapes,  (which  plump 

Are  the  last  farewell  of  the  summer's  pomp). 

VIII. 

How  spacious  spreads  the  vine ! — 
Nursed  up  with  how  much  care, 
She  lives,  she  thrives,  grows  fair ; 
'Bout  her  loved  elm  doth  twine  : — 
Comes  a  cold  cloud;  and  lays, 
In  one,  the  fabric  of  so  many  days. 

IX. 

A  silver  river  small 

In  sweet  accents 

His  music  vents, 

(The  warbling  virginal, 

To  which  the  merry  birds  do  sing — 

Timed  with  stops  of  gold1  the  silver  stnng) ; 

x. 

He  steals  by  a  greenwood 
With  fugitive  feet ; 
Gay,  jolly,  sweet : 
Comes  me  a  troubled  flood ; 
And  scarcely  one  sand  stays, 
To  be  a  witness  of  his  golden  days. — 

XI. 

The  ship 's  upweigh'd ; 

The  pilgrim  made  a  saint  j 

Next  spring  re-crowns  the  plant ; 

Winds  raise  the  corn  was  laid ; 

The  vine  is  pruned ; 

The  rivulet  new-tuned : — 

But  in  the  ill  I  have 

I  am  left  alive  only  to  dig  my  grave. 

XII. 

Lost  Beauty,  I  will  die, 

But  I  will  thee  recover ; 

And  that  I  die  not  instantly, 

Shows  me  more  perfect  lover : 

For  (my  soul  gone  before) 

I  live  not  now  to  live,  but  to  deplore. 

1  Allusions  to  the  Tagus,  and  golden  sands. 

2i2 


484  T.  HEYWOOD. 

THE  DOWNFALL  OF  EOBEET,  EARL  OF  HUNTING 
DON :  AN  HISTORICAL  PLAY,  BY  T.  HEYWOOD, 
1601. 

CHOETJS  ;  SKELTON,  the  Poet. 

SJcelton  (to  the  audience).  The  youth  that  leads  yon  virgin  by 
As  doth  the  sun  the  morning  ^jchly  clad,          [the  hand 
Is  our  earl  Robert — or  your  Robin  Hood — 
That  in  those  days  was  earl  of  Huntingdon. 

ROBIN  recounts  to  MAEIAN  the  pleasures  of  a  forest  life. 
Robin.  Marian,  thou  seest,  though  courtly  pleasures  want, 

Yet  country  sport  in  Sherwood  is  not  scant : 

For  the  soul-ravishing  delicious  sound 

Of  instrumental  music  we  have  found 

The  winged  quiristers,  with  divers  notes 

Sent  from  their  quaint  recording  pretty  throats, 

On  every  branch  that  compasseth  our  bower, 

Without  command  contenting  us  each  hour. 

For  arras  hangings  and  rich  tapestry, 

We  have  sweet  Nature's  best  embroidery. 

For  thy  steel  glass,  wherein  thou  wont'st  to  look, 

Thy  crystal  eyes  gaze  in  a  crystal  brook. 

At  court  a  flower  or  two  did  deck  thy  head; 

Now  with  whole  garlands  it  is  circled : 

For  what  we  want  in  wealth,  we  have  in  flowers ; 

And  what  we  lose  in  halls,  we  find  in  bowers. 
Marian.  Marian  hath  all,  sweet  Robert,  having  thee ; 

And  guesses  thee  as  rich  in  having  me. 

SCAELET  recounts  to  SCATHLOCK  the  pleasures  of  an  Outlaw's  life. 

Scarlet.  It 's  full  seven  years  since  we  were  outlaws  first, 
And  wealthy  Sherwood  was  our  heritage. 
For  all  those  years  we  reigned  uncontrolPd, 
From  Barnsdale  shrogs  to  Nottingham's  red  cliffs. 
At  Blithe  and  Tickhill  were  we  welcome  guests ; 
Good  George-a-green  at  Bradford  was  our  friend, 
And  wanton  Wakefield's  Pinner  loved  us  well. 
At  Barnsley  dwells  a  potter  tough  and  strong, 
That  never  brook'd  we  brethren  should  have  wrong. 
The  nuns  of  Farnsfield,  pretty  nuns  they  be, 
Gave  napkins,  shirts,  and  bands,  to  him  and  me. 
Bateman  of  Kendal  gave  us  Kendal-green, 
And  Sharpe  of  Leeds  sharp  arrows  for  us  made. 
At  Rotherham  dwelt  our  bowyer,  God  him  bliss; 
Jackson  he  hight,  his  bows  did  never  miss. 


DOWNFALL  OF  EGBERT,  EAEL  OF  HUNTINGDON.     485 

FlTZWATEB,  banished,  seeking  his  daughter  MATILDA  (Robin's 
Marian)  in  the  forest  of  Sherwood,  makes  his  complaint. 

Fitz.  Well  did  he  write,  and  mickle  did  he  know, 
That  said  "  This  world's  felicity  was  wo, 
Which  greatest  states  can  hardly  undergo." 
Whilom  Fitzwater  in  fair  England's  court 
Possess'd  felicity  and  happy  state. 
And  in  his  hall  blithe  Fortune  kept  her  sport ; 
Which  glee  one  hour  of  wo  did  ruinate. 
Fitzwater  once  had  castks,  towns,  and  towers  j 
Fair  gardens,  orchards,  and  delightful  bowers ; 
But  now  nor  garden,  orchard,  town,  nor  tower, 
Hath  poor  Fitzwater  left  within  his  power. 
Only  wide  walks  are  left  me  in  the  world, 
Which  these  stiff  limbs  will  hardly  let  me  tread : 
And  when  I  sleep,  heaven's  glorious  canopy 
Me  and  my  mossy  couch  doth  overspread. 

He  discovers  ROBIN  HOOD  sleeping ;  MAEIAN  strewing  flowers 

over  him. 

Fitz.  —  in  good  time  see  where  my  comfort  stands, 
And  by  her  lies  dejected  Huntingdon. 
Look  how  my  flower  holds  flowers  in  her  hands, 
And  flings  those  sweets  upon  my  sleeping  son. 
Feigns  himself  blind,  to  try  if  she  will  know  him. 

Mar.  What  aged  man  art  thou  ?  or  by  what  chance 
Camest  thou  thus  far  into  the  wayless  wood  ? 

Fitz.  Widow,  or  wife,  or  maiden,  if  thou  be ; 

Lend  me  thy  hand :  thou  seest  I  cannot  see. 
Blessing  betide  thee  !  little  feel'st  thou  want : 
With  me,  good  child,  food  is  both  hard  and  scant. 
These  smooth  even  veins  assure  me,  He  is  kind, 
Whate'er  he  be,  my  girl,  that  thee  doth  find. 
I  poor  and  old  am  reft  of  all  earth's  good : 
And  desperately  am  crept  into  this  wood, 
To  seek  the  poor  man's  patron,  Robin  Hood. 

Mar.  And  thou  art  welcome,  welcome,  aged  man, 
Are  ten  times  welcome  to  Maid  Marian. 
Here 's  wine  to  cheer  thy  heart ;  drink,  aged  man. 
There 's  venison,  and  a  knife ;  here  's  manchet  fine. — 
My  Robin  stirs :  I  must  sing  him  asleep. 

A  Judgment. 
A  Wicked  Prior.     Serving-man. 

Prior.  What  news  with  you,  sir  ? 

Serv.  Ev'n  heavy  news,  my  lord ;  for  the  light  fire, 
Falling  in  manner  of  a  fire-drake 


486  PHYLLIS  OF  SCTEOS.  * 

Upon  a  bam  of  yours,  hath  burnt  six  barns, 
And  not  a  strike  of  corn  reserved  from  dust. 
No  hand  could  save  it ;  yet  ten  thousand  hands 
Labour'd  their  best,  though  none  for  love  of  you : 
For  every  tongue  with  bitter  cursing  bann'd 
Your  lordship,  as  the  viper  of  the  land. 

Prior.  What  meant  the  villains  ? 

Serv.  Thus  and  thus  they  cried : 

"  Upon  this  churl,  this  hoard  er-up  of  corn, 

This  spoiler  of  the  earl  of  Huntingdon, 

This  lust-defiled,  merciless,  false  prior, 

Heaven  rainetht  judgment  down  in  shape  of  fire." 

Old  wives,  that  scarce  could  with  their  crutches  creep, 

And  little  babes  that  newly  learn'd  to  speak, 

Men  masterless  that  thorough  want  did  weep, 

All  in  one  voice  with  a  confused  cry 

In  execrations  bann'd  you  bitterly. 

"  Plague  follow  plague,"  they  cried ;  "  he  hath  undone 

The  good  lord  Robert,  earl  of  Huntingdon." 


PHYLLIS  OF  SCYEOS :  A  DEAMATIC  PASTOEAL. 
ATJTHOE  UNKNOWN,  1655. 

True  Love  irremoveable  ly  Death. 
SERPILLA.     PHYLLIS. 

Ser.  Thyrsis  believes  thee  dead,  and  justly  may 
Within  his  youthful  breast  then  entertain 
New  flames  of  love,  and  yet  therein  be  free 
From  the  least  show  of  doing  injury 
To  that  rich  beauty  which  he  thinks  extinct, 
And  happily  hath  mourn'd  for  long  ago  : 
But  when  he  shall  perceive  thee  here  alive, 
His  old  lost  love  will  then  with  thee  revive. 

Phyl.  That  love,  Serpilla,  which  can  be  removed 
With  the  light  breath  of  an  imagined  death, 
Is  but  a  faint  weak  love ;  nor  care  I  much 
Whether  it  live  within,  or  still  lie  dead. 
Ev'n  I  myself  believed  him  long  ago 
Dead,  and  enclosed  within  an  earthen  urn ; 
And  yet,  abhorring  any  other  love, 
I  only  loved  that  pale-faced  beauty  still ; 
And  those  dry  bones,  dissolved  into  dust : 
And  underneath  their  ashes  kept  alive 
The  lively  flames  of  my  still-burning  fire. 

CEIIA,  leingput  to  sleep  ly  an  ineffectual  poison,  waking  believes 


PHYLLIS  or  SCTEOS.  487 


herself  to  be  among  the  dead.    The  old  shep 
her,  and  re-  assures  her  of  her  still  being  alive. 

Shep.  Celia,  thou  talkest  idly  ;  call  again 

Thy  wandering  senses  ;  thou  art  yet  alive. 

And,  if  thou  wilt  not  credit  what  I  say, 

Look  up,  and  see  the  heavens  turning  round  ; 

The  sun  descending  down  into  the  west, 

Which  not  long  since  thou  saw'st  rise  in  the  east. 

Observe,  that  with  the  motion  of  the  air 

These  fading  leaves  do  fall  :  — 

In  the  infernal  region  of  the  deep 

The  sun  doth  never  rise,  nor  ever  set  ; 

Nor  doth  a  falling  leaf  there  e'er  adorn 

Those  black  eternal  plants. 

Thou  still  art  on  the  earth  'mongst  mortal  men, 

And  still  thou  livest.     I  am  Narete.     These 

Are  the  sweet  fields  of  Scyros.     Know'st  thou  not 

The  meadow  where  the  fountain  springs?  this  wood? 

Euros'  great  mountain,  and  Ormino's  hill  ; 

The  hill  where  thou  wert  born  ? 

THYBSIS,  upbraided  by  PHYLLIS,  for  loving  another,  while  he 
supposed  her  dead,  replies  — 

Thyrsis.  O,  do  not  turn  thy  face  another  way. 
Perhaps  thou  thinkest,  by  denying  thus 
That  lovely  visage  to  these  eyes  of  mine, 
To  punish  my  misdeeds  :  but  think  not  so. 
Look  on  me  still,  and  mark  me  what  I  say, 
(For,  if  thou  know'st  it  not,  I  '11  tell  thee  then,) 
A  more  severe  revenger  of  thy  wrongs 
Thou  canst  not  have  than  those  fairjeyes  of  thine, 
Which  by  those  shining  beams  that  wound  my  heart 
Punish  me  more  than  all  the  world  can  do. 
What  greater  pain  canst  thou  inflict  on  me, 
Than  still  to  keep  as  fire  before  my  face 
That  lovely  beauty,  which  I  have  betray'd  ; 
That  beauty,  I  have  lost  ? 

NIGHT  breaks  off  her  speech1. 

Night.  But  stay  !  for  there  methinks  I  see  the  sun, 
Eternal  painter,  now  begin  to  rise, 
And  limn  the  heavens  in  vermilion  die  ; 
And  having  dipp'd  his  pencil,  aptly  framed, 
Already  in  the  colour  of  the  morn, 
With  various  temper  he  doth  mix  in  one 
Darkness  and  light  ;  and  drawing  curiously 
Strait  golden  lines  quite  through  the  dusky  sky, 
1  In  the  Prologue. 


488  G.  CHAPMAN. 

A  rough  draught  of  the  day  he  seems  to  yield, 

With  red  and  tawny  in  an  azure  field. 

Already,  by  the  clattering  of  their  bits, 

Their  gingling  harness,  and  their  neighing  sounds, 

I  heard  Ecus  and  fierce  Pirous 

Come  panting  on  my  back ;  and  therefore  I 

Must  fly  away.     And  yet  I  do  not  fly, 

But  follow  on  my  regulated  course, 

And  these  eternal  orders  I  received 

From  the  First  Mover  of  the  Universe. 


CLESAE  AJO)  POMPEY:  A  TEAGEDY, 
BY  a.  CHAPMAN,  1631. 

CATO'S  Speech  at  Utica  to  a  Senator,  who  had  expressed  fears  on 

his  account. 

Away,  Statilius ;  how  long  shall  thy  love 
Exceed  thy  knowledge  of  me,  and  the  gods, 
Whose  rights  thou  wrong' st  for  my  right?  have  not  I 
Their  powers  to  guard  me  in  a  cause  of  theirs, 
Their  justice  and  integrity  to  guard  me 
In  what  I  stand  for  ?  he  that  fears  the  gods, 
For  guard  of  any  goodness,  all  things  fears ; 
Earth,  seas,  and  air ;  heaven;  darkness;  broad  daylight; 
Rumour,  and  silence,  and  his  very  shade : 
And  what  an  aspen  soul  has  such  a  creature ! 
How  dangerous  to  his  soul  is  such  a  fear ! 
In  whose  cold  fits,  is  all  Heaven's  justice  shaken 
To  his  faint  thoughts ;  and  all  the  goodness  there 
Due  to  all  good  men  by  the  gods'  own  vows ; 
Nay,  by  the  firmness  of  their  endless  being ; 
All  which  shall  fail  as  soon  as  any  one 
Good  to  a  good  man  in  them  :  for  his  goodness 
Proceeds  from  them,  and  is  a  beam  of  theirs. 
O,  never  more,  Statilius,  may  this  fear 
Faint  thy  bold  bosom,  for  thyself  or  friend, 
More  than  the  gods  are  fearful  to  defend. 

His  thoughts  of  death. 

Poor  slaves,  how  terrible  this  death  is  to  them ! — 
If  men  would  sleep,  they  would  be  wroth  with  all 
That  interrupt  them ;  physic  take,  to  take 
The  golden  rest  it  brings ;  both  pay  and  pray 
For  good  and  soundest  naps,  all  friends  consenting 
In  those  invocations ;  praying  all, 
"  Good  rest  the  gods  vouchsafe  you ! "   But  when  Death, 
Sleep's  natural  brother,  comes;  that 's  nothing  worse, 


CJ3SAB  AND  POMPET.  489 

But  better  (being  more  rich— and  keeps  the  store — 
Sleep  ever  fickle,  wayward  still,  and  poor) ; 
0,  how  men  grudge,  and  shake,  and  fear,  and  fly 
His  stern  approaches !  all  their  comforts,  taken 
In  faith,  and  knowledge  of  the  bliss  and  beauties 
That  watch  their  wakings  in  an  endless  life, 
Drown'd  in  the  pains  and  horrors  of  their  sense 
Sustain'd  but  for  an  hour. 
His  discourse  with  ATHENODOKTJS  on  an  after-life. 

Cato.  As  Nature  works  in  all  things  to  an  end, 
So,  in  the  appropriate  honour  of  that  end, 
All  things  precedent  have  their  natural  frame ; 
And  therefore  is  there  a  proportion 
Betwixt  the  ends  of  those  things  and  their  primes : 
For  else  there  could  not  be  in  their  creation 
Always,  or  for  the  most  part,  that  firm  form 
In  their  still  like  existence,  that  we  see 
In  each  full  creature.     What  proportion  then 
Hath  an  immortal  with  a  mortal  substance  ? 
And  therefore  the  mortality,  to  which 
A  man  is  subject,  rather  is  a  sleep 
Than  bestial  death ;  since  sleep  and  death  are  calPd 
The  twins  of  nature.     For,  if  absolute  death, 
And  bestial,  seize  the  body  of  a  man, 
Then  there  is  no  proportion  in  his  parts, 
(His  soul  being  free  from  death)  which  otherwise 
Retain  divine  proportion.     For,  as  sleep 
No  disproportion  holds  with  human  souls, 
But  aptly  quickens  the  proportion 
'Twixt  them  and  bodies,  making  bodies  fitter 
To  give  up  forms  to  souls,  which  is  their  end; 
So  death,  twin-born  of  sleep,  resolving  all 
Man's  body's  heavy  parts,  in  lighter  nature 
Makes  a  re-union  with  the  sprightly  soul; 
When  in  a  second  life  their  beings  given 
Hold  their  proportions  firm  in  highest  heaven. 

Athenodorus.  Hold  you;  our  bodies  shall  revive ;  resuming 
Our  souls  again  to  heaven  ? 

Cato.  Past  doubt ;  though  others 

Think  heaven  a  world  too  high  for  our  low  reaches, 
Not  knowing  the  sacred  sense  of  him  that  sings, 
"  Jove  can  let  down  a  golden  chain  from  heaven, 
Which,  tied  to  earth,  shall  fetch  up  earth  and  seas" — 
And  what 's  that  golden  chain  but  our  pure  souls 
That,  govern'd  with  his  grace  and  drawn  by  him, 
Can  hoist  the  earthy  body  up  to  him  ? — 
The  sea,  the  air,  and  all  the  elements, 


490  G.  CHAPMAN. 

Compress'd  in  it ;  not  while  'tis  thus  concrete, 
But  'fined  by  death,  and  then  given  heavenly  heat.- 
We  shall,  past  death, 

Retain  those  forms  of  knowledge,  learn'd  in  life : 
Since  if  what  here  we  learn  we  there  shall  lose, 
Our  immortality  were  not  life,  but  time  : 
And  that  our  souls  in  reason  are  immortal, 
Their  natural  and  proper  objects  prove ; 
Which  Immortality  and  Knowledge  are : 
For  to  that  object  ever  is  referr'd 
The  nature  of  the  soul,  in  which  the  acts 
Of  her  high  faculties  are  still  employ'd ; 
And  that  true  object  must  her  powers  obtain, 
To  which  they  are  in  nature's  aim  directed ; 
Since  'twere  absurd  to  have  her  set  an  object 
Which  possibly  she  never  can  aspire. 
His  last  words, 

now  I  am  safe ; 

Come,  Csesar,  quickly  now,  or  lose  your  vassal. 
Now  wing  thee,  dear  soul,  and  receive  her  heaven. 
The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars ; 
And  now  will  see  the  gods'  state  and  the  stars. 


Vulcan  from  heaven  fell,  yet  on  his  feet  did  light, 
And  stood  no  less  a  god  than  at  his  height. 


BTJSSY  D'AMBOIS :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  G.  CHAPMAN, 

1613. 

Invocation  for  secrecy  at  a  love-meeting: 
Tamyra.  Now  all  the  peaceful  Regents  of  the  Night, 
Silently-gliding  Exhalations, 

Languishing  Winds,  and  murmuring  Falls  of  Waters, 
Sadness  of  Heart,  and  Ominous  Secureness, 
Enchantment's  dead  Sleeps ;  all  the  friends  of  Rest, 
That  ever  wrought  upon  the  life  of  man ; 
Extend  your  utmost  strengths,  and  this  charm'd  hour 
Fix  like  the  centre ;  make  the  violent  wheels 
Of  Time  and  Fortune  stand ;  and  great  Existence : 
The  Maker's  Treasury,  now  not  seem  to  be 
To  ail  but  my  approaching  friend1  and  me. 

At  the  meeting. 

Here's  nought  but  whispering  with  us :  like  a  calm 
1  D'Ambois,  with  whom  she  has  an  appointment. 


BUSST  D'AMBOIS.  491 

Before  a  tempest,  when  the  silent  air 

Lays  her  soft  ear  close  to  the  earth,  to  hearken 

For  that  she  fears  is  coming  to  afflict  her. 

Invocation  for  a  spirit  of  intelligence. 
D'Ambois.  I  long  to  know 

How  my  dear  mistress  fares,  and  be  inform'd 
What  hand  she  now  holds  on  the  troubled  blood 
Of  her  incensed  lord.     Methought  the  spirit, 
When  he  had  utter' d  his  perplex' d  presage, 
Threw  his  changed  countenance  headlong, into  clouds; 
His  forehead  bent,  as  he  would  hide  his  face : 
He  knock'd  his  chin  against  his  darken'd  breast, 
And  struck  a  churlish  silence  through  his  powers. — 
Terror  of  Darkness  :  O  thou  king  of  Flames, 
That  with  thy  music-footed  horse  dost  strike 
The  clear  light  out,  of  crystal,  on  dark  earth, 
And  hurl'st  instructive  fire  about  the  world ; 
Wake,  wake  the  drowsy  and  enchanted  night, 
That  sleeps  with  dead  eyes  in  this  heavy  riddle1. 
Or  thou,  great  prince  of  Shades,  where  never  sun 
Sticks  his  far-darted  beams ;  whose  eyes  are  made 
To  see  in  darkness,  and  see  ever  best 
Where  sense  is  blindest ;  open  now  the  heart 
Of  thy  abashed  oracle,  that,  for  fear 
Of  some  ill  it  includes,  would  fain  lie  hid ; 
And  rise  thou  with  it  in  thy  greater  light2. 
The  friar  dissuades  the  husband  of  Tamyrafrom  revenge. 
Your  wife's  offence  serves  not,  were  it  the  worst 
You  can  imagine,  without  greater  proofs, 
To  sever  your  eternal  bonds  and  hearts ; 
Much  less  to  touch  her  with  a  bloody  hand : 
Nor  is  it  manly,  much  less  husbandly, 
To  expiate  any  frailty  in  your  wife 
With  churlish  strokes  or  beastly  odds  of  strength. 
The  stony  birth  of  clouds3  will  touch  no  laurel, 
Nor  any  sleeper.     Your  wife  is  your  laurel, 
And  sweetest  sleeper ;  do  not  touch  her  then  : 
Be  not  more  rude  than  the  wild  seed  of  vapour 
To  her  that  is  more  gentle  than  it  rude. 

1  He  wants  to  know  the  fate  of  Tamyra,  whose  intrigue  with 
him  has  been  discovered  by  her  husband. 

2  This  calling  upon  Light  and  Darkness  for  information,  but, 
above  all,  the  description  of  the  spirit — "  Threw  his  changed  coun 
tenance  headlong  into  clouds" — is  tremendous,  to  the  milling  of 
the  blood.     I  know  nothing  in  poetry  like  it. 

3  The  thunderbolt. 


492  G.  CHAPMAN  AND  J.  SHIELET. 

CHABOT,  ADMIBAL  OF  FEANCE :  A  TEAGEDY, 
BY  O.  CHAPMAN  AND  J.  SHIELEY,  1639. 

No  advice  to  self-advice. 

another's  knowledge, 

Applied  to  my  instruction,  cannot  equal 
My  own  soul's  knowledge  how  to  inform  acts. 
The  sun's  rich  radiance,  shot  through  waves  most  fair, 
Is  but  a  shadow  to  his  beams  in  the  air  j 
His  beams  that  in  the  air  we  so  admire, 
Is  but  a  darkness  to  his  flame  in  fire ; 
In  fire  his  fervour  but  in  vapour  flies, 
To  what  his  own  pure  bosom  rarefies : 
And  the  Almighty  Wisdom  having  given 
Each  man  within  himself  an  apter  light 
To  guide  his  acts  than  any  light  without  him, 
(Creating  nothing,  not  in  all  things  equal) 
It  seems  a  fault  in  any  that  depend 
On  others'  knowledge,  and  exile  their  own. 
Virtue  under  calumny. 

as  in  cloudy  days  we  see  the  sun 

Glide  over  turrets,  temples,  richest  fields 
(All  those  left  dark  and  slighted  in  his  way) ; 
And  on  the  wretched  plight  of  some  poor  shed 
Pours  all  the  glories  of  his  golden  head ; 
So  heavenly  Virtue  on  this  envied  lord 
Points  all  his  graces. 


EDWAED  THE  THIED :  AN  HISTOEICAL  PLAY. 
ATTTHOE  UNKNOWN,  1597. 

The  KING,  having  relieved  the  castle  of  the  heroic  COUNTESS  OF 
SAUSBUBY,  besieged  by  the  Scots,  and  being  entertained  by  her, 
loves  her. 

"Edward  \solus\.  She  is  grown  more  fairer  far  since  I  came 
Her  voice  more  silver  every  word  than  other,      [hither : 
Her  wit  more  fluent.     What  a  strange  discourse 
Unfolded  she  of  David,  and  his  Scots ! 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  he  spake,  and  then  spake  broad 
With  epithets  and  accents  of  the  Scot ; 
But  somewhat  better  than  the  Scot  could  speak : 
And  thus,  quoth  she,  and  answer'd  then  herself; 
For  who  could  speak  like  her ;  but  she  herself 
Breathes  from  the  wall  an  angel  note  from  heaven 
Of  sweet  defiance  to  her  barbarous  foes. — 
When  she  would  talk  of  peace,  methinks  her  tongue 


EDWABD  THE  THIBD.  493 

Commanded  war  to  prison ;  when  of  war, 

It  waken'd  Caesar  from  his  Roman  grave, 

To  hear  war  beautified  by  her  discourse. 

Wisdom  is  foolishness,  but  in  her  tongue ; 

Beauty  a  slander,  but  in  her  fair  face ; 

There  is  no  summer,  but  in  her  cheerful  looks ; 

Nor  frosty  winter,  but  in  her  disdain. 

I  cannot  blame  the  Scots  that  did  besiege  her, 

For  she  is  all  the  treasure  of  our  land ; 

But  call  them  cowards,  that  they  ran  away, 

Having  so  rich  and  fair  a  cause  to  stay. 

The  CotJNTESS  repels  the  KlNG-'s  unlawful  suit. 
Coun.  Sorry  I  am  to  see  my  liege  so  sad : 

What  may  thy  subject  do  to  drive  from  thee 
This  gloomy  consort,  sullen  Melancholy? 
King.  Ah  lady !  I  am  blunt,  and  cannot  strew 
The  flowers  of  solace  in  a  ground  of  shame. 
Since  I  came  hither,  countess,  I  am  wrong'd. 
Coun.  Now  God  forbid  that  any  in  my  house 

Should  think  my  sovereign  wrong !  thrice-gentle  king 
Acquaint  me  with  your  cause  of  discontent. 
King.  How  near  then  shall  I  be  to  remedy  ? 
Coun.  As  near,  my  liege,  as  all  my  woman's  power, 

Can  pawn  itself  to  buy  thy  remedy. 
King.  If  thou  speak'st  true,  then  have  I  my  redress. 
Engage,  thy  power  to  redeem  my  joys, 
And  I  am  joyful,  countess ;  else  I  die. 
Coun.  I  will,  my  liege. 
King.  Swear,  countess,  that  thou  wilt. 
Coun.  By  heaven,  I  will. 
King.  Then  take  thyself  a  little  way  aside, 

And  tell  thyself,  a  king  doth  dote  on  thee. 
Say  that  within  thy  power  it  doth  lie 
To  make  him  happy,  and  that  thou  hast  sworn 
To  give  him  all  the  joy  within  thy  power : 
Do  this ;  and  tell  him,  when  I  shall  be  happy. 
Coun.  All  this  is  done,  my  thrice-dread  sovereign. 
That  power  of  love,  that  I  have  power  to  give, 
Thou  hast,  with  all  devout  obedience. 
Employ  me  how  thou  wilt  in  proof  thereof. 
King.  Thou  hear'st  me  say  that  I  do  dote  on  thee. 
Coun.  If  on  my  beauty,  take  it  if  thou  canst ; 
Though  little,  I  do  prize  it  ten  times  less : 
If  on  my  virtue,  take  it  if  thou  canst  j 
For  virtue's  store  by  giving  doth  augment. 
Be  it  on  what  it  will,  that  I  can  give, 
And  thou  canst  take  away,  inherit  it. 


494  EDWAED  THE  THIED. 

King,  It  is  thy  beauty  that  I  would  enjoy. 

Coun.  O  were  it  painted,  I  would  wipe  it  off, 
And  dispossess  myself  to  give  it  thee ; 
But,  sovereign,  it  is  solder'd  to  my  life  : 
Take  one,  and  both ;  for,  like  an  humble  shadow, 
It  haunts  the  sunshine  of  my  summer's  life. 

King.  But  thou  mayst  lend  it  me  to  sport  withal. 

Coun.  As  easy  may  my  intellectual  soul 
Be  lent  away,  and  yet  my  body  live, 
As  lend  my  body  (palace  to  my  soul) 
Away  from  her,  and  yet  retain  my  soul. 
My  body  is  her  bower,  her  court,  her  abbey, 
And  she  an  angel,  pure,  divine,  unspotted 
If  I  should  lend  her  house,  my  lord,  to  thee, 
I  kill  my  poor  soul,  and  my  poor  soul  me. 

King.  Didst  thou  not  swear  to  give  me  what  I  would? 

Coun.  1  did,  my  liege,  so  what  you  would,  I  could. 

King.  I  wish  no  more  of  thee,  than  thou  mayst  give ; 
Nor  beg  I  do  not,  but  I  rather  buy ; 
That  is  thy  love ;  and  for  that  love  of  thine, 
In  rich  exchange,  I  tender  to  thee  mine. 

Coun.  But  that  your  lips  were  sacred,  my  lord, 
You  would  profane  the  holy  name  of  love. 
That  love,  you  offer  me,  you  cannot  give  ; 
For  Caesar  owes  that  tribute  to  his  queen. 
That  love,  you  beg  of  me,  I  cannot  give ; 
For  Sarah  owes  that  duty  to  her  lord. 
He,  that  doth  clip  or  counterfeit  your  stamp, 
Shall  die,  my  lord ;  and  shall  your  sacred  self 
Commit  high  treason  'gainst  the  King  of  Heaven, 
To  stamp  his  image  in  forbidden  metal, 
Forgetting  your  allegiance  and  your  oath  ? 
In  violating  marriage'  sacred  law, 
You  break  a  greater  honour  than  yourself. 
To  be  a  king,  is  of  a  younger  house 
Than  to  be  married :  your  progenitor, 
Soie-reigning  Adam  on  the  universe, 
By  God  was  honour'd  for  a  married  man 
But  not  by  him  anointed  for  a  king. 
It  is  a  penalty  to  break  your  statutes, 
Though  not  enacted  with  your  highness'  hand ; 
How  much  more  to  infringe  the  holy  act, 
Made  by  the  mouth  of  God,  seal'd  with  his  hand ! 
I  know  iny  sovereign,  in  my  husband's  love, 
Doth  but  to  try  the  wife  of  Salisbury, 
Whether  she  will  hear  a  wanton's  tale  or  no; 
Lest  being  guilty  therein  by  my  stay, 


EDWAED  THE  THIED.  495 

From  that,  not  from  my  liege,  I  turn  away. 

***** 

King.  Whether  is  her  beauty  by  her  words  divine, 
Or  are  her  words  sweet  chaplains  to  her  beauty  ? 
Like  as  the  wind  doth  beautify  a  sail, 
And  as  a  sail  becomes  the  unseen  wind, 
So  do  her  words  her  beauties,  beauty  words. 

***** 

Coun.  He  hath  sworn  me  by  the  name  of  God 
To  break  a  vow  made  in  the  name  of  God. 
What  if  I  swear  by  this  right  hand  of  mine 
To  cut  this  right  hand  off?  the  better  way 
Were  to  profane  the  idol,  than  confound  it. 
Mattery. 

O  thou  world,  great  nurse  of  flattery, 

Why  dost  thou  tip  men's  tongues  with  golden  words, 
And  poise  their  deeds  with  weight  of  heavy  lead, 
That  fair  performance  cannot  follow  promise  ? 
O,  that  a  man  might  hold  the  heart's  close  book 
And  choke  the  lavish  tongue,  when  it  doth  utter 
The  breath  of  falsehood,  not  character'd  there ! 

Sin  worst  in  high  place. 
An  honourable  grave  is  more  esteem'd 
Than  the  polluted  closet  of  a  king ; 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  is  the  thing, 
Be  it  good  or  bad,  that  he  shall  undertake. 
An  unreputed  mote,  flying  in  the  sun, 
Presents  a  greater  substance  than  it  is ; 
The  freshest  summer's  day  doth  soonest  taint 
The  loathed  carrion,  that  it  seems  to  kiss : 
Deep  are  the  blows  made  with  a  mighty  axe ; 
That  sin  does  ten  times  aggravate  itself, 
That  is  committed  in  a  holy  place ; 
An  evil  deed  done  by  authority 
Is  sin,  and  subornation ;  deck  an  ape 
In  tissue,  and  the  beauty  of  the  robe 
Adds  but  the  greater  scorn  unto  the  beast ; 
The  poison  shows  worst  in  a  golden  cup ; 
Dark  night  seems  darker  by  the  lightning  flash  ; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds ; 
And  every  glory,  that  inclines  to  sin, 
The  shame  is  treble  by  the  opposite. 


496  DOOTOE  DODYPOL. 

DOCTOR  DODYPOL :  A  COMEDY 
AUTHOR  UNKNOWN,  1600. 

EAEL  LASSENBTJEGH,  as  a  Painter,  painting  his  mistress 

si  grotesco. 
Lass.  Welcome  bright  Morn,  that  with  thy  golden  rays 

Reveal' st  the  radiant  colours  of  the  world ; 

Look  here,  and  see  if  thou  canst  find  dispersed 

The  glorious  parts  of  fair  Lucilia ! 

Take  them,  and  join  them  in  the  heavenly  spheres ; 

And  fix  them  there  as  an  eternal  light, 

For  lovers  to  adore  and  wonder  at. 
Luc.  You  paint  your  flattering  words,  Lord  Lassenburgh, 

Making  a  curious  pencil  of  your  tongue ; 

And  that  fair  artificial  hand  of  yours 

Were  fitter  to  have  painted  Heaven's  fine  story, 

Than  here  to  work  on  antics,  and  on  me  : 

Thus  for  my  sake  you  of  a  noble  earl 

Are  glad  to  be  a  mercenary  painter. 
Lass.  A  painter,  fair  Lucilia !  why,  the  world 

With  all  her  beauty  was  by  painting  made. 

Look  on  the  heavens,  coloured  with  golden  stars, 

The  firmamental  part  of  it  all  blue. 

Look  on  the  air,  where  with  a  hundred  changes 

The  watery  rainbow  doth  embrace  the  earth. 
.    Look  on  the  summer  fields,  adorn'd  with  flowers ; 

How  much  is  Nature's  painting  honour'd  there ! 

Look  in  the  mines,  and  on  the  eastern  shore, 

Where  all  our  metals  and  dear  gems  are  drawn ; 

Though  fair  themselves,  made  better  by  their  foils. 

Look  on  that  little  world,  the  twofold  man, 

Whose  fairer  parcel  is  the  weaker  still ; 

And  see  what  azure  veins  in  stream-like  form 

Divide  the  rosy  beauty  of  the  skin. 

I  speak  not  of  the  sundry  shapes  of  beasts ; 

The  several  colours  of  the  elements, 

Whose  mixture  shapes  the  world's  variety, 

In  making  all  things  by  their  colours  known. 

And,  to  conclude — Nature  herself  divine 

In  all  things  she  has  made  is  a  mere  painter. 
Luc.  Now  by  this  kiss,  the  admirer  of  thy  skill, 

Thou  art  well-worthy  the  honour  thou  hast  given 

With  thy  so  sweet  words  to  thy  eye-ravishing  art ; 

Of  which  my  beauties  can  deserve  no  part. 
Lass.  From  these  base  antics,  where  my  hand  hath  'sperscd 

Thy  several  parts,  if  I,  uniting  all, 

Had  figured  there  the  true  Lucilia, 


DOCTOR  DODYPOL.  497 

Then  mightst  them  justly  wonder  at  my  art ; 
And  devout  people  would  from  far  repair, 
Like  pilgrims,  with  their  duteous  sacrifice, 
Adorning  thee  as  regent  of  their  loves. 
Here  in  the  centre  of  this  Marigold, 
Like  a  bright  diamond  I  enchased  thine  eye. 
Here,  underneath  this  little  rosy  bush, 
Thy  crimson  cheeks  peer  forth,  more  fair  than  it. 
Here  Cupid  hanging  down  his  wings  doth  sit, 
Comparing  cherries  to  thy  rosy  lips. 
Here  is  thy  brow,  thy  hair,  thy  neck,  thy  hand, 
Of  purpose  in  all  several  shrouds  dispersed ; 
Lest  ravish'd  I  should  dote  on  mine  own  work, 
Or  envy-burning  eyes  should  malice  it. 
A  cameo  described. 

see  this  agate,  that  contains 

The  image  of  the  goddess  and  her  son, 
Whom  ancients  held  the  sovereigns  of  Love. 
See  naturally  wrought  out  of  the  stone, 
Besides  the  perfect  shape  of  every  limb, 
Besides  the  wondrous  life  of  her  bright  hair, 
A  waving  mantle  of  celestial  blue, 
Embroidering  itself  with  flaming  stars  : 
Most  excellent !  and  see  besides, — 
How  Cupid's  wings  do  spring  out  of  the  stone, 
As  if  they  needed  not  the  help  of  Art. 

EAEL  LASSEKBUEGH,/or  some  distaste,  flees  LTICILIA,  who 
follows  him. 

Lass.  Wilt  thou  not  cease  then  to  pursue  me  still  ? 
Should  I  entreat  thee  to  attend  me  thus, 
Then  thou  wouldst  pant  and  rest ;  then  your  soft  feet 
Would  be  repining  at  these  niggard  stones  : 
Now  I  forbid  thee,  thou  pursuest  like  wind ; 
No  tedious  space  of  time,  nor  storm  can  tire  thee. 
But  I  will  seek  out  some  high  slippery  close, 
Where  every  step  shall  reach  the  gate  of  death, 
That  fear  may  make  thee  cease  to  follow  me. 

Luc.  There  will  I  bodiless  be,  when  you  are  there ; 
For  love  despiseth  death,  and  scorneth  fear. 

Lass.  I  '11  wander  where  some  desperate  river  parts 
The  solid  continent,  and  swim  from  thee. 

Luc.  And  there  I  '11  follow,  though  I  drown  for  thee. 

Lass.  O,  weary  of  the  way,  and  of  my  life, 

Where  shall  I  rest  my  sorrow'd,  tired  limbs  ? 

Luc.  Rest  in  my  bosom,  rest  you  here,  my  lord ; 
A  place  securer  you  can  no  way  find — 

2K 


498  DOCTOB,  DODTPOL. 

Lass.  Nor  more  unfit  for  my  unpleased  mind. 
A  heavy  slumber  calls  me  to  the  earth  : 
Here  will  I  sleep,  if  sleep  will  harbour  here. 

Luc.  Unhealthful  is  the  melancholy  earth ; 
O,  let  my  lord  rest  on  Lucilia's  lap. 
I  '11  help  to  shield  you  from  the  searching  air, 
And  keep  the  cold  damps  from  your  gentle  blood. 

Lass.  Pray  thee,  away !  for,  whilst  thou  art  so  near, 
No  sleep  will  seize  on  my  suspicious  eyes. 

Luc.  Sleep  then ;  and  I  am  pleased  far  oif  to  sit, 
Like  to  a  poor  and  forlorn  sentinel, 
Watching  the  unthankful  sleep,  that  severs  me 
From  my  due  part  of  rest,  dear  love,  with  thee. 

An  Enchanter,  who  is  enamoured  of  LUCILIA,  charms  the  Earl  to 
a  dead  sleep,  and  LUCILIA  to  a  forgetful/ness  of  her  past  love. 

Ench.  (to  LASSENBURGH).  Lie  there;  and  lose  the  memory 
Who  likewise  hath  forgot  the  love  of  thee  [of  her, 

By  my  enchantments : — come,  sit  down,  fair  nymph, 
And  taste  the  sweetness  of  these  heavenly  cates, 
Whilst  from  the  hollow  crannies  of  this  rock 
Music  shall  sound  to  recreate  my  love. 
But  tell  me,  had  you  ever  lover  yet  ? 

Luc.  I  had  a  Iover5  I  think ;  but  who  it  was, 

Or  where,  or  how  long  since,  ay  me !  I  know  not  : 
Yet  beat  my  timorous  thoughts  on  such  a  thing. 
I  feel  a  passionate  heat,  yet  find  no  flame ; 
Think  what  I  know  not,  nor  know  what  I  think. 

Ench.  Hast  thou  forgot  me  then?  I  am  thy  love, — 
Whom  sweetly  thou  wert  wont  to  entertain 
With  looks,  with  vows  of  love,  with  amorous  kisses. 
Look'st  thou  so  strange  ?  dost  thou  not  know  me  yet  ? 

Luc.  Sure  I  should  know  you. 

Ench.  Why,  love,  doubt  you  that  ? 

'Twas  I  that  led  you1  through  the  painted  meads, 
Where  the  light  fairies  danced  upon  the  flowers, 
Hanging  on  every  leaf  an  orient  pearl, 
Which,  struck  together  with  the  silken  wind 
Of  their  loose  mantles,  made  a  silver  chime. 
'Twas  I  that,  winding  my  shrill  bugle-horn, 
Made  a  gilt  palace  break  out  of  the  hill, 
Fill'd  suddenly  with  troops  of  knights  and  dames, 
Who  danced  and  revel'd ;  whilst  we  sweetly  slept 
Upon  a  bed  of  roses,  wrapp'd  all  in  gold. 
Dost  thou  not  know  me  now  ? 

Luc.  Yes,  now  I  know  thee. 

1  In  charmed  visions. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  OF  YENICE.  499 

EncJi.  Come  then,  confirm  this  knowledge  with  a  kiss. 
Luc.  Nay,  stay ;  you  are  not  he :  how  strange  is  this  ! 
Ench.  Thou  art  grown  passing  strange,  my  love, 

To  him  that  made  thee  so  long  since  his  bride. 
Luc.  O,  was  it  you  ?  come  then.     O,  stay  awhile. 

I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  what  I  am ; 

Nor  you,  nor  these  I  know,  nor  any  thing: 


THE  GENTLEMAN  OF  VENICE  :    A  TKAGI-COMEDY, 
BY  JAMES  SHIELEY,  1665. 

GIOVANNI,  of  noble  extraction,  but  brought  up  a  gardener,  and 
ignorant  of  any  greater  birth,  loves  BELLAUEA,  a  princess ;  and 
is  beloved  again. 

BELLAURA.     GIOVANNI. 

Bell.  How  now,  Giovanni ; 

What,  with  a  sword  ?     You  were  not  used  to  appear 
Thus  arm'd.     Your  weapon  is  a  spade,  I  take  it. 

Gio.  It  did  become  my  late  profession,  madam  ; 
But  I  am  changed — 

Bell.  Not  to  a  soldier? 

Gio.  It  is  a  title,  madam,  will  much  grace  me ; 
And  with  the  best  collection  of  my  thoughts 
I  have  ambition  to  the  wars. 

Bell.  You  have? 

Gio.  O,  'tis  a  brave  profession  and  rewards 

All  loss  we  meet,  with  double  weight  in  glory ; 

A  calling,  princes  still  are  proud  to  own ; 

And  some  do  willingly  forget  their  crowns, 

To  be  commanded.     'Tis  the  spring  of  all 

We  here  entitle  fame  to ;  emperors, 

And  all  degrees  of  honours,  owing  all 

Their  names  to  this  employment ;  in  her  vast 

And  circular  embraces  holding  kings, 

And  making  them ;  and  yet  so  kind  as  not 

To  exclude  such  private  things  as  I,  who  may 

Learn  and  commence  in  her  great  arts. — My  life 

Hath  been  too  useless  to  myself  and  country ; 

'Tis  time  I  should  employ  it,  to  deserve 

A  name  within  their  registry,  that  bring 

The  wealth,  the  harvest,  home  of  well- bought  honour. 

Bell.  Yet  I  can  see 

Through  all  this  revolution,  Giovanni, 
'Tis  something  else  has  wrought  this  violent  change. 
Pray  let  me  be  of  counsel  with  your  thoughts, 
And  know  the  serious  motive ;  come,  be  clear. 

2*2 


500  JAMES  SHIELET. 

I  am  no  enemy,  and  can  assist 

Where  I  allow  the  cause. 
Gio.  You  may  be  angry, 

Madam,  and  chide  it  as  a  saucy  pride 

In  me  to  name  or  look  at  honour ;  nor 

Can  I  but  know  what  small  addition 

Is  my  unskilful  arm  to  aid  a  country. 
Bell.  I  may  therefore  justly  suspect  there  is 

Something  of  other  force,  that  moves  you  to 

The  wars.     Enlarge  my  knowledge  with  the  secret. 
Gio.  At  this  command  I  open  my  heart.     Madam, 

I  must  confess  there  is  another  cause, 

Which  I  dare  not  in  my  obedience 

Obscure,  since  you  will  call  it  forth ;  and  yet 

I  know  you  will  laugh  at  me — 
Bell.  It  would  ill 

Become  my  breeding,  Giovanni — 
Gio.  Then, 

Know,  madam,  I  am  in  love. 
Bell.  In  love,  with  whom? 
Gio.  With  one  I  dare  not  name,  she  is  so  much 

Above  my  birth  and  fortunes. 
Bell.  I  commend 

Your  flight.     But  does  she  know  it  ? 
Gio.  I  durst  never 

Appear  with  so  much  boldness  to  discover 

My  heart's  so  great  ambition ;  it  is  here  still 

A  strange  and  busy  guest. 
Bell.  And  you  think  absence 

May  cure  this  wound — 
Gio.  Or  death— 
Bell.  I  may  presume 

You  think  she 's  fair 

Gio.  I  dare  as  soon  question  your  beauty,  madam, 

The  only  ornament  and  star  of  Venice, 

Pardon  the  bold  comparison ;  yet  there  is 

Something  in  you,  resembles  my  great  mistress. 

She  blushes !  (aside) 

Such  very  beams  disperseth  her  bright  eye, 

Powerful  to  restore  decrepit  nature ; 

But  when  she  frowns,  and  changes  from  her  sweet 

Aspect,  (as  in  my  fears  I  see  you  now, 

Offended  at  my  boldness,)  she  does  blast 

Poor  Giovanni  thus,  and  thus  I  wither 

At  heart,  and  wish  myself  a  thing  lost  in 

My  own  forgotten  dust. 


501 


THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE :  A  TEAGI- COMEDY, 
BY  JOHN  WEBSTER,  1623. 

Clergy-comfort. 
I  must  talk  to  you,  like  a  divine,  of  patience. — 

I  have  heard  some  talk  of  it  very  much,  and  many 
Times  to  their  auditors'  impatience ;  but  I  pray, 
What  practice  do  they  make  on 't  in  their  lives  ? 
They  are  too  full  of  choler  with  living  honest, — 
And  some  of  them  not  only  impatient 
Of  their  own  slightest  injuries,  but  stark  mad 
At  one  another's  preferment. 

Sepulture. 
Two  Bellmen,  a  Capuchin ;  EOMELIO,  and  others. 

Cap.  For  pity's  sake,  you  that  have  tears  to  shed, 
Sigh  a  soft  requiem,  and  let  fall  a  bead, 
For  two  unfortunate  nobles1,  whose  sad  fate 
Leaves  them  both  dead  and  excommunicate : 
No  churchman's  prayer  to  comfort  their  last  groans, 
No  sacred  seed  of  earth  to  hide  their  bones  j 
But  as  their  fury  wrought  them  out  of  breath, 
The  canon  speaks  them  guilty  of  their  own  death. 

Rom.  Denied  Christian  burial !  I  pray,  what  does  that  ? 
Or  the  dead  lazy  march  in  the  funeral  ? 
Or  the  flattery  in  the  epitaph  ? — which  shows 
More  sluttish  far  than  all  the  spiders'  webs, 
Shall  ever  grow  upon  it :  what  do  these 
•  Add  to  our  well-being  after  death  ? 

Cap.  Not  a  scruple. 

Rom.  Very  well  then — 

I  have  a  certain  meditation, 

(If  I  can  think  of,)  somewhat  to  this  purpose; — 

I  '11  say  it  to  you,  while  my  mother  there 

Numbers  her  beads. — 

"  You  that  dwell  near  these  graves  and  vaults. 

Which  oft  do  hide  physicians'  faults, 

Note  what  a  small  room  doth  suffice 

To  express  men's  goods :  their  vanities 

Would  fill  more  volume  in  small  hand, 

Than  all  the  evidence  of  church  land. 

Funerals  hide  men  in  civil  wearing, 

And  are  to  the  drapers  a  good  hearing ; 

Make  the  heralds  laugh  in  their  black  raiment ; 

And  all  die  worthies,  die  with  payment 

1  Slain  in  a  duel. 


502  JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

To  the  altar  offerings  :  though  their  fame, 

And  all  the  charity  of  their  name, 

'Tween  heaven  and  this,  yield  no  more  light 

Than  rotten  trees,  which  shine  in  the  night. 

O,  look  the  last  act  be  best  in  the  play, 

And  then  rest  gentle  bones  !  yet  pray, 

That  when  by  the  Precise  you  are  view'd, 

A  supersedeas  be  not  sued ; 

To  remove  you  to  a  place  more  airy, 

That  in  your  stead  they  may  keep  chary 

Stockfish,  or  seacoal ;  for  the  abuses 

Of  sacrilege  have  turn'd  graves  to  viler  uses. 

How  then  can  any  monument  say, 

Here  rest  these  bones  to  the  last  day ; 

When  Time,  swift  both  of  foot  and  feather, 

May  bear  them  the  sexton  knows  not  whither? — 

What  care  I  then,  though  my  last  sleep ; 

Be  in  the  desert,  or  in  the  deep ; 

No  lamp,  nor  taper,  day  and  night, 

To  give  my  charnel  chargeable  light? 

I  have  there  like  quantity  of  ground ; 

And  at  the  last  day  I  shall  be  found1.*' 

Immature  death. 
Contarino  *s  dead. 

0  that  he  should  die  so  soon ! 

Why,  I  pray,  tell  me : 

Is  not  the  shortest  fever  best  ?  and  are  not 

Bad  plays  the  worse  for  their  length  ? 

Guilty  preferment. 

1  have  a  plot,  shall  breed, 

Out  of  the  death  of  these  two  noblemen, 
The  advancement  of  our  house — 

O,  take  heed ! 

A  grave  is  a  rotten  foundation. 
Mischiefs 

are  like  the  visits  of  Franciscan  friars, 

They  never  come  to  prey  upon  us  single. 

Last  love  strongest. 

—  as  we  love  our  youngest  children  best, 
So  the  last  fruit  of  our  affection, 

1  Webster  was  parish  clerk  at  St.  Andrew's  Holborn.  The  an- 
xicms  recurrence  to  church  matters,  sacrilege,  tombstones,  with  the 
frequent  introduction  of  dirges,  in  this,  and  his  other  tragedies, 
may  be  traced  to  his  professional  sympathies. 


THE  DEYIL'S  LAW  CASE.  603 

Wherever  we  bestow  it,  is  most  strong, 
Most  violent,  most  irresistible ; 
Since  'tis  indeed  our  latest  harvest-home, 
Last  merriment  'fore  winter ;  and  we  widows, 
As  men  report  of  our  best  picture-makers, 
We  love  the  piece  we  are  in  hand  with  better 
Than  all  the  excellent  work  we  have  done  before. 
Mother's  anger. 

Leonora.  Ha,  my  son ! 

I ''11  be  a  Fury  to  him;  like  an  Amazon  lady, 
I  'd  cut  off  this  right  pap  that  gave  him  suck, 
To  shoot  him  dead.     I  '11  no  more  tender  him, 
Than  had  a  wolf  stolen  to  my  teat  in  the  night, 
And  robb'd  me  of  my  milk. 

Distraction  from  guilt. 

Leonora  (sola).  Ha,  ha!  What  say  you? 

I  do  talk  to  somewhat  methinks ;  it  may  be, 
My  evil  genius. — Do  not  the  bells  ring  ? 
I  have  a  strange  noise  in  my  head.     O,  fly  in. 
Come,  age,  and  wither  me  into  the  malice 
Of  those  that  have  been  happy  !  let  me  have 
One  property  for  more  than  the  devil  of  hell ; 
Let  me  envy  the  pleasure  of  youth  heartily ; 
Let  me  in  this  life  fear  no  kind  of  ill, 
That  have  no  good  to  hope  for.     Let  me  sink, 
Where  neither  man  nor  memory  may  find  me.       [Falls 

to  the  ground. 

Confessor  (entering}.  You  are  well  employ'd,  I  hope ;  the  best 

pillow  in  the  world 

For  this  your  contemplation  is  the  earth, 
And  the  best  object  heaven. 

Leonora.  I  am  whispering 

To  a  dead  friend 

Obstacles. 

Let  those,  that  would  oppose  this  union, 
Grow  ne'er  so  subtle,  and  entangle  themselves 
In  their  own  work,  like  spiders ;  while  we  two 
Haste  to  our  noble  wishes;  and  presume, 
The  hindrance  of  it  will  breed  more  delight, — 
As  black  copartaments  show  gold  more  bright, 

Falling  out. 

To  draw  the  picture  of  unkindness  truly 
Is,  to  express  two  that  have  dearly  loved 
And  fallen  at  variance. 


504  THOMAS  NABBS. 

THE  BRIDE  :  A  COMEDY,  BY  THOMAS  NABBS,  1640. 

Antiquities. 

HOBTEN,  a  collector.     His  friend. 
Friend.  You  are  learned  in  antiquities  ? 
Hort.  A  little,  sir. 

I  should  affect  them  more,  were  not  tradition 

One  of  the  best  assurances  to  show 

They  are  the  things  we  think  them.   What  more  proofs, 


Except  perhaps  a  little  circumstance, 
Have  we  for  this  or  that  to  be  a 


piece 

Of  Delphos'  ruins  ?  or  the  marble  statues, 
Made  Athens  glorious  when  she  was  supposed 
To  have  more  images  of  men  than  men  ? 
A  weather-beaten  stone,  with  an  inscription 
That  is  not  legible  but  through  an  optic, 
Tells  us  its  age ;  that  in  some  Sibyl's  cave 
Three  thousand  years  ago  it  was  an  altar, 
}Tis  satisfaction  to  our  curiosity, 
But  ought  not  to  necessitate  belief. — 
For  antiquity, 

I  do  not  store  up  any  under  Grecian ; 
Your  Roman  antiques  are  but  modern  toys 
Compared  to  them.     Besides  they  are  so  counterfeit 
With  mouldings,  'tis  scarce  possible  to  find 
Any  but  copies. 

Friend.  Yet  you  are  confident 

Of  yours,  that  are  of  more  doubt. 

Hort.  Others  from  their  easiness 

May  credit  what  they  please.     My  trial  ys  such 
Of  any  thing  I  doubt,  all  the  impostors, 
That  ever  made  antiquity  ridiculous, 
Cannot  deceive  me.     If  I  light  upon 
Aught  that 's  above  my  skill,  I  have  recourse 
To  those,  whose  judgment  at  the  second  view 
( If  not  the  first)  will  tell  me  what  philosopher's 
That  eye-less,  nose-less,  mouth-less  statue  is, 
And  who  the  workman  was  ;  though  since  his  death 
Thousands  of  years  have  been  revolved. 
Accidents  to  frustrate  purpose. 
How  various  are  the  events  that  may  depend 
Upon  one  action,  yet  the  end  proposed 
Not  follow  the  intention !  accidents 
Will  interpose  themselves;  like  those  rash  men, 
That  thrust  into  a  throng,  occasioned 
By  some  tumultuous  difference,  where  perhaps 
Their  busy  curiosity  begets 
New  quarrels  with  new  issues. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  TJSHEE.  505 

THE  GENTLEMAN  TJSHEE:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  0.  CHAPMAN,  1606. 

VINCENTIO,  a  prince,  (to  gain  Mm  over  to  his  interest  in  a  love- 
affair)  gulls  BASSIOLO,  a  formal  gentleman^usher  to  a  great 
lord,  vnth  commendations  of  his  wise  house- ordering  at  a  great 
entertainment. 

Vine.  —  besides,  good  sir,  your  show  did  show  so  well — 

Bass.  Did  it  indeed,  my  lord  ? 

Vine.  O  sir,  believe  it, 

'Twas  the  best  fashion'd  and  well-order'd  thing, 

That  ever  eye  beheld :  and  therewithal 

The  fit  attendance  by  the  servants  used, 

The  gentle  guise  in  serving  every  guest, 

In  other  entertainments ;  everything 

About  your  house  so  sortfully  disposed, 

That  ev'n  as  in  a  turnspit  (call'd  a  jack) 

One  vice1  assists  another;  the  great  wheels, 

Turning  but  softly,  make  the  less  to  whirr 

About  their  business ;  every  different  part 

Concurring  to  one  commendable  end : 

So,  and  in  such  conformance,  with  rare  grace 

Were  all  things  order'd  in  your  good  lord's  house. 

Bass.  The  most  fit  simile  that  ever  was. 

Vine.  But  shall  I  tell  you  plainly  my  conceit, 

Touching  the  man  that  (I  think)  caused  this  order? 

Bass.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Vine.  You  note  my  simile  ? 

Bass.  Drawn  from  the  turnspit 

Vine.  I  see,  you  have  me. 

Ev'n  as  in  that  quaint  engine  you  have  seen 
A  little  man  in  shreds  stand  at  the  winder, 
And  seems  to  put  in  act  all  things  about  him, 
Lifting  and  pulling  with  a  mighty  stir, — 
Yet  adds  no  force  to  it,  nor  nothing  does  : 
So,  though  your  lord  be  a  brave  gentleman, 
And  seems  to  do  this  business,  he  does  nothing. 
Some  man  about  him  was  the  festival  robe 
That  made  him  show  so  glorious  and  divine. 

Bass.  I  cannot  tell,  my  lord ;  but  I  should  know, 
If  any  such  there  were. 

Vine.  Should  know,  quoth  you  ? 

I  warrant,  you  know  well.     Well,  some  there  be 
Shall  have  the  fortune  to  have  such  rare  men 
(Like  brave  beasts  to  their  arms)  support  their  state ; 
When  others  of  as  high  a  worth  and  breed, 
Turn. 


506  THE  BASTABD. 

Are  made  the  wasteful  food  of  them  they  feed. — 

What  state  hath  your  lord  made  you  for  your  service  ? 

*  *  *  *  *     '        * 

The  same  BASSIOLO  described. 

Lord's  Daughter.  —  his  place  is  great ;  for  he  is  not  only 
My  father's  usher,  but  the  world's  beside, 
Because  he  goes  before  it  all  in  folly. 


THE  BASTAED :  A  TRAGEDY. 
AUTHOR  UNKNOWN,  1652. 

Lover 's  frown. 
Roderiguez.  Thy  uncle,  love,  holds  still  a  jealous  eye 

On  all  my  actions ;  and  I  am  advised, 

That  his  suspicious  ears 

Are  still  behind  the  hangings ;  that  the  servants 

Have  from  him  in  command  to  watch  who  visits. 

'Tis  safest,  in  my  judgment,  in  his  presence 

That  thou  forbear  to  cast  a  smile  upon  me ; 

And  that,  like  old  December,  I  should  look 

With  an  unpleasant  and  contracted  brow. 
Varina.  What,  canst  thou  change  thy  heart,  my  dear,  that 

Of  flesh  thou  gavest  me,  into  adamant,  [heart 

Or  rigid  marble  ?  canst  thou  frown  on  me  ? 
Rod.  You  do  mistake  me,  sweet,  I  mean  not  so 

To  change  my  heart ;  I  '11  change  my  countenance, 

But  keep  my  heart  as  loyal  as  before. 
Var.  In  truth  I  cannot  credit  it,  that  thou 

Canst  cast  a  frown  on  me ;  I 'prithee  try.  [other. 

Rod.  Then  thus :      [He  tries,  and  cannot ;  they  smile  on  each 
Var.  I  prithee,  sweet,  betake  thyself  to  school ; 

This  lesson  thou  must  learn ;  in  faith  thou  art  out. 
Rod.  Well,  I  must  learn,  and  practise  it,  or  we 

Shall  blast  our  budding  hopes. 
Var.  Come,  try  again. 
Rod.  But  if  I  try,  and  prove  a  good  proficient ; 

If  I  do  act  my  part  discreetly,  you 

Must  take  it  as  a  play,  not  as  a  truth ; 

Think  it  a  formal,  not  a  real  frown. 

Var.  I  shall [swoons. 

Rod.  Then  thus  :  i'faith,  minion,  I  '11  look  to  thee.    "     [She 

Why,  how  now,  sweet ! — I  did  mistrust  thy  weakness : 

Now  I  have  learn'd  my  part,  you  are  to  seek. 
Var.  'Faith,  'twas  my  weakness ;  when  I  did  perceive 

A  cloud  of  rage  condensed  on  thy  brow, 

My  heart  began  to  melt. 


IOYE  TEICKS.  507 

LOYE  TEICKS :  A  COMEDY,  BY  JAMES  SHIELEY. 

Passionate  courtship. 

Infortunio.  I  must  have  other  answer,  for  I  love  you. 

Selina.  Must !  but  I  don't  see  any  necessity  that 
I  must  love  you.     I  do  confess  you  are 
A  proper  man. 

Inf.  O,  do  not  mock,  Selina ;  let  not  excellence, 

Which  you  are  full  of,  make  you  proud  and  scornful. 
I  am  a  gentleman ;  though  my  outward  part 
Cannot  attract  affection,  yet  some  have  told  me, 
Nature  hath  made  me  what  she  need  not  shame. 
Yet  look  into  my  heart ;  there  you  shall  see 
What  you  cannot  despise,  for  there  you  are 
With  all  your  graces  waiting  on  you ;  there 
Love  hath  made  you  a  throne  to  sit,  and  rule 
O'er  Infortunio ;  all  my  thoughts  obeying, 
And  honouring  you  as  queen .     Pass  by  my  outside, 
My  breast  I  dare  compare  with  any  man. 

Sel.  But  who  can  see  this  breast  you  boast  of  so  ? 

Inf.  O,  'tis  an  easy  work ;  for  though  it  be 

Not  to  be  pierced  by  the  dull  eye,  whose  beam 

Is  spent  on  outward  shapes,  there  is  a  way 

To  make  a  search  into  its  hiddenest  passage. 

I  know  you  would  not  love,  to  please  your  sense. 

A  tree,  that  bears  a  ragged  unleaved  top 

In  depth  of  winter,  may  when  summer  comes 

Speak  by  his  fruit  he  is  not  dead  but  youthful, 

Though  once  he  show'd  no  sap  :  my  heart 's  a  plant 

Kept  down  by  colder  thoughts  and  doubtful  fears. 

Your  frowns  like  winter  storms  make  it  seem  dead, 

But  yet  it  is  not  so  ;  make  it  but  yours, 

And  you  shall  see  it  spring,  and  shoot  forth  leaves 

Worthy  your  eye,  and  the  oppressed  sap 

Ascend  to  every  part  to  make  it  green, 

And  pay  your  love  with  fruit  when  harvest  comes. 

Sel.  Then  you  confess  your  love  is  cold  as  yet, 
And  winter 's  in  your  heart. 

Inf.  Mistake  me  not,  Selina,  for  I  say 
My  heart  is  cold,  not  love. 

Sel.  And  yet  your  love  is  from  your  heart,  I  '11  warrant. 

Inf.  O,  you  are  nimble  to  mistake. 

My  heart  is  cold  in  your  displeasures  only, 

And  yet  my  love  is  fervent ;  for  your  eye, 

Casting  out  beams,  maintains  the  flame  it  burns  in. 

Again,  sweet  love, 

My  heart  is  not  mine  own,  'tis  yours,  you  have  it ; 


508  NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

And  while  it  naked  lies,  not  deign'd  your  bosom 
To  keep  it  warm,  how  can  it  be  but  cold, 
In  danger  to  be  frozen  ?  blame  not  it ; 
You  only  are  in  fault  it  hath  no  heat. 

Sel.  Well,  sir ;  I  know  you  have  rhetoric,  but  I 
Can  without  art  give  you  a  final  answer. 

Inf.  O,  stay,  and  think  awhile ;  I  cannot  relish 
You  should  say  final :  sweet,  deliberate ; 
It  doth  concern  all  the  estate  I  have ; 
I  mean  not  dunghill  treasure,  but  my  life 
Doth  stand  or  fall  to  it ;  if  your  answer  be 
That  you  can  love  me,  be  as  swift  as  lightning; 
But  if  you  mean  to  kill  me,  and  reject 
My  so  long  love-devotions,  which  I  have  paid 
As  to  an  altar,  stay  a  little  longer, 
And  let  me  count  the  riches  I  shall  lose 
By  one  poor  airy  word  :  first  give  me  back 
That  part  of  Infortimio  that  is  lost 
Within  your  love ;  play  npt  the  tyrant  with  me. 


A  WOMAN'S  A  WEATHERCOCK:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  NATHANIEL  FIELD,  1612. 

False  mistress. 
SctJDMOEE  alone;  having  a  letter  in  Ms  hand  from  BELLAFEONT, 

assuring  him  of  her  faith. 
Scud.  If  what  I  feel  I  could  express  in  words, 
Methinks  I  could  speak  joy  enough  to  men 
To  banish  sadness  from  all  love  for  ever. 

0  thou  that  reconcilest  the  faults  of  all 
Thy  frothy  sex,  and  in  thy  single  self 
Confinest,  nay,  hast  engross'd,  virtue  enough 
To  frame  a  spacious  world  of  virtuous  women ! 
Hadst  thou  been  the  beginning  of  thy  sex, 

1  think  the  devil  in  the  serpent's  skin 

Had  wanted  cunning  to  o'ercome  thy  goodness; 

And  all  had  lived  and  died  in  innocency, 

The  whole  creation  — 

Who  's  there  ? — come  in — 
Nevill.  (entering.)  What  up  already,  Scudmore  ? 
Scud.  Good  morrow,  my  dear  Nevill  ? 
Nev.  What 's  this  ?  a  letter !  sure  it  is  not  so  — 
Scud.  By  heaven,  you  must  excuse  me.     Come,  I  know 

You  will  not  wrong  my  friendship,  and  your  manners, 

To  tempt  me  so. 
Nev.  Not  for  the  world,  my  friend. 

Good  morrow ! 


A  WOMAN  JS  A  WEATHEECOOK.  509 

Scud.  Nay,  sir,  neither  must  you 

Depart  in  anger  from  this  friendly  hand. 
I  swear  I  love  you  better  than  all  men, 
Equally  with  all  virtue  in  the  world : 
Yet  this  would  be  a  key  to  lead  you  to 
A  prize  of  that  importance  — 
Nev.  Worthy  friend, 

I  leave  you  not  in  anger, — what  d'ye  mean? — 
Nor  am  I  of  that  inquisitive  nature  framed, 
To  thirst  to  know  your  private  businesses. 
Why,  they  concern  not  me :  if  they  be  ill, 
And  dangerous,  't  would  grieve  me  much  to  know  them ; 
If  good,  be  they  so,  though  I  know  them  not : 
Nor  would  I  do  your  love  so  gross  a  wrong, 
To  covet  to  participate  affairs 
Of  that  near  touch,  which  your  assured  love 
Doth  not  think  fit,  or  dares  not  trust  me  with. 
Scud.  How  sweetly  doth  your  friendship  play  with  mine, 
And  with  a  simple  subtlety  steals  my  heart 
Out  of  my  bosom !  by  the  holiest  love 
That  ever  made  a  story,  you  are  a  man 
With  all  good  so  replete,  that  I  durst  trust  you 
Even  with  this  secret,  were  it  singly  mine. 
Nev.  I  do  believe  you.    Farewell,  worthy  friend. 
Scud.  Nay,  look  you,  this  same  fashion  does  not  please  me. 
You  were  not  wont  to  make  your  visitation 
So  short  and  careless. 
Nev.  'Tis  your  jealousy, 

That  makes  you  think  it  so ;  for,  by  my  soul, 
You  have  given  me  no  distaste  in  keeping  from  me 
All  things  that  might  be  burdensome,  and  oppress  me. 
In  truth,  I  am  invited  to  a  wedding ; 
And  the  morn  faster  goes  away  from  me, 
Than  I  toward  it :  and  so  good  morrow : 
Scud.  Good  morrow,  sir.     Think  I  durst  show  it  you  — 
Nev.  Now,  by  my  life,  I  not  desire  it,  sir, 

Nor  ever  loved  these  prying  listening  men, 
That  ask  of  others  'states  and  passages : 
Not  .one  among  a  hundred  but  proves  false, 
Envious  and  slanderous,  and  will  cut  that  throat 
He  twines  his  arms  about.     I  love  that  poet, 
That  gave  us  reading  "  Not  to  seek  ourselves 
Beyond  ourselves."     Farewell. 
Scud.  You  shall  not  go. 

I  cannot  now  redeem  the  fault  I  have  made 
To  such  a  friend,  but  in  disclosing  all. 
Nev.  Now,  if  you  love  me,  do  not  wrong  me  so : 


510  NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

I  see  you  labour  with  some  serious  thing, 
And  think,  like  fairies'  treasure,  to  reveal  it 
"Will  burst  your  breast, — 'tis  so  delicious, 
And  so  much  greater  than  the  continent. 

Scud.  O,  you  have  pierced  my  entrails  with  your  words, 

And  I  must  now  explain  all  to  your  eyes !       [Gives  him 
Read ;  and  be  happy  in  my  happiness.  the  letter. 

Nev.  Yet  think  on 't ;  keep  thy  secret  and  thy  friend 
Sure  and  entire.     O,  give  not  me  the  means 
To  become  false  hereafter ;  or  thyself 
A  probable  reason  to  distrust  thy  friend, 
Though  he  be  ne'er  so  near.     I  will  not  see  it. 

Scud.  I  die,  by  heaven,  if  you  deny  again. 

I  starve  for  counsel ;  take  it,  look  upon  it. 

If  you  do  not,  it  is  an  equal  plague 

As  if  it  had  been  known  and  published. 

For  God's  sake,  read ;  biit  with  this  caution, — 

By  this  right  hand,  by  this  yet  unstain'd  sword, 

Were  you  my  father  flowing  in  these  waves, 

Or  a  dear  son  exhausted  out  of  them, 

Should  you  betray  the  soul  of  all  my  hopes, 

Like  the  two  Brethren  (though  love  made  them  Stars) 

We  must  be  never  more  both  seen  again. 

Nev.  I  read  it,  fearless  of  the  forfeiture  : — 

Yet  warn  you,  be  as  cautelous  not  to  wound 

My  integrity  with  doubt,  on  likelihoods 

From  misreport,  but  first  exquire  the  truth.  [reads. 

Scud.  She  is  the  food,  the  sleep,  the  air  I  live  by — 

Nev.  (having  read  the  letter.)  O  heaven,  we  speak  like  gods, 

Scud.  What  means  my —  [and  do  like  dogs !  — 

Nev.  This  day  this  Bellafront,  this  rich  heir 
Is  married  unto  count  Frederick ; 
And  that  Js  the  wedding  I  was  going  to. 

Scud.  I  prithee  do  not  mock  me ; — married ! — 

Nev.  It  is  no  matter  to  be  play'd  withal ; 
But  yet  as  true,  as  women  all  are  false. 

Scud.  O,  that  this  stroke  were  thunder  to  my  breast ! 
For,  Nevill,  thou  hast  spoke  my  heart  in  twain ; 
And  with  the  sudden  whirlwind  of  thy  breath 
Hast  ravish'd  me  out  of  a  temperate  soil, 
And  set  me  under  the  red  burning  zone. 

Nev.  For  shame  !  return  thy  blood  into  thy  face. 
Know'st  not  how  slight  a  thing  a  woman  is  ? 

Scud.  Yes ;  and  how  serious  too. — 

SCTJDMOBE,  afterwards,  forsaken. 

Scud.  O  God ! 

What  an  eternal  joy  my  heart  has  felt, 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  WIDOW.  511 

Sitting  at  one  of  these  same  idle  plays, 
When  I  have  seen  a  maid's  inconstancy 
Presented  to  the  life !  how  glad  my  eyes 
Have  stole  about  me,  fearing  lest  my  looks 
Should  tell  the  company  contented  there, 
I  had  a  mistress  free  of  all  such  thoughts. 

He  replies  to  Ms  friend,  who  adjures  him  to  live. 
Scud.  The  sun  is  stale  to  me ;  tomorrow  morn, 
As  this,  'twill  rise,  I  see  no  difference ; 
The  night  doth  visit  me  but  in  one  robe ; 
She  brings  as  many  thoughts,  as  she  wears  stars 
When  she  is  pleasant,  but  no  rest  at  all : 
For  what  new  strange  thitig  should  I  covet  life  then  ? 
Is  she  not  false  whom  only  I  thought  true  ? 
Shall  time  (to  show  his  strength)  make  Scudmore  live, 
Till  (perish  the  vicious  thought)  1  love  not  thee ; 
Or  thou,  dear  friend,  remove  thy  heart  from  me  ? 


THE  TRIUMPHANT  WIDOW:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THE  DUKE  OF  NEWCASTLE,  1677. 

Humours  of  a  thief  going  to  execution. 

Officers.  Room  for  the  prisoner  there  !  room  for  the  prisoner ! 

Footpad.  Make  room  there ;  'tis  a  strange  thing  a  man  cannot 
go  to  be  hanged  without  crowding  for  it. 

1st  Fellow.  Pray,  sir,  were  not  you  akin  to  one  Hinde1? 

Footpad.  No ;  I  had  run  faster  away  then. 

2nd  Fellow.  Pray,  prisoner,  before  your  death  clear  your  con 
science,  and  tell  me  truly,  &c.  [all  ask  him 
questions  about  robberies. 

Margery.  I  am  sure  you  had  my  lady's  gilt  caudle  cup. 

Footpad.  Yes,  and  would  have  kept  it ;  but  she  has  it  again, 

James.  And  the  plate  out  of  my  buttery —         [has  she  not  ? 

Footpad.  Well,  and  had  she  not  it  again  ?  what  a  plague  would 
you  have  ?  you  examine  me,  as  if  you  would  hang 
me,  after  I  am  hanged.  Pray,  officers,  rid  me  of 
these  impertinent  people,  and  let  me  die  in  quiet. 

1st  Woman.  O  lord !  how  angry  he  is !  that  shows  he  is  a 
right  reprobate,  I  warrant  you. 

Footpad.  1  believe,  if  all  of  you  were  to  be  hanged,  which  I 
hope  may  be  in  good  time,  you  would  not  be  very 

2nd  Woman.  Lord,  what  a  down  look  he  has !  [merry. 

1st  Woman.  Ay,  and  what  a  cloud  in  his  forehead,  goody 
Twattle,  mark  that. 

1  A  noted  highwayman  in  those  days. 


512  THE  DUKE  OF  NEWCASTLE. 

2nd  Woman.  Ay,  and  such  frowning  wrinkles,  I  warrant  you; 
not  so  much  as  a  smile  from  him. 

Footpad.  Smile,  quoth  she !  though  'tis  sport  for  you,  'tis 
none  for  me,  I  assure  you. 

1st  Woman.  Ay,  but  'tis  so  long  before  you  are  hanged. 

Footpad.  I  wish  it  longer,  good  woman. 

1st  Fellow.  Prithee,  Mr.  Thief,  let  this  be  a  warning  to  you 
for  ever  doing  the  like  again. 

Footpad.  I  promise  you  it  shall. 

2nd  Woman.  That  is  well !  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  la ! 
that  was  spoken  like  a  precious  godly  man  now. 

1st  Woman.  By  my  truly,  methinks  now  he  is  a  very  proper 
man,  as  one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day. 

Footpad.  Ay,  so  are  all  that  are  hanged ;  the  gallows  adds  a 
great  deal  of  grace  to  one's  person. 

2nd  Woman.  I  vow  he  is  a  lovely  man ;  'tis  pity  he  should  be 
taken  away,  as  they  say,  in  the  flower  of  his  age. 

1st  Officer.  Come,  despatch,  despatch;  what  a  plague  shall 
we  stay  all  day,  and  neglect  our  business,  to  hang 
one  thief?  [fair  hard  by. 

2nd  Officer.  Pray,  be  hanged  quickly,  sir ;  for  I  am  to  go  to  a 

1st  Officer.  And  I  am  to  meet  some  friends  to  drink  out  a  stand 
of  ale  by  and  by. 

1st  Woman.  Nay,  pray  let  him  speak,  and  die  like  a  Christian. 

2nd  Woman.  O,  I  have  heard  brave  speeches  at  this  place 
before. 

Footpad.  Well,  good  people — if  I  may  be  bold  to  call  you  so 
— this  pulpit  was  not  of  my  choosing.  I  shall  shortly 
preach  mortality  to  you  without  speaking,  therefore 
pray  take  example  by  me,  and  then  I  know  what  will 
become  of  you.  I  will  be,  I  say,  your  memento  mori, 
hoping  you  will  all  follow  me. 

1st  Fellow.  O,  he  speaks  rarely  ! 

2nd  Fellow.  Ay,  does  Latin  it. 

Footpad.  I  have  been  too  covetous,  and  at  last  taken  for  it, 
and  am  very  sorry  for  it.  I  have  been  a  great  sin 
ner,  and  condemned  for  it,  which  grieves  me  not  a 
little,  that  I  made  not  my  escape,  and  so  I  heartily 
repent  it,  and  so  I  die  with  this  true  confession. 

1st  Woman  (weeping}.  Mercy  on  him,  for  a  better  man  was 
never  hanged. 

2nd  Woman.  So  true  and  hearty  repentance,  and  so  pious ! 

2nd  Fellow.  Help  him  up  higher  on  the  ladder.  Now  you 
are  above  us  all.  [no  pride  in  this  world. 

Footpad.  Truly  I  desire  you  were  all  equal  with  me ;  I  have 

1st  Fellow.  Will  you  not  sing,  sir,  before  you  are  hanged  ? 

Footpad.  No,  I  thank  you;  I  am  not  so  merrily  disposed. 


XAMAMOUCHI.  513 

Hangman.  Come,  are  you  ready? 

Footpad.  Yes,  I  have  been  preparing  for  you  these  many  years. 

1st  Woman.  Mercy  on  him,  and  save  his  better  part. 

2nd  Woman.  You  see  what  we  must  all  come  to.  [horn  blows 

Officer.  A  reprieve !  how  came  that  ?  a  reprieve. 

Post.  My  lady  Haughty  procured  it.  [a  civil  person. 

Footpad.  I  will  always  say,  while  I  live,  that  her  ladyship  is 

1st  Fellow.  Pish,  what  must  he  not  be  hanged  now  ? 

2nd  Fellow.  What  did  we  come  all  this  way  for  this  ? 

1st  Woman.  Take  all  this  pains  to  see  nothing?       [this  day. 

Footpad.  Very  pious  good  people,  I  shall  show  you  no  sport 


MAMAMOUCHI:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  EDWAKD  KA  YENS  CROFT,  1675. 

Foolish  lender. 

Debtor.  As  to  my  affairs,  you  know  I  stand  indebted  to  you. 

Creditor.  A  few  dribbling  sums,  sir. 

Debt.  You  lent  them  me  very  frankly,  and  with  a  great  deal 
of  generosity,  and  much  like  a  gentleman. 

Cred.  You  are  pleased  to  say  so. 

Debt.  But  I  know  how  to  receive  kindnesses,  and  to  make 
returns  according  to  the  merits  of  the  person  that 

Cred.  No  man  better.  [obliges  me. 

Debt.  Therefore  pray  let 's  see  how  our  accounts  stand. 

Cred.  They  are  down  here  in  my  table-book. 

Debt.  I  am  a  man  that  love  to  acquit  myself  of  all  obligations 

Cred.  See  the  memorandum.  [as  soon — 

Debt.  You  have  set  it  all  down. 

Cred.  All. 

Debt.  Pray  read— 

Cred.  Lent,  the  second  time  I  saw  you,  one  hundred  guineas. 

Debt.  Right. 

Cred.  Another  time  fifty. 

Debt.  Yes.  [one  hundred  and  fifty. 

Cred.  Lent  for  a  certain  occasion,  which  I  did  not  tell  you, 

Debt.  Did  I  not?  that  I  should  conceal  any  thing  from  my 

Cred.  No  matter.  [friend ! 

Debt .  It  looks  like  mistrust,  which  is  a  wrong  to  friendship — 

Cred.  O  Lord ! 

Debt.  I  am  so  ashamed ! — for  I  dare  trust  my  soul  with  you. 
I  borrowed  it,  to  lend  a  person  of  quality,  whom  I 
employed  to  introduce  me  to  the  king,  and  recom 
mend  to  his  particular  favour,  that  I  might  be  able 
to  do  you  service  in  your  affairs.  [cross  it  out. 

Cred.  O,  did  you  so  ?  then  that  debt  is  as  it  were  paid  j  I  '11 

2  L 


514  JOHN  LILY. 

Debt.  By  no  means ;  you  shall  have  it,  or  I  TOW — 

Cred.  Well,  sir,  as  you  please. 

Debt.  I  vow  I  would  ne'er  have  borrowed  of  you  again,  as 
long  as  you  lived — but  proceed — 

Cred.  Another  time  one  hundred — 

Debt.  O,  that  was  to  send  into  France  to  my  wife  to  bring 
her  over,  but  the  queen  would  not  part  with  her 

Cred.  Alas !  [then ;  and  since,  she  is  fallen  sick. 

Debt.  But  pretty  well  recovered — 

Cred.  These  four  sums  make  up  four  hundred  guineas. 

Debt .  Just  as  can  be ;  a  very  good  account.  Put  down  two 
hundred  more,  which  I  will  borrow  of  you  now ;  and 
then  it  will  be  just  six  hundred ;  that  is,  if  it  will  be 
no  inconvenience  to  you. 

Cred.  Euh,  not  in  the  least. 

Debt.  It  is  to  make  up  a  sum  of  two  thousand  pounds,  which 
I  am  about  to  lay  up  in  houses  I  have  bought ;  but 
if  it  incommode  you,  I  can  have  it  elsewhere. 

Cred.  O,  by  no  means. 

Debt.  You  need  but  tell  me,  if  it  will  be  any  trouble. 

Cred.  Lord,  sir,  that  you  will  think  so ! 

Debt.  I  know  some  will  be  glad  of  the  occasion  to  serve  me ; 
but  these  are  favours  only  to  be  asked  of  special 
friends.  I  thought  you,  being  my  most  esteemed 
friend,  would  take  it  ill,  if  you  should  come  to  hear 
of  it,  that  I  did  not  ask  you  first. 

Cred.  It  is  a  great  honour. 


LOYE'S  METAMOEPHOSIS :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  JOHN  LILY,  M.A.,  1601. 

Love  half-denied  is  love  half-confessed. 
NISA.     NIOBE,  her  maid. 

Nisa.  I  fear  Niobe  is  in  love. 

Niobe.  Not  I,  madam ;  yet  must  I  confess,  that  oftentimes  I 
have  had  sweet  thoughts,  sometimes  hard  conceits ; 
betwixt  both,  a  kind  of  yielding ;  I  know  not  what ; 
but  certainly  I  think  it  is  not  love  :  sigh  I  can,  and 
find  ease  in  melancholy ;  smile  I  do,  and  take  plea 
sure  in  imagination  :  I  feel  in  myself  a  pleasing  pain, 
a  chill  heat,  a  delicate  bitterness ;  how  to  term  it  I 
know  not ;  without  doubt  it  may  be  Love ;  sure  I 
am  it  is  not  Hate. 


SAPHO  AND  PHAO.  515 

SAPHO  AND  PHAO :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR,  1601. 

PHAO,  a  poor  ferryman,  praises  his  condition ;   Tie  ferries  over 
VENUS,  who  inflames  SAPHO  and  him  with  a  mutual  passion. 

Phao.  Thou  art  a  ferryman,  Phao,  yet  a  freeman ;  possessing 
for  riches  content,  and  for  honours  quiet.  Thy 
thoughts  are  no  higher  than  thy  fortunes,  nor  thy 
desires  greater  than  thy  calling.  Who  climbeth, 
standeth  on  glass,  and  falleth  on  thorn.  Thy  heart's 
thirst  is  satisfied  with  thy  hand's  thrift,  and  thy 
gentle  labours  in  the  day  turn  to  sweet  slumbers  in 
the  night.  As  much  doth  it  delight  thee  to  rule  thy 
oar  in  a  calm  stream,  as  it  doth  Sapho  to  sway  the 
sceptre  in  her  brave  court.  Envy  never  casteth  her 
eye  low,  ambition  pointeth  always  upward,  and  re 
venge  barketh  only  at  stars.  Thou  farest  delicately, 
if  thou  have  a  fare  to  buy  any  thing.  Thine  angle 
is  ready,  when  thy  oar  is  idle ;  and  as  sweet  is  the 
fish  which  thou  gettest  in  the  river,  as  the  fowl  which 
others  buy  in  the  market.  Thou  needest  not  fear 
poison  in  thy  glass,  nor  treason  in  thy  guard.  The 
wind  is  thy  "greatest  enemy,  whose  might  is  with 
stood  by  policy.  O  sweet  life !  seldom  found  under 
a  golden  covert,  often  under  a  thatched  cottage. 
But  here  cometh  one ;  I  will  withdraw  myself  aside ; 
it  may  be  a  passenger. 

VENUS,  PHAO  ;  she  as  a  mortal. 

Yen.  Pretty  youth,  do  you  keep  the  ferry,  that  conducteth  to 
Syracusa  ? 

Phao.  The  ferry,  fair  lady,  that  conducteth  to  Syracusa. 

Ven.  I  fear,  if  the  water  should  begin  to  swell,  thou  wilt  want 
cunning  to  guide. 

Phao.  These  waters  are  commonly  as  the  passengers  are ;  and 
therefore,  carrying  one  so  fair  in  show,  there  is  no 
cause  to  fear  a  rough  sea.  [pastime  ? 

Ven.  To  pass  the  time  in  thy  boat,  canst  thou  devise  any 

Phao.  If  the  wind  be  with  me,  I  can  angle,  or  tell  tales ;  if 
against  me,  it  will  be  pleasure  for  you  to  see  me 
take  pains. 

Ven.  I  like  not  fishing ;  yet  was  I  born  of  the  sea.    [the  sea. 

Phao.  But  he  may  bless  fishing,  that  caught  such  an  one  in 

Ven.  It  was  not  with  an  angle,  my  boy,  but  with  a  net. 

Phao.  So,  was  it  said,  that  Vulcan  caught  Mars  with  Venus. 

Ven.  Didst  thou  hear  so  ?  it  was  some  tale.  [my  tale. 

Phao.  Yea,  madam ;  and  that  in  the  boat  did  I  mean  to  make 

2  L  2 


516  JOHN  LILT. 

Yen.  It  is  not  for  a  ferryman  to  talk  of  the  gods'  loves ;  but 
to  tell  how  thy  father  could  dig,  and  thy  mother 
spin.  But  come,  let  us  away. 

Phao.  I  am  ready  to  wait. 

SAPHO,  sleepless  for  love  of  PHAO,  who  loves  her  as  much,  consults 
with  him  about  some  medicinal  herb ;  she,  a  great  Lady ;  he, 
the  poor  Ferryman,  but  now  promoted  to  be  her  Gardener. 
Sapho.  What  herbs  have  you  brought,  Phao? 
Phao.  Such  as  will  make  you  sleep,  madam ;  though  they 

cannot  make  me  slumber.  [yourself? 

Sapho.  Why,  how  can  you  cure  me,  when  you  cannot  remedy 
Phao.  Yes,  madam ;  the  causes  are  contrary  :  for  it  is  only  a 

dryness  in  your  brains,  that  keepeth  you  from  rest. 
Sapho.  But  what?  [But— 

Phao.  Nothing :  but  mine  is  not  so.  [one. 

Sapho.  Nay  then,  I  despair  of  help,  if  our  disease  be  not  all 
Phao.  I  would  our  diseases  were  all  one  !  [desperate. 

Sapho.  It  goes  hard  with  the  patient,  when  the  physician  is 
Phao.  Yet  Medea  made  the  ever-waking  dragon  to  snort, 

when  she  (poor  soul)  could  not  wink,  [but  Jason. 
Sapho.  Medea  was  in  love,  and  nothing  could  cause  her  rest 
Phao.  Indeed  I  know  no  herb  to  make  lovers  sleep  but  heart's 

ease ;  which,  because  it  groweth  so  high,  I  cannot 
Sapho.  For  whom  ?  [reach,  for — 

Phao.  For  such  as  love — 

Sapho.  It  stoopeth  very  low,  and  lean  never  stoop  to  it,  that — 
Phao.  That  what  ? 

Sapho.  That  I  may  gather  it.  But  why  do  you  sigh  so,  Phao  ? 
Phao.  It  is  mine  use,  madam.  [sigh,  but  I  must  sigh  also. 
Sapho.  It  will  do  you  harm,  and  me  too ;  for  I  never  hear  one 
Phao.  It  were  best  then  that  your  ladyship  give  me  leave  to 

be  gone ;  for  I  can  but  sigh. 
Sapho.  Nay,  stay  ;  for  now  I  begin  to  sigh,  I  shall  not  leave, 

though  you  be  gone.  But  what  do  you  think  best 
Phao.  Yew,  madam.  [for  your  sighing,  to  take  it  away? 
Sapho.  Me  ! 

Phao.  No,  madam ;  yew  of  the  tree. 
Sapho.  Then  will  I  love  yew  the  better.    And  indeed  I  think 

it  would  make  me  sleep  too;  therefore,  all  other 

simples  set  aside,  I  will  simply  use  only  yew. 
Phao.  Do,  madam ;  for  I  think  nothing  in  the  world  so  good 
Sapho.  Farewell,  for  this  time.  [as  yew. 

SAPHO  questions  her  low-placed  affection. 
Sapho.  Into  the  nest  of  an  Alcyon  no  bird  can  enter  but  the 
'•*>  V     Alcyon:  and  into  the  heart  of  so  great  a  lady  can 

any  creep  but  a  great  lord  ? 


TRUE  TllOJAtfS.  517 

CUPID.     SAPHO  cured  of  her  love  ~by  the  pity  of  YENUS. 

Cupid.  But  what  will  you  do  for  Phao  ? 

Sapho.  I  will  wish  him  fortunate.  This  will  I  do  for  Phao, 
because  I  once  loved  Phao  :  for  never  shall  it  be 
said,  that  Sapho  loved  to  hate  ;  or  that  out  of  love 
she  could  not  be  as  courteous,  as  she  was  in  love 
passionate. 


Phao.  O  Sapho,  thou  hast  Cupid  in  thy  arras,  I  in  my  heart; 
thou  kissest  him  for  sport,  1  must  curse  him  for 
spite  ;  yet  will  I  not  curse  him,  Sapho,  whom  thou 
kissest.  This  shall  be  my  resolution,  wherever  I 
wander,  to  be  as  I  were  ever  kneeling  before  Sapho  ; 
m)T  loyalty  unspotted,  though  unrewarded.  With  as 
little  malice  will  I  go  to  my  grave,  as  I  did  lie  withal 
in  my  cradle.  My  life  shall  be  spent  in  sighing  and 
wishing  ;  the  one  for  my  bad  fortune,  the  other  for 
Sapho's  good. 


THE  TETJE  TEOJANS,  OR  FUIMUS  TEOES :  AN  HISTO- 
EICAL  PLAY.     AUTHOE  UNKNOWN,  1633. 

Invocation  of  the  Druids  to  the  gods  of  Britain,  on  the  invasion 

of  Caesar. 

Draw  near,  ye  heavenly  Powers, 
Who  dwell  in  starry  bowers ; 
And  ye,  who  in  the  deep 
On  mossy  pillows  sleep ; 
And  ye  who  keep  the  centre, 
Where  light  did  never  enter ; 
And  ye  whose  habitations 
Are  still  among  the  nations, 
To  see  and  hear  our  doings, 
Our  births,  our  wars,  our  wooings ; 
Behold  our  present  grief. 
Belief  doth  beg  relief. 

By  the  vervain  and  lunary, 
By  fern  seed  planetary, 
By  the  dreadful  misletoe 
Which  doth  on  holy  oak  grow, 
Draw  near,  draw  near,  draw  near. 

Help  us  beset  with  danger, 
And  turn  away  your  anger ; 
Help  us  begirt  with  trouble, 
And  now  your  mercv  double ; 


518  TRUE  TEOJANS. 

Help  us  oppress'd  with  sorrow 
And  fight  for  us  to-morrow. 
Let  fire  consume  the  foeman, 
Let  air  infest  the  Roman, 
Let  seas  entomb  their  fury, 
Let  gaping  earth  them  bury, 
Let  fire,  and  air,  and  water, 
And  earth  conspire  their  slaughter. 

By  the  vervain,  &c. 

We  '11  praise  then  your  great  power 
Each  month,  each  day,  each  hour, 
And  blaze  in  lasting  story 
Your  honour  and  your  glory. 
High  altars  lost  in  vapour, 
Young  heifers  free  from  labour, 
White  lambs  for  suck  still  crying, 
Shall  make  your  music  dying, 
The  boys  and  girls  around, 
With  honeysuckles  crown'd; 
The  bards  with  harp  and  rhyming, 
Green  bays  their  brows  entwining, 
Sweet  tune  and  sweeter  ditty, 
Shall  chant  your  gracious  pity. 

By  the  vervain,  &c. 

A.nother,  to  the  moon. 

Thou  queen  of  heaven,  commandress  of  the  deep, 
Lady  of  lakes,  regent  of  woods  and  deer ; 
A  lamp,  dispelling  irksome  night ;  the  source 
Of  generable  moisture ;  at  whose  feet 
Wait  twenty  thousand  Naides ! — thy  crescent 
Brute  elephants  adore,  and  man  doth  feel 
Thy  force  run  through  the  zodiac  of  his  limbs. 
O  thou  first  guide  of  Brutus  to  this  isle, 
Drive  back  these  proud  usurpers  from  this  isle. 
Whether  the  name  of  Cynthia's  silver  globe, 
Or  chaste  Diana  with  a  gilded  quiver, 
Or  dread  Proserpina,  stern  Dis's  spouse, 
Or  soft  Lucina,  call'd  in  child-bed  throes, 
Doth  thee  delight ;  rise  with  a  glorious  face, 
Green  drops  of  Nereus  trickling  down  thy  cheeks, 
And  with  bright  horns  united  in  full  orb 
Toss  high  the  seas,  with  billows  beat  the  banks, 
Conjure  up  Neptune,  and  the  JSolian  slaves, 
Protract  both  night  and  winter  in  a  storm, 
That  Romans  lose  their  way,  and  sooner  land 


SIB  GILES  GOOSECAP.  519 

At  sad  Avernus'  than  at  Albion's  strand. 
So  mayst  thou  shun  the  Dragon's  head  and  tail ! 
So  may  Endymion  snort  on  Latmian  bed ! 
So  may  the  fair  game  fall  before  thy  bow ! 
Shed  fight  on  us,  but  lightning  on  our  foe. 


THE  TWINS:  A  COMEDY,  BY  W.  EIDER,  A.M.,  1665. 

Irresolution. 
I  am  a  heavy  stone, 

Roll'd  up  a  hill  by  a  weak  child :  I  move 
A  little  up,  and  tumble  back  again. 

Resolution  for  innocence. 
My  noble  mind  has  not  yet  lost  all  shame. 
I  will  desist.     My  love,  that  will  not  serve  me 
As  a  true  subject,  I  '11  conquer  as  an  enemy. 

0  Fame,  1  will  not  add  another  spot 

To  thy  pure  robe !     I  '11  keep  my  ermine  honour 
Pure  and  alive  in  death ;  and  with  my  end 

1  '11  end  my  sin  and  shame :  like  Charicles, 
Who  living  to  a  hundred  years  of  age 

Free  from  the  least  disease,  fearing  a  sickness, 
To  kill  it  kill'd  himself,  and  made  his  death 
The  period  of  his  health. 


SIR  GILES  OOOSECAP:   A  COMEDY. 
AUTHOR  UNKNOWN,  1606. 

Friendship  in  a  lord ;  modesty  in  a  gentleman. 

Clarence  [to  some  musicians].  Thanks,  gentle  friends; 
Is  your  good  lord,  and  mine,  gone  up  to  bed  yet  ? 

Momford.  I  do  assure  you  not,  sir,  not  yet,  nor  yet,  my  deep 
and  studious  friend,  not  yet,  musical  Clarence. 

Clar.  Mylord^- 

Mom.  Nor  yet,  thou  sole  divider  of  my  lordship. 

Clar.  That  were  a  most  unfit  division, 

And  far  above  the  pitch  of  my  low  plumes. 
I  am  your  bold  and  constant  guest,  my  lord. 

Mom.  Far,  far  from  bold,  for  thou  hast  known  me  kmg, 
Almost  these  twenty  years,  and  half  those  years 
Hast  been  my  bedfellow,  long  time  before 
This  unseen  thing,  this  thing  of  naught,  indeed, 
Or  atom,  call'd  my  lordship,  shined  in  me ; 
And  yet  thou  makest  thyself  as  little  bold 
To  take  such  kindness,  as  becomes  the  age 


520  JAMES  IIOWAED. 

And  truth  of  our  indissoluble  love, 
As  our  acquaintance  sprung  but  yesterday ; 
Such  is  thy  gentle  and  too  tender  spirit. 
Clar.  My  lord,  my  want  of  courtship  makes  me  fear 
I  should  be  rude  ;  and  this  my  mean  estate 
Meets  with  such  envy  and  detraction, 
Such  misconstructions  and  resolved  misdooms 
Of  my  poor  worth,  that  should  I  be  advanced 
Beyond  my  unseen  lowness  but  one  hair, 
I  should  be  torn  in  pieces  by  the  spirits 
That  fly  in  ill-lung'd  tempests  through  the  world. 
Tearing  the  head  of  virtue  from  her  shoulders, 
If  she  but  look  out  of  the  ground  of  glory ; 
'Twixt  whom,  and  me,  and  every  worldly  fortune, 
There  fights  such  sour  and  cursed  antipathy, 
So  waspish  and  so  petulant  a  star, 
That  all  things  tending  to  my  grace  and  good 
Are  ravish' d  from  their  object,  as  I  were 
A  thing  created  for  a  wilderness, 
And  must  not  think  of  any  place  with  men. 


THE  ENGLISH  MONSIEUE:  A  COMEDY, 
BY  THE  HON.  JAMES  HOWAED,  1674. 

The  humour  of  a  conceited  Traveller,  who  is  taken  with  every 

thing  that  is  French. 

English  Monsieur.  Gentlemen,  if  you  please,  let  us  dine  to 
gether,  [beef  in  town. 
Value.  I  know  a  cook's  shop,  has  the  best  boiled  and  roast 
Eng.  Mons.  Sir,  since  you  are  a  stranger  to  me,  I  only  ask 
you  what  you  mean ;  but,  were  you  acquainted  with 
me,  I  should  take  your  greasy  proposition  as  an 
affront  to  my  palate.                    [dine  well  together. 
Vaine.  Sir,  I  only  meant,  by  the  consent  of  this  company,  to 
Eng.  Mons.  Do  you  call  dining  well,  to  eat  out  of  a  French 

house? 

Vaine.  Sir,  I  understand  you  as  little  as  you  do  beef. 
Eng.  Mons.  Why  then,  to  interpret  my  meaning  plainly,  if 
ever  you  make  me  such  offer  again,  expect  to  hear 
from  me  next  morning — 

Vaine.  What,  that  you  would  not  dine  with  me — 
Eng.  Mons.  No,  sir ;  that  I  will  fight  with  you.  In  short, 
sir,  I  can  only  tell  you,  that  I  had  once  a  dispute 
with  a  certain  person  in  this  kind,  who  defended  the 
English  way  of  eating ;  whereupon  I  sent  him  a 
challenge,  as  any  man  that  has  been  in  France  would 


ENGLISH  MONSIEUR.  521 

have  done.    We  fought ;  I  killed  him :  and  where 
abouts  do  you  think  I  hit  him  ? 

Vaine.  I  warrant  you,  in  the  small  guts — 

Eng.  Mons.  I  run  him  through  his  mistaken  palate ;  which 
made  me  think  the  hand  of  justice  guided  my  sword. 
#*##•#* 

Eng.  Mons.  Madam,  leading  your  ladyship,  puts  me  in  mind 

Lady.  Why,  sir?  [of  France. 

Eng.  Mons.  Because  you  lead  so  like  French  ladies. 

Lady.  Sir,  why  look  you  so  earnestly  on  the  ground? 

Eng.  Mons.  I  '11  lay  a  hundred  pounds,  here  has  been  three 
English  ladies  walking  up  before  us. 

Crafty.  How  can  you  tell,  sir? 

Eng.  Mons.  By  being  in  France. 

Crafty.  What  a  devil  can  he  mean? 

Eng.  Mons.  I  have  often  in  France  observed  in  gardens,  when 
the  company  used  to  walk  after  a  small  shower  of 
rain,  the  impression  of  the  French  ladies'  feet.  I 
have  seen  such  bon  mien  in  their  footsteps,  that  the 
king  of  France's  Maitre  de  Daunce  could  not  have 
found  fault  with  any  one  tread  amongst  them  all. 
In  this  walk  I  find  the  toes  of  the  English  ladies 
ready  to  tread  one  upon  another. 
•  «***# 

Vaine.  Monsieur  Frenchlove,  well  met ! 

Eng.  Mons.  I  cannot  say  the  like  to  you,  sir,  since  I  am  told 

Vaine.  In  what?        [you  have  done  a  damn'd  English  trick. 

Eng.  Mons.  In  finding  fault  with  a  pair  of  tops  I  wore  yester 
day  ;  and,  upon  my  parole,  I  never  had  a  pair  sat 
better  in  my  life.  My  leg  looked  in  them  not  at  all 
like  an  English  leg. 

Vaine.  Sir,  all  that  I  said  of  your  tops  was,  that  they  made 
such  a  rushing  noise  as  you  walked,  that  my  mistress 
could  not  hear  one  word  of  the  love  I  made  to  her. 

Eng.  Mons.  Sir,  I  cannot  help  that ;  for  I  shall  justify  my  tops 
in  the  noise  they  were  guilty  of,  since  'twas  a  la  mode 
of  France.  Can  you  say  it  was  an  English  noise  ? 

Vaine.  I  can  say,  though  your  tops  were  made  in  France, 
they  made  a  noise  in  England. 

Eng.  Mons.  But  still,  sir,  'twas  a  French  noise — 

Vaine.  But  cannot  a  French  noise  hinder  a  man  from  hearing  ? 

Eng.  Mons.  No,  certainly,  that 's  a  demonstration ;  for,  look 
you,  sir,  a  French  noise  is  agreeable  to  the  air,  and 
therefore  not  unagreeable,  and  therefore  not  preju 
dicial,  to  the  hearing ;  that  is  to  say,  to  a  person 
that  has  seen  the  world. 

[The  Monsieur  comforts  himself,  when  his  mistress  rejects  him, 
that  "  'twas  a  denial  with  a  French  tone  of  voice,  so  that  'twas 


522  EDMUND  PBESTWICK. 

agreeable;"  and,  at  her  final  departure,  "Do  you  see,  sir,  how 
she  leaves  us  ?  she  walks  away  with  a  French  step."] 

THE  HECTORS :  A  COMEDY,  BY  E.  PEESTWICK,  1641. 

A  Waiting  Maid  wheedles  an  old  Justice  into  a  belief  that  her 

Lady  is  in  love  with  him. 

Maid.  I  think  there  never  was  a  woman  of  so  strange  a  hu 
mour  as  she  is  for  the  world ;  for  from  her  infancy 
she  ever  doted  on  old  men.  I  have  heard  her  say, 
that  in  these  her  late  law  troubles,  it  has  been  no 
small  comfort  to  her,  that  she  has  been  conversant 
with  grave  counsellors  and  Serjeants ;  and  what  a 
happiness  she  had  sometimes  to  look  an  hour  toge 
ther  upon  the  judges.  She  will  go  and  walk  a  whole 
afternoon  in  Charterhouse  Garden,  on  purpose  to 
view  the  ancient  gentlemen  there.  Not  long  ago 
there  was  a  young  gentleman  here  about  the  town, 
who,  hearing  of  her  riches,  and  knowing  this  her 
humour,  had  almost  got  her,  by  counterfeiting  him 
self  to  be  an  old  man. 

Justice.  And  how  came  he  to  miss  her  ? 

Maid.  The  strangeliest  that  ever  you  heard ;  for  all  things  were 
agreed,  the  very  writings  drawn ;  and  when  he  came 
to  seal  them,  because  he  set  his  name  without  using 
a  pair  of  spectacles,  she  would  never  see  him  more. 

Justice.  Nay,  if  she  could  love  an  old  man  so — well — 
The  Waiting  Maid  places  the  Justice,  where  he  can  overhear  a 
sham  discourse  of  the  Lady  with  a  pretended  Brother. 

Brother.  What  is  the  matter,  sister  ?  you  do  not  use  to  be  so 
strange  to  me. 

Lady.  I  do  not  indeed ;  but  now  methinks  I  cannot  conceal 
any  thing ;  yet  I  could  wish  you  could  now  guess  my 
thoughts,  and  look  into  my  mind;  and  see  what 
strange  passions  have  ruled  there  of  late,  without 
forcing  me  to  strain  my  modesty. 

Broth.  What,  are  you  in  love  with  anybody  ?  Come,  let  me 
know  the  party ;  a  brother's  advice  may  do  you  no 
harm.  [you  came  in? 

Sist.  Did  you  not  see  an  ancient  gentleman  with  me,  when 

Broth.  What,  is  it  any  son  or  kinsman  of  his  ?  , 

Sist.  No,  no.  (she  weeps.) 

Broth.  Who  then? 

Sist.  I  have  told  you — 

Broth.  What,  that  feeble  and  decrepit  piece  of  age — 

Sist.  Nay,  brother — 

Broth.  That  sad  effect  of  some  threescore  years  and  ten — that 
antic  relique  of  the  last  century — 

Sist.  Alas,  dear  brother,  it  is  but  too  true ! 


HEY  FOR  HOKESTT.  523 

Broth.  It  is  impossible. 

Sist.  One  would  think  so  indeed. 

Broth.  I  grant,  you  may  hear  a  reverence  and  regard,  as  to 
your  father's  ashes,  or  your  grandsire's  torah. 

Sist.  Alas,  brother,  you  know  I  never  did  affect  those  vain 
though  pleasing  braveries  of  youth,  but  still  have  set 
my  mind  on  the  more  noble  part  of  man,  which  age 
doth  more  refine  and  elaborate,  than  it  doth  depress 
and  sink  this  same  contemptible  clod. 

Justice.  I  see,  she  loves  me. 


HEY  FOE,  HONESTY :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  T.  RANDOLPH,  1651. 

To  Plutus. 

Did  riot  Will  Summers  break  his  wind  for  thee  ? 
And  Shakespeare  therefore  writ  his  comedy  ? 
All  things  acknowledge  thy  vast  power  divine, 
Great  god  of  Money,  whose  most  powerful  shine 
Gives  motion,  life  j  day  rises  from  thy  sight, 
Thy  setting  though  at  noon  makes  pitchy  night. 
Sole  catholic  cause  of  what  we  feel  and  see, 
All  in  this  all  are  but  the  effects  of  thee. 

Riches  above  poverty ;  a  syllogism. 

—  My  major,  That  which  is  most  noble,  is  most  honourable. 
But  poverty  is  more  noble.  My  minor  I  prove  thus. 
Whose  houses  are  most  ancient,  those  are  most 
noble.  But  poverty's  houses  are  most  ancient ;  for 
some  of  them  are  so  old,  like  vicarage  houses,  they 
are  every  hour  in  danger  of  falling. 

Stationer's  Preface  before  the  Play. 

Reader,  this  is  a  pleasant  comedy,  though  some  may  judge 
it  satirical,  'tis  the  more  like  Aristophanes,  the  father ;  be 
sides,  if  it  be  biting,  'tis  a  biting  age  we  live  in ;  then  biting 
for  biting.  Again,  Tom  Randal,  the  adopted  son  of  Ben  Jon- 
son,  being  the  translator  hereof,  followed  his  father's  steps. 
They  both  of  them  loved  sack,  and  harmless  mirth,  and  here 
they  show  it ;  and  I,  that  know  myself,  am  not  averse  from  it 
neither.  This  I  thought  good  to 'acquaint  thee  with.  Fare 
well.  Thine,  F.J. 

THEEXAMPLE :  ATRAai-COMEDY,BYJ.SHIRLEY,1638. 
The  Tvumowr  of  a  wary  knight,  who  sleeps  all  day,  and  waJces  all 

night,  for  security. — He  calls  up  his  household  at  midnight. 
Plot.  Dormant,  why  Dormant,  thou  eternal  sleeper ! 
Who  would  be  troubled  with  these  lethargies 
About  him  ?  are  you  come,  dreamer  ? 

Dormant  (entering).  Would  I  were  so  happy!  There  is  less 
noise  in  a  steeple  upon  a  coronation- day.  O  sleep, 


524  BICHAKD  FLECKNOE. 

sleep,  though  it  were  a  dead  one,  would  be  com 
fortable.    Your  worship  might  be  pleased  to  let  my 
fellow  Old-rat  watch  as  well  as  I. 
Plot.  Old-rat !  that  fellow  is  a  drone. 

Dorm.  He  has  slept  this  half-hour  on  the  iron  chest.  Would 
I  were  in  my  grave  to  take  a  nap ;  death  would  do 
me  a  courtesy;  I  should  be  at  rest,  and  hear  no  noise 
of  "  Dormant." 

Plot.  Ah!  what 's  the  matter?  [waking. 

Dorm.  Nothing  but  a  yawn,  sir,  I  do  all  I  can  to  keep  myself 
Plot.  'Tis  done  considerately.     This  heavy  dullness — 

Is  the  disease  of  souls.     Sleep  in  the  night ! 
Dorm.  Shall  I  wake  my  fellow  Old-rat?  he  is  refreshed. 
Plot.  Do ;  but  return  you  with  him ;  I  have  business  for  both. 
Dorm.  To  hear  us  join  in  opinion  of  what 's  a  clock  ! 

They  talk  of  Endymion :  now  could  I  sleep  three  lives. 
Plot.  When  other  men  measure  the  hours  with  sleep,  [Exit. 

Careless  of  where  they  are  and  whom  they  trust, 

Exposing  their  condition  to  danger 

Of  plots,  I  wake  and  wisely  think  prevention. 

Night  was  not  made  to  snore  in ;  but  so  calm, 

For  our  imaginations  to  be  stirring 

About  the  world ;  this  subtle  world,  this  world 

Of  plots  and  close  conspiracy.     There  is 

No  faith  in  man  nor  woman.     Where's  this  Dormant? 
Dorm,  (re-entering  with  OLD-RAT).  Here  is  the  sleepy  ver- 
Old.  It  has  been  day  this  two  hours.  [min. 

Plot.  Then  'tis  time  for  me  to  go  to  bed. 
Dorm.  Would  my  hour  were  once  come ! 
Plot.  Keep  out  daylight,  and  set  up  a  fresh  taper. 
Dorm.  By  that  time  we  have  dined,  he  will  have  slept  out  his 
Old.  And  after  supper  call  for  his  breakfast.  [first  sleep. 

Plot.  You  are  sure  'tis  morning  ? 
Dorm.  As  sure  as  I  am  sleepy. 

LOYE'S  DOMINION  :    A  DEAMATIC  PASTOEAL, 
BY  EICHAED  FLECKNOE,  1634. 

Invocation  to  Silence. 
1        Still-born  Silence,  thou  that  art 
Floodgate  of  the  deeper  heart ; 
Offspring  of  a  heavenly  kind ; 
Frost  of  the  mouth  and  thaw  of  the  mind ; 
Secrecy's  confident,  and  he 
That  makes  religion  mystery ; 
Admiration's  speakingest  tongue, — 
Leave  thy  desert  shades,  among 
Reverend  hermits'  hallow'd  cells, 
Wnere  retilredst  Devotion  dwells : 


DON  QUIXOTE.  525 

With  thy  Enthusiasms  come ; 

Seize  this  maid,  and  strike  her  dumb. 

Fable. 

Love  and  Death,  on  the  way  once  meeting, 
Having  pass'd  a  friendly  greeting, 
Sleep  their  weary  eyelids  closing, 
Lay  them  down,  themselves  reposing ; 
When  this  fortune  did  befall  them, 
Which  after  did  so  much  appal  them  : 
Love,  whom  divers  cares  molested, 
Could  not  sleep ;  but,  whilst  Death  rested, 
All  away  in  haste  he  posts  him : 
But  his  haste  full  dearly  cost  him ; 
For  it  chanced,  that  going  to  sleeping, 
Both  had  given  their  darts  in  keeping 
Unto  Night ;  who  (Error's  mother) 
Blindly  knowing  not  the  one  from  the  other, 
Gave  Love  Death's,  and  ne'er  perceived  it, 
Whilst  as  blindly  Love  received  it : 
Since  which  time,  the  darts  confounding, 
Love  now  kills,  instead  of  wounding ; 
Death,  our  hearts  with  sweetness  filling, 
Gently  wounds  instead  of  killing. 


DON  QUIXOTE :  A  COMEDY,  IN  THREE  PAETS, 

BY  THOMAS  D'URFEY,  1694. 

Dirge,  at  the  hearse  of  Chrysostom. 
Sleep,  poor  youth,  sleep  in  peace, 

Relieved  from  love  and  mortal  care ; 
Whilst  we,  that  pine  in  life's  disease, 

Uncertain-bless'd,  less  happy  are. 
Couch'd  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 

No  ills  of  fate  thou  now  canst  fear  ; 
In  vain  would  tyrant  Power  enslave, 

Or  scornful  Beauty  be  severe. 
Wars,  that  do  fatal  storms  disperse, 

Far  from  thy  happy  mansion  keep ; 
Earthquakes,  that  shake  the  universe, 

Can't  rock  thee  into  sounder  sleep. 
With  all  the  charms  of  peace  possess'd, 

Secure  from  life's  torment  or  pain, 
Sleep,  and  indulge  thyself  with  rest ; 

Nor  dream  thou  e'er  shalt  rise  again1. 

1  i.  e.  "  may  thy  sleep  be  so  profound,  as  not  even  by  dreams 
of  a  resurrection  to  be  disturbed :  "  the  language  of  passion,  not 
of  sincere  profaneness. 


526  PHILOKAX  LOYEEZPT. 

ANDEONICUS :  A  TEAGKEDY, 
BY  PHILONAX  LOVEKIN,  1661. 

Effect  of  religious  structures  on  different  minds. 
Crato.  I  grieve  the  chapel  was  defaced;  'twas  stately. 
Cleobulus.  I  love  no  such  triumphant  churches ; 
They  scatter  my  devotion  :  whilst  my  sight 
Is  courted  to  observe  their  sumptuous  cost, 
I  find  my  heart  lost  in  my  eyes ; 
Whilst  that  a  holy  horror  seems  to  dwell 
Within  a  dark  obscure  and  humble  cell. 
Crato.  But  I  love  churches,  mount  up  to  the  skies, 
For  my  devotion  rises  with  their  roof : 
Therein  my  soul  doth  heaven  anticipate. 

Song  for  sleep. 

Come,  Somnus,  with  thy  potent  charms, 
And  seize  this  captive  in  thy  arms  j 
And  sweetly  drop  on  every  sense 
Thy  soul-refreshing  influence. 
His  sight,  smell,  hearing,  touch,  and  taste, 
Unto  the  peace  do  thou  bind  fast. 
On  working  brains,  at  school  all  day, 
At  night  thou  dost  bestow  a  play, 
And  troubled  minds  thou  dost  set  free ; 
Thou  makest  both  friends  and  foes  agree  : 
All  are  alike,  who  live  by  breath, 
In  thee,  and  in  thy  brother  Death. 


EAM  ALLEY:   A  COMEDY,  BY  LODOWICK  BAEEY, 

1611. 

In  the  Prologue  the  poet  protests  the  innocence  of  his  play,  and 
gives  a  promise  of  letter  things. 

Home-bred  mirth  our  Muse  doth  sing ; 

The  satyr's  tooth,  and  waspish  sting, 

Which  most  do  hurt  when  least  suspected, 

By  this  play  are  not  affected. 

But  if  conceit,  with  quick-turn'd  scenes, 

Observing  all  those  ancient  streams 

Which  from  the  Horse-foot  fount  do  flow — 

As  time,  place,  person — and  to  show 

Things  never  done,  with  that  true  life, 

That  thoughts  and^wits  shall  stand  at  strife, 

Whether  the  things  now  shown  be  true : 

Or  whether  we  ourselves  now  do 

The  things  we  but  present ;  if  these, 

Free  from  the  loathsome  stage-dis 

So  overworn,  so  tired  and  stale ; 

Not  satirising  but  to  rail  j — 

May  win  your  farours,  and  inherit 


THE  BOYAL  KING  AND  LOYAL  SUBJECT.     527 

But  calm  acceptance  of  his  merit, — 

He  vows  by  paper,  pen,  and  ink, 

And  by  the  Learned  Sisters'  drink, 

To  spend  his  time,  his  lamps,  his  oil, 

And  never  cease  his  brain  to  toil, 

Till  from  the  silent  hours  of  night 

He  doth  produce  for  your  delight, 

Conceits  so  new,  so  harmless  free, 

That  puritans  themselves  may  see 

A  play ;  yet  not  in  public  preach, 

That  players  such  lewd  doctrine  teach, 

That  their  pure  joints  do  quake  and  tremble, 

When  they  do  see  a  man  resemble 

The  picture  of  a  villain.— This, 

As  he  a  friend  to  Muses  is, 

To  you  by  me  he  gives  his  word, 

Is  all  his  play  does  now  afford. 


THE  EOYAL  KING  AND  LOYAL  SUBJECT  :  A  TRAGI 
COMEDY,  BY  T.  HEYWOOD,  1627. 

In  the  Prologue  to  this  play,  Heyivood  descants  upon  the  variety 
of  topics  which  had  been  introduced  upon  the  ^English  stage  in 
that  age, — the  rich  Shakespearian  epoch. 

To  give  content  to  this  most  curious  age, 

The  gods  themselves  we  have  brought  down  to  the  stage, 

And  figured  them  in  planets ;  made  ev'n  hell 

Deliver  up  the  Furies,  by  no  spell 

Saving  the  Muses'  raptures :  further  we 

Have  traffic'd  by  their  help ;  no  history 

We  have  left  unrifled ;  our  pens  have  been  dipp'd 

As  well  in  opening  each  hid  manuscript, 

As  tracts  more  vulgar,  whether  read  or  sung, 

In  our  domestic  or  more  foreign  tongue. 

Of  fairy  elves,  nymphs  of  the  sea  and  land, 

The  lawns  and  groves,  no  number  can.  be  scann'd, 

Which  we  have  not  given  feet  to.     Nay,  'tis  known 

That  when  our  chronicles  have  barren  grown 

Of  story,  we  have  all  invention  stretch'd ; 

Dived  low  as  to  the  centre,  and  then  reach'd 

Unto  the  Primum  Mobile  above 

(Nor  'scaped  things  intermediate),  for  your  love 

These  have  been  acted  often ;  all  have  pass'd 

Censure ;  of  which  some  live  and  some  are  cast. 

For  this1  in  agitation,  stay  the  end; 

Though  nothing  please,  yet  nothing  can  offend. 

1  Hia  own  play.        ^ 


528  T.  HEYWOOD. 

A  CHALLENGE  FOR  BEAUTY :  A  TRAGICOMEDY, 

BY  T.  HEYWOOD,  1636. 
In  the  Prologue  to  this  flay,  Heywood  commends  the  English 

plays  ;  not  without  a  censure  of  some  writers,  who  in  his  time 

had  begun  to  degenerate. 

The  Roman  and  Athenian  dramas  far 

Differ  from  us  :  and  those  that  frequent  are 

In  Italy  and  France,  ev'n  in  these  days, 

Compared  with  ours  are  rather  jigs  than  plays. 

Like  of  the  Spanish  may  be  said,  and  Dutch ; 

None  versed  in  language,  but  confess  them  such. 

They  do  not  build  their  projects  on  that  ground', 

Nor  have  their  phrases  half  the  weight  and  sound, 

Our  labour'd  scenes  have  had  :  and  yet  our  nation 

(Already  too  much  tax'd  for  imitation, 

In  seeking  to  ape  others)  cannot  quit 

Some  of  our  poets,  who  have  sinn'd  in  it. 

For  where,  before,  great  patriots,  dukes,  and  kings, 

Presented  for  some  high  facinorous  things1, 

Were  the  stage  subject;  now  we  strive  to  fly 

In  their  low  pitch,  who  never  could  soar  high  : 

For  now  the  common  argument  entreats 

Of  puling  lovers,  crafty  bawds,  or  cheats. 

Nor  blame  I  their  quick  fancies,  who  can  fit 

These  queasy  times  with  humours  flash'd  in  wit, 

Whose  art  I  both  encourage  and  commend ; 

I  only  wish  that  they  would  sometimes  bend 

To  memorize  the  valours  of  such  men, 

Whose  very  names  might  dignify  the  pen ; 

And  that  our  once-applauded  Roscian  strain 

In  acting  such  might  be  revived  again ; 

Which  you  to  countenance  might  the  stage  make  proud, 

And  poets  strive  to  key  their  strings  more  loud. 


THE  FAWN :  A  COMEDY,  BY  JOHN  MARSTON,  1606. 

In  the  Preface  to  this  play,  the  poet  glances  at  some  of  the  play 
wrights  of  his  time,  with  a  handsome  acknowledgment^  not 
withstanding,  of  their  excellences. 

"....  for  my  own  interest  let  this  once  be  printed,  that,  of  men 
of  my  own  addition,  I  love  most,  pity  some,  hate  none :  for 

1  The  foundations  of  the  English  drama  were  laid  deep  in 
tragedy  by  Marlowe,  and  others — Marlowe  especially — while  our 
comedy  was  yet  in  its  lisping  state.  To  this  tragic  preponderance 
(forgetting  his  own  sweet  comedies  and  Shakspeare's),  Heywood 
seems  to  refer  with  regret ;  as  in  the  "  Roscian  strain "  he  evi 
dently  alludes  to  Alleyii,  who  was  great  in  the  "  Jew  of  Malta," 
as  Heywood  elsewhere  testifies,  and  in  tjie  principal  tragic  parts 
both  of  Marlowe  and  Sl&kspeare.  ;  •» 


COMMENDATORY  YEESES.  529 

let  me  truly  say  it,  I  once  only  loved  myself  for  loving 
them ;  and  surely  I  shall  ever  rest  so  constant  to  my  first 
affection,  that,  let  their  ungentle  combinings,  discour 
teous  whispering,  never  so  treacherously  labour  to  un 
dermine  my  unfenced  reputation,  I  shall  (as  long  as  I 
have  being)  love  the  least  of  their  graces,  and  only  pity 
the  greatest  of  their  vices. 

Ipse  semi-paganus 
A.d  sacra  vatum  carmen  affero  nostrum." 

COMMENDATOEY  VEESES  BEFORE  THREE   PLAYS 
OF  SIR  WILLIAM  KILLIGREW,  BY  T.  L. 

I.  That  thy  wise  and  modest  Muse 
Flies  the  stage's  looser  use ; 

Not  bawdry  Wit  does  falsely  name, 
And  to  move  laughter  puts  off  shame  : 

II.  That  thy  theatre's  loud  noise 
May  be  virgin's  chaste  applause ; 

And  the  stoled  matron,  grave  divine, 
Their  lectures  done,  may  tend  to  thine  : 
in.  That  no  actor 's  made  profane, 

To  debase  gods,  to  raise  thy  strain ; 
And  people  forced,  that  hear  thy  play, 
Their  money  and  their  souls  to  pay  : 
iv.  That  thou  leavest  affected  phrase 

To  the  shops  to  use  and  praise ; 
And  breathest  a  noble  courtly  vein, — 
Such  as  may  Caesar  entertain, 
y.  When  he  wearied  would  lay  down 

The  burdens  that  attend  a  crown ; 
Disband  his  soul's  severer  powers ; 
In  mirth  and  ease  dissolve  two  hours  : 
vi.  These  are  thy  inferior  arts, 

These  I  call  thy  second  parts. 
But  when  thou  earnest  on  the  plot, 
And  all  are  lost  in  the  subtle  knot : 
vn.          When  the  scene  sticks  to  every  thought 

And  can  to  no  event  be  brought ; 
When  (thus  of  old  the  scene  betray'd) 
Poets  call'd  gods  unto  their  aid, 
vin.         Who  by  power  might  do  the  thing, 

Art  could  to  no  issue  bring ; 
As  the  Pelican  prince,  that  broke 
With  a  rude  and  downright  stroke 
I?:.  The  perplex'd  and  fatal  noose, 

Which  his  skill  could  not  unloose  : — 
Thou  dost  a  nobler  art  profess ; 
And  the  coil'd  serpent  canst  no  less 

2M 


530  COMMENDATORY  YEBSES. 

X.  Stretch  out  from  every  twisted  fold, 

In  which  he  lay  inwove  and  rolPd  ; 
Induce  a  night,  and  then  a  day, 
Wrap  all  in  clouds,  and  then  display. 

xi.  The  easy  and  the  even  design : 

A  plot,  without  a  god,  divine  ! — 
Let  others'  bold  pretending  pens 
Write  acts  of  gods,  that  know  not  men's ; 
In  this  to  thee  all  must  resign ; 
The  surprise  of  the  scene  is  wholly  thine. 


COMMENDATORY  YEESES  BEFOKE  THE  FAITHFUL 
SHEPHERDESS  OF  FLETCHER, 

There  are  no  sureties,  good  friend,  will  be  taken 

For  works  that  vulgar  good-name  hath  forsaken. 

A  poem  and  a  play  too  !    Why,  'tis  like 

A  scholar  that 's  a  poet ;  their  names  strike, 

And  kill  outright :  one  cannot  both  fates  bear. 

But  as  a  poet,  that 's  no  scholar,  makes 

Vulgarity  his  whiffler,  and  so  takes 

Passage  with  ease  and  state  through  both  sides'  prease 

Of  pageant- seers  :  or,  as  scholars  please, 

That  are  no  poets  more  than  poets  learn'd. 

Since  their  art  solely  is  by  souls  discern'd, 

(The  others'  falls  within  the  common  sense, 

And  sheds,  like  common  light,  her  influence) : 

So,  were  your  play  no  poem,  but  a  thing 

Which  every  cobbler  to  his  patch  might  sing ; 

A  rout  of  nifles,  like  the  multitude, 

With  no  one  limb  of  any  art  endued, 

Like  would  to  like,  and  praise  you ;  but  because 

Your  poem  only  hath  by  us  applause ; 

Renews  the  golden  world,  and  holds  through  all 

The  holy  laws  of  homely  pastoral, 

Where  flowers,  and  founts,  and  nymphs,  and  semigods, 

And  all  the  Graces,  find  their  old  abodes ; 

Where  poets  flourish  but  in  endless  verse, 

And  meadows  nothing-fit  for  purchasers  : 

This  iron  age,  that  eats  itself,  will  never 

Bite  at  your  golden  world,  that  others  ever 

Loved  as  itself.     Then,  like  your  book,  do  you 

Live  in  old  peace ;  and  that  for  praise  allow. 

' G.  Chapman. 

COMMENDATORY   VERSES    BEFORE    THE    REBEL 
LION:  A  TRACKED Y,  BY  T.  RAWLINS,  1640. 
To  see  a  springot  of  thy  tender  age 
With  such  a  lofty  strain  to  word  a  stage ; 


THE  AMBITIOUS  STATESMAN.  531 

f 

To  see  a  tragedy  from  thee  in  print, 
With  such  a  world  of  fine  meanders  in 't ; 
Puzzles  my  wondering  soul ;  for  there  appears 
Such  disproportion  'twixt  thy  lines  and  years, 
That  when  I  read  thy  hues,  methinks  I  see 
The  s.weet-tongued  Ovid  fall  upon  his  knee 
With  Parce,  precor.     Every  line  and  word 
Runs  in  sweet  numbers  of  its  own  accord. 
But  I  am  thunderstruck,  that  all  this  while 
Thy  unfeather'd  quill  should  write  a  tragic  style. 
This,  above  all,  my  admiration  draws, 
That  one  so  young  should  know  dramatic  laws  : 
'Tis  rare,  and  therefore  is  not  for  the  span 
Or  greasy  thumbs  of  every  common  man. 
The  damask  rose  that  sprouts  before  the  spring, 
Is  fit  for  none  to  smell  at  but  a  king. 
Go  on,  sweet  friend ;  I  hope  in  time  to  see 
Thy  temples  rounded  with  the  Daphnean  tree; 
And  if  men  ask,  "  Who  nursed  thee  ?  "  I 11  say  thus  : — 
"  It  was  the  ambrosian  spring  of  Pegasus." 

Robert  Chamberlain. 

THE  AMBITIOUS  STATESMAN :   A  TRAGEDY, 

BY  JOHN  CROWNE,  1679. 
VENDOME,  returning  from  the  wars,  hears  news,  that  LOUIZE  is 

false  to  him. 

Ven.  (solus.}  Where'er  I  go,  I  meet  a  wandering  rumour, 
Louize  is  the  Dauphin's  secret  mistress. 
I  heard  it  in  the  army,  but  the  sound 
Was  then  as  feeble  as  the  distant  murmurs 
Of  a  great  river  mingling  with  the  sea ; 
But  now  I  am  come  near  this  river's  fall, 
'Tis  louder  than  the  cataracts  of  Nile. 
If  this  be  true, 

Doomsday  is  near,  and  ail  the  heavens  are  falling. 
I  know  not  what  to  think  of  it,  for  everywhere 
I  meet  a  choking  dust,  such  as  is  made 
After  removing  ail  a  palace  furniture  : 
If  she  be  gone,  the  world  in  my  esteem 
Is  all  bare  walls ;  nothing  remains  in  it 
But  dust  and  feathers,  like  a  Turkish  inn, 
And  the  foul  steps  where  plunderers  have  been. 

Valediction. 
Ven.  (to  Ms  faithless  mistress.)  Madam,  I  am  well  assured, 

you  will  not  send 

One  poor  thought  after  me,  much  less  a  messenger, 
To  know  the  truth  ;  but  if  you  do,  he  '11  find, 
In  some  unfinish'd  part  of  the  creation, 

2M2 


532  JOHN  CROWNE. 

• 

Where  Night  and  Chaos  never  were  disturb'd, 
But  bed-rid  lie  in  some  dark  rocky  desert, 
There  will  he  find  a  thing — whether  a  man, 
Or  the  collected  shadows  of  the  desert, 
Condensed  into  a  shade,  he  '11  hardly  know ; 
This  figure  he  will  find  walking  alone, 
Poring  one  while  on  some  sad  book  at  noon 
By  taper-light,  for  never  day  shone  there : 
Sometimes  laid  grovelling  on  the  barren  earth, 
Moist  wfth  his  tears,  for  never  dew  fell  there  : 
And  when  night  comes,  not  known  from  day  by  (lark- 
But  by  some  faithful  messenger  of  time,  [ness, 
He  '11  find  him  stretch'd  upon  a  bed  of  stone, 
Cut  from  the  bowels  of  some  rocky  cave, 
Offering  himself  either  to  Sleep  or  Death ; 
And  neither  will  accept  the  dismal  wretch  : 
At  length  a  slumber,  in  its  infant  arms, 
Takes  up  his  heavy  soul,  but  wanting  strength 
To  bear  it,  quickly  lets  it  fall  again ; 
At  which  the  wretch  starts  up,  and  walks  about 
All  night,  and  all  the  time  it  should  be  day ; 
Till  quite  forgetting,  quite  forgot  of  every  thing 
But  Sorrow,  pines  away,  and  in  small  time, 
Of  the  only  man  that  durst  inhabit  there, 
Becomes  the  only  ghost  that  dares  walk  there. 
Incredulity  to  virtue. 

Ven.  Perhaps  there  never  were  such  things  as  Virtues, 
But  only  in  men's  fancies,  like  the  phoenix ; 
Or  if  they  once  have  been,  they  are  now  but  names 
Of  natures  lost,  which  came  into  the  world, 
But  could  not  live,  nor  propagate  their  kind. 
'Faithless  beauty. 

Louize.  Dare  you  approach  ? 

Ven.  Yes,  but  with  fear,  for  sure  you  are  not  woman. 
A  comet  glitter'd  in  the  air  of  late, 
And  kept  some  weeks  the  frighted  kingdom  waking. 
Long  hair  it  had,  like  you ;  a  shining  aspect ; 
Its  beauty  smiled,  at  the  same  time  it  frighten'd ; 
And  every  horror  in  it  had  a  grace. 


BELPHEOOK :  A  COMEDY,  BY  JOHN  WILSON,  1690. 

Doria  Palace  described. 

That  thou  hadst  been  with  us  at  duke  Doria's  garden ! 
The  pretty  contest  between  art  and  nature ; 
To  see  the  wilderness,  grots,  arbours,  ponds ; 
And  in  the  midst,  over  a  stately  fountain, 


THE  FLOATING  ISLAND.  533 

The  Neptune  of  the  Ligurian  sea — 
Andrew  Doria — the  man  who  first 
Taught  Genoa  not  to  serve ;  then  to  behold 
The  curious  waterworks  and  wanton  streams 
Wind  here  and  there,  as  if  they  had  forgot 
Their  errand  to  the  sea ! 

and  then  again,  within 

The  vast  prodigious  cage,  in  which  the  groyes 
Of  myrtle,  orange,  jessamine,  beguile 
The  winged  quire  with  a  native  warble, 
And  pride  of  their  restraint !     Then,  up  and  down, 
An  antiquated  marble,  or  broken  statue, 
Majestic  even  in  ruin. 

and  such  a  glorious  palace ; 
Such  pictures,  carving,  furniture  !  my  words 
Cannot  reach  half  the  splendour.     And,  after  all, 
To  see  the  sea,  fond  of  the  goodly  sight, 
One  while  glide  amorous,  and  lick  her  walls, 
As  one  who  would  say,  Come,  follow ;  but,  repulsed, 
Rally  its  whole  artillery  of  waves, 
And  crowd  into  a  storm  ! 


THE  FLOATING  ISLAND  :  A  COMEDY,  BY  THE  REV. 
W.  STEODE.  ACTED  BY  THE  STUDENTS  OF 
CHEISTCHUECH,  OXFOED,  1639. 

SONG. 
Once  Venus'  cheeks,  that  shamed  the  morn, 

Their  hue  let  fall; 
Her  lips,  that  winter  had  outborn, 

In  June  look'd  pale  : 
Her  heat  grew  cold,  her  nectar  dry ; 
No  juice  she  had  but  in  her  eye, 
The  wonted  fire  and  flames  to  mortify. 
When  was  this  so  dismal  sight  ? — 
'  When  Adonis  bade  good  night. 


FATAL  JEALOUSY:   A  TEAGKEDY. 

AUTHOE  UNKNOWN,  1673. 
No  truth  absolute  ;  after  seeing  'a  masque  of  gipsies. 

1st  Spectator.  By  this  we  see  that  all  the  world's  a  cheat, 
Whose  truths  and  falsehoods  lie  so  intermix' d, 
And  are  so  like  each  other,  that  'tis  hard 
To  find   the  difference.     Who  would  not  think  these 
A  real  pack  of  such  as  we  call  gipsies  ?  [people 

2nd  Sped.  Things  perfectly  alike  are  but  the  same ; 
And  these  were  gipsies,  if  we  did  not  know 
How  to  consider  them  the  contrary  : 
So  in  terrestrial  things  there  is  not  one 


534  FATAL  JEALOUSY. 

But  takes  its  form  and  nature  from  our  fancy. 

Not  its  own  being,  and  is  but  what  we  think  it. 
1st  Spect.  But  truth  is  still  itself? 
2nd  Spect.  No,  not  at  all,  as  truth  appears  to  us ; 

For  oftentimes 

That  is  a  truth  to  me,  that 's  false  to  you ; 

So  'twould  not  be,  if  it  was  truly  true. 

#  #  •*  •*  # 

How  clouded  man 

Doubts  first,  and  from  one  doubt  doth  soon  proceed 

A  thousand  more,  in  solving  of  the  first! 

Like  'nighted  travellers  we  lose  our  way, 

Then  every  ignis  fatuus  makes  us  stray, 

By  the  false  lights  of  reason  led  about, 

Till  we  arrive  where  we  at  first  set  out : 

Nor  shall  we  e'er  truth's  perfect  highway  see, 

Till  dawns  the  daybreak  of  eternity. 

Apprehension. 
O  Apprehension  ! — 

So  terrible  the  consequence  appears, 

It  makes  my  brain  turn  round,  and  night  seem  darker. 

The  moon  begins  to  drown  herself  in  clouds, 

Leaving  a  duskish  horror  everywhere. 

My  sickly  fancy  makes  the  garden  seem 

Like  those  benighted  groves  in  Pluto's  kingdoms. 

Injured  husband. 
Wife  (dying).     O,  O,  I  fain  would  live  a  little  longer, 

If  but  to  ask  forgiveness  of  Gerardo  ! 

My  soul  will  scarce  reach  heaven  without  his  pardon. 
Gerardo  (entering).     Who 's  that  would  go  to  heaven, 

Take  it,  whate'er  thou  art ;  and  mayst  thou  be 

Happy  in  death,  whate'er  thou  didst  design. 

GERARDO  ;  his  wife  murdered. 
Ger.  It  is  in  vain  to  look  them ',  if  they  hide ; 

The  garden 's  large ;  besides,  perhaps  they  are  gone. 

We '11  to  the  body. 
Serv.  You  are  by  it  now,  my  lord. 
Ger.  This  accident  amazes  me  so  much, 

I  go  I  know  not  where. 

Doubt. 

Doubt  is  the  effect  of  fear  or  jealousy, 

Two  passions  which  to  reason  give  the  lie ; 

For  fear  torments,  and  never  doth  assist ; 

And  jealousy  is  love  lost  in  a  mist. 

Both  hoodwink  truth,  and  go  to  blindman's-buff, 

Cry  here,  then  there,  seem  to  direct  enough, 

But  all  the  while  shift  place ;  making  the  mind, 

1  The  murderers. 


THE  TEAITOB.  535 

As  it  goes  out  of  breath,  despair  to  find ; 
And,  if  at  last  something  it  stumbles  on, 
Perhaps  it  calls  it  false,  and  then  'tis  gone. 
If  true,  what's  gain'd  ?  only  just  time  to  see 
A  breachless1  play,  a  game  at  liberty ; 
That  has  no  other  end  than  this,  that  men 
Run  to  be  tired,  just  to  set  down  again. 
Owl 

•  Hark  how  the  owl 

Summons  their  souls  to  take  a  flight  with  her, 
Where  they  shall  be  eternally  benighted. 


THE  TRAITOR :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  J.  SHIRLEY,  1635. 
BY  SOME  SAID  TO  HAVE  BEEN  WRITTEN  BY  ONE 
RIYERS,  A  JESUIT. 

SCIABBAH,  whose  life  is  forfeited,  has  offer  of  pardon,  condition 
ally,  that  he  bring  his  sister  AMIDE  A  to  consent  to  the  Prince's 
unlawful  suit.  He  jestingly  tries  her  affection. 

Sci.  —  if  thou  couldst  redeem  me 

'  With  anything  but  death,  I  think  I  should 
Consent  to  live. 

Amid.  Nothing  can  be  too  precious 

To  save  a  brother,  such  a  loving  brother 
As  you  have  been. 

Sci.  Death  's  a  devouring  gamester, 

And  sweeps  up  all ; — what  think'st  thou  of  an  eye  ? 
Couldst  thou  spare  one,  and  think  the  blemish  recom- 
To  see  me  safe  with  the  other  ?  or  a  hand —        [pensed 
«    This  white  hand,  that  has  so  often 
With  admiration  trembled  on  the  lute, 
Till  we  have  pray'd  thee  leave  the  strings  awhile, 
And  laid  our  ears  close  to  thy  ivory  fingers, 
Suspecting  all  the  harmony  proceeded 
From  their  own  motions  without  the  need 
Of  any  dull  or  passive  instrument? — 
No,  Amidea ;  thou  shalt  not  bear  one  scar, 
To  buy  my  life ;  the  sickle  shall  not  touch 
A  flowrer,  that  grows  so  fair  upon  his  stalk  : 
I  would  live,  and  owe  my  life  to  thee, 
So  'twere  not  bought  too  dear. 

Amid.  Do  you  believe,  I  should  not  find 

The  way  to  heaven,  were  both  mine  eyes  thy  ransom  ? 
I  shall  climb  up  those  high  and  rugged  cliffs 
Without  a  hand. 

[My  transcript  breaks  off  here.   Perhaps  what  follows  was  of  less 
value ;  or  perhaps  I  broke  off,  as  I  own  I  have  sometimes  done,  to 

1  Breathless. 


536  HUNTINGDON   DIYERTISEMENT. 

leave  in  my  readers  a  relish  and  an  inclination  to  explore  for  them 
selves  the  genuine  fountains  of  these  old  dramatic  delicacies.] 


THE  HUNTINGDON  DIVEETISEMENT  :  AN  INTEE- 
LUDE,  FOE  THE  GTENEEAL  ENTEETAINMENT  AT 
THE  COUNTY  FEAST,  HELD  AT  MEECHANT  TAI- 
LOES'  HALL,  JUNE  20TH,  1678.  BY  W.  M. 

Humour  of  a  retired  Jcnight. 

SIR  JEOFFRY  DO-RIGHT.     MASTER  GENEROUS 
GOODMAN. 

Gen.  Sir  Jeoffry,  good  morrow. 

Sir  J.  The  same  to  you,  sir. 

Gen.  Your  early  zeal  condemns  the  rising  sun 
Of  too  much  sloth ;  as  if  you  did  intend 
To  catch  the  Muses  napping. 

Sir  J.  Did  you  know 

The  pleasures  of  an  early  contemplation, 
You  'd  never  let  Aurora  blush  to  find 
You  drowsy  on  your  bed ;  but  rouse,  and  spend 
Some  short  ejaculations, — how  the  night 
Disbands  her  sparkling  troops  at  the  approach 
Of  the  ensuing  day,  when  the  grey-eyed  sky 
Ushers  the  golden  signals  of  the  morn ; 
Whilst  the  magnanimous  cock  with  joy  proclaims 
The  sun's  illustrious  cavalcade.     Your  thoughts 
Would  ruminate  on  all  the  works  of  Heaven, 
And  the  various  dispensations  of  its  power. 
Our  predecessors  better  did  improve 
The  precious  minutes  of  the  morn  than  we 
Their  lazy  successors.     Their  practice  taught 
And  left  us  the  good  proverbial,  that  "  To  rise 
Early  makes  all  men  healthy,  wealthy,  wise." 

Gen.  Your  practice,  sir,  merits  our  imitation  ; 
Where  the  least  particle  of  night  and  days 
Improved  to  the  best  advantage,  whilst  your  soul 
(Unclogg'd  from  the  dross  of  melancholic  cares) 
Makes  everv  place  a  paradise. 

Sir  J.  'Tis  true," 

[  bless  my  lucky  stars,  whose  kind  aspects 
Have  fix'd  me  in  this  solitude.     My  youth 
Pass'd  through  the  tropics  of  each  fortune,  I 
Was  made  her  perfect  tennis-ball ;  her  smiles 
Now  made  me  rich  and  honour'd ;  then  her  frowns 
Dash'd  all  my  joys,  and  blasted  all  my  hopes ; 
Till,  wearied  by  such  interchange  of  weather, 
In  court  and  city,  I  at  length  confined 
All  my  ambition  to  the  golden  mean, 


DEDICATIONS.  537 

The  equinoctial  of  my  fate  ;  to  amend 
The  errors  of  my  life  by  a  good  end. 

THE  MARRIED  BEAU  :  A  COMEDY,  BY 

JOHN  CROWNE,  1694. 
Wife  tempted  :  she  pleads  religion. 
Lover.  Our  happy  love  may  'have  a  secret  church 
Under  the  church,  as  Faith's  was  under  Paul's, 
Where  we  may  carry  on  our  sweet  devotion ; 
And  the  cathedral  marriage  keep  its  state, 
And  all  its  decency  and  ceremonies. 

DEDICATIONS    TO    FLETCHER'S    FAITHFUL   SHEP 
HERDESS  ;   WITHOUT  DATE ;    PRESUMED   TO  BE 
THE  FIRST  EDITION, 
r  To  that  nolle  and  true  lover  of  learning,  SIR  WALTER  ASTON. 

Sir,  I  must  ask  your  patience,  and  be  true. 

This  play  was  never  liked,  except  by  few 

That  brought  their  judgments  with  them ;  for  of  late 

First  the  infection1,  then  the  common  prate 

Of  common  people,  have  such  customs  got 

Either  to  silence  plays,  or  like  them  not ; 

Under  the  last  of  which  this  interlude 

Had  fallen,  for  ever  press'd  down  by  the  rude 

That,  like  a  torrent  which  the  moist  South  feeds, 

Drowns  both  before  him  the  ripe  corn  and  weeds ; 

Had  not  the  saving  sense  of  better  men 

Redeem'd  it  from  corruption.     Dear  sir,  then 

Among  the  better  souls  be  you  the  best, 

In  whom  as  in  a  centre  I  take  rest, 

And  proper  being ;  from  whose  equal  eye 

And  judgment  nothing  grows  but  purity. 

Nor  do  I  natter ;  for,  by  all  those  dead 

Great  in  the  Muses,  by  Apollo's  head, 

He  that  adds  anything  to  you,  'tis  done 

Like  his  that  lights  a  candle  to  the  sun. 

Then  be  as  you  were  ever,  yourself  still 

Moved  by  your  judgment,  not  by  love  or  will, 

And  when  I  sing  again  (as  who  can  tell 

My  next  devotion  to  that  holy  well  ?) 

Your  goodness  to  the  Muses  shall  be  all 

Able  to  make  a  work  heroical. 

II.  To  the  inheritor  of  all  worthiness,  SIR  WILLIAM  SKIPWITH. 

ODE. 

i.        If  from  servile  hope  or  love 
I  may  prove 

1  The  plague ;  in  which  times,  the  acting  of  plays  appears  to 
have  been  discountenanced. 


538  JOHN  FLETCHEB. 

But  so  happy  to  be  thought  for 
Such  a  oiie,  whose  greatest  ease 

Is  to  please, 

Worthy  sir,  I  have  all  I  sought  for. 
ii.       For  no  itch  of  greater  name 

Which  some  claim 
By  their  verses,  do  I  show  it 
To  the  world ;  nor  to  protest, 

'Tis  the  best ; 

These  are  lean  faults  in  a  poet : 
in.     Nor  to  make  it  serve  to  feed 

At  my  need ; 

Nor  to  gain  acquaintance  by  it ; 
Nor  to  ravish  kind  attorneys 

In  their  journeys ; 
Nor  to  read  it  after  diet. 
iv.      Far  from  me  are  all  these  aims, 

Fittest  frames, 

To  build  weakness  on  and  pity ; 
Only  to  yourself,  and  such 

Whose  true  touch 
Makes  all  good,  let  me  seem  witty. 

III.   To  the  perfect  gentleman,  SIR  ROBEKT  TOWNSHEND. 

If  the  greatest  faults  may  crave 

Pardon,  where  contrition  is, 

Noble  sir,  I  needs  must  have 

A  long  one  for  a  long  amiss. 

If  you  ask  me  how  is  this, 

Upon  my  faith  I  '11  tell  you  frankly ; 
You  love  above  my  means  to  thank  ye. 

Yet,  according  to  my  talent, 

As  sour  fortune  loves  to  use  me, 

A  poor  Shepherd  I  have  sent 

In  home-spun  gray,  for  to  excuse  me : 

And  may  all  my  hopes  refuse  me 
But,  when  better  comes  ashore, 
You  shall  have  better,  newer,  more ! 

'Till  when,  like  our  desperate  debtors, 

Or  our  three-piled  sweet  "protesters," 

I  must  please  you  in  bare  letters ! 

And  so  pay  my  debts,  like  jesters. 

Yet  I  oft  have  seen  good  f casters, 
Only  for  to  please  the  pallet, 
Leave  great  meat,  and  choose  a  sallet. 

Apologetical  Preface,  following  these.      To  the  reader. 
If  you  be  not  reasonably  assured  of  your  knowledge  in  this 
kind  of  poem,  lay  down  the  book ;  or  read  this,  which  I  would 


WAES  OF  CTETJS.  539 

wish  had  been  the  Prologue.  It  is  a  Pastoral  Tragi-Comedy ; 
which  the  people  seeing  when  it  was  played,  having  ever  had 
a  singular  gift  in  denning,  concluded  to  be  a  play  of  country 
hired  Shepherds,  in  gray  cloaks,  with  cur-tailed  dogs  in  strings, 
sometimes  laughing  together,  and  sometimes  killing  one  an 
other  ;  and,  missing  Whitsun  ales,  cream,  wassail,  and  morris 
dances,  began  to  be  angry.  In  their  error  I  would  not  have 
you  fall,  lest  you  incur  their  censure1.  Understand,  there 
fore,  a  Pastoral  to  be — a  representation  of  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses,  with  their  actions  and  passions,  which  must 
be  such  as  may  agree  with  their  natures ;  at  least,  not  exceed 
ing  former  fictions  and  vulgar  traditions.  They  are  not  to  be 
adorned  with  any  art,  but  such  improper  ones  as  nature  is 
said  to  bestow,  as  singing  and  poetry ;  or  such  as  experience 
may  teach  them,  as  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  fountains ;  the 
ordinary  course  of  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars ;  and  such  like. 
But  you  are  ever  to  remember  shepherds  to  be  such,  as  all 
the  ancient  poets  (and  modern  of  understanding)  have  received 
them;  that  is,  the  owners  of  flocks,  and  not  hirelings. — A 
Tragi-comedy  is  not  so  called  in  respect  of  mirth  and  killing, 
but  in  respect  it  wants  deaths  (which  is  enough  to  make  it  no 
tragedy) ;  yet  brings  some  near  to  it  (which  is  enough  to  make 
it  no  comedy) ;  which  must  be  a  representation  of  familiar 
people,  with  such  kind  of  trouble  as  no  life  be  questioned ;  so 
that  a  god  is  as  lawful  in  this  as  in  a  tragedy ;  and  mean 
people,  as  in  a  comedy. — Thus  much  I  hope  will  serve  to 
justify  my  poem,  and  make  you  understand  it ;  to  teach  you 
more  for  nothing,  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  in  conscience 
bound.  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

THE  WAES  OF  CYRUS:  A  TEAGEDY. 

AUTHOE  UNKNOWN,  1594. 

Dumb  show  exploded. 

Chorus  (to  the  audience}. Xenophon 

Warrants  what  we  record  of  Panthea. 

It  is  writ  in  sad  and  tragic  terms, 

May  move  you  tears  ;  then  you  content  our  Muse, 

That  scorns  to  trouble  you  again  with  toys 

Or  needless  antics,  imitations, 

Or  shows,  or  new  devices  sprung  of  late ; 

We  have  exiled  them  from  our  tragic  stage, 

As  trash  of  their  tradition,  that  can  bring 

Nor  instance  nor  excuse  :  for  what  they  do2, 

1  He  damns  the  town  :  the  town  before  damn'd  him. — ED. 
We  can  almost  be  not  sorry  for  the  ill  dramatic  success  of  this 

play,  which  brought  out  such  spirited  apologies  ;  in  particular,  the 
masterly  definitionaof  Pastoral  and  Tragi-Comedy  in  this  Preface. 

2  So  I  point  it  j  instead  of  the  line,  as  it  stands  in  this  unique 
copy —        Nor  instance  nor  excuse  for  what  they  do.  [The 


540  T.  HETWOOD. 

Instead  of  mournful  plaints  our  Chorus  sings ; 
Although  it  be  against  the  upstart  guise, 
Yet,  warranted  by  grave  antiquity, 
"We  will  revive  the  which  hath  long  been  done. 

A  CHALLENGE  FOR  BEAUTY :   A  TRAGICOMEDY, 
BY  T.  HEYWOOD,  1636. 

Appeal  for  innocence  against  a  false  accusation. 
Helena.  Both  have  sworn : 

And,  princes,  as  you  hope  to  crown  your  heads 
With  that  perpetual  wreath  which  shall  last  ever, 
Cast  on  a  poor  dejected  innocent  virgin 
Your  eyes  of  grace  and  pity.     What  sin  is  it, 
Or  who  can  be  the  patron  to  such  evil  ? — 
That  a  poor  innocent  maid,  spotless  in  deed, 
And  pure  in  thought,  both  without  spleen  and  gall, 
That  never  injured  creature,  never  had  heart 
To  think  of  wrong,  or  ponder  injury ; 
That  such  a  one  in  her  white  innocence, 
Striving  to  live  peculiar  in  the  compass 
Of  her  own  virtues ;  notwithstanding  these. 
Should  be  sought  out  by  strangers,  persecuted, 
Made  infamous  ev'n  there,  where  she  was  made 
For  imitation ;  hiss'd  at  in  her  country ; 
Abandon'd  of  her  mother,  kindred,  friends ; 
Depraved  in  foreign  climes,  scorn'd  everywhere, 
And  ev'n  in  princes'  courts  reputed  vile  ? 
O  pity,  pity  this ! 


THYESTES :   A  TRAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  CROWNE,  1681. 

ATEEUS,  having  recovered  Ms  wife  and  kingdom,  from  his  brother 
THYESTES,  who  had  usurped  both,  and  sent  him  into  banishment, 
describes  his  offending  queen. 

Atreus  (solus].  still  she  lives  : 

'Tis  true,  in  heavy  sorrow :  so  she  ought, 
If  she  offended,  as  I  fear  she  has. 
Her  hardships,  though,  she  owes  to  her  own  choice. 
I  have  often  oifer'd  her  my  useless  couch ; 
For  what  is  it  to  me  ?  I  never  sleep  ; 
But  for  her  bed  she  uses  the  hard  floor. 
My  table  is  spread  for  her ;  I  never  eat : 
And  she  '11  take  nothing  but  what  feeds  her  grief. 
PHILISTHENES,  the  son  of  THYESTES,  at  a  stolen  interview  with 
ANTIQ-ONE,  the  daughter  of  ATREUS,  is  surprised  by  the  Icing's 

The  sense  I  take  to  be,  what  the  common  playwrights  do  (or  show 
by  action — the  "inexplicable  dumb  show"  of  Shakspeare),  our 
Chorus  relates.  The  following  lines  have  else  no  coherence. 


THTESTES. 

spies ;  upon  which  misfortune  ANTIGONE  swooning r,  is  found  by 
PENEUS. 

ANTIGONE.     PENEUS,  an  ancient  retainer  to  the  court  of  Mycenae. 
Peneus.  Ha !  what  is  she  that  sleeps  in  open  air  ? 

Indeed  the  place  is  far  from  any  path, 

But  what  conducts  to  melancholy  thoughts ; 

But  those  are  beaten  roads  about  this  court. 

Her  habit  calls  her,  noble  Grecian  maid ; 

But  her  sleep  says,  she  is  a  stranger  here. 

All  birds  of  night  build  in  this  court,  but  Sleep ; 

And  Sleep  is  here  made  wild  with  loud  complaints, 

And  flies  away  from  all.     I  wonder  how 

This  maid  has  brought  it  to  her  lure  so  tame. 
Antigone  (waking  from  her  swoon}.     O  my  Philisthenes ! 
Peneus.  She  wakes  to  moan ; 

Ay,  that  's  the  proper  language  of  this  place  ! 
Antigon.  My  dear,  my  poor  Philisthenes  ! 

I  know  'tis  so  !  O  horror !  death  !  hell !  O  ! 
Peneus.  I  know  her  now ;  'tis  fair  Antigone, 

The  daughter  and  the  darling  of  the  king. 

This  is  the  lot  of  all  this  family1. 

Beauteous  Antigone,  thou  knowst  me  well; 

I  am  old  Peneus,  one  who  threescore  years 

Has  loved  and  served  thy  wretched  family. 

Impart  thy  sorrows  to  me  ;  I  perhaps, 

In  my  wide  circle  of  experience, 

May  find  some  counsel  that  may  do  thee  good. 
Antigone.  O  good  old  man  !  how  long. have  you  been  here? 
Peneus.  I  came  but  now. 
Antigone.  O,  did  you  see  this  way 

Poor  young  Philisthenes?  you  know  him  well. 
Peneus.  Thy  uncle's  son,  Thyestes'  eldest  son — 
Antigone.  The  same,  the  same — 
Peneus.  No ;  all  the  gods  forbid 

I  should  meet  him  so  near  thy  father's  court. 
Antigone.  O,  he  was  here  one  cursed  minute  past. 
Peneus.  What  brought  him  hither  ? 
Antigone.  Love  to  wretched  me. 

Our  warring  fathers  never  ventured  more 

For  bitter  hate  than  \ve  for  innocent  love. 

Here  but  a  minute  past  the  dear  youth  lay, 

Here  in  this  brambly  cave  lay  in  my  arms ; 

And  now  he 's  seized !  O  miserable  me!  [tears  her  hair. 
Peneus.  Why  dost  thou  rend  that  beauteous  ornament  ? 

In  what  has  it  offended  ?  hold  thy  hands. 
Antigone.  O  father,  go  and  plead  for  the  poor  youth  : 

No  one  dares  speak  to  the  fierce  king  but  you. 

1  The  descendants  of  Tantalus. 


542  JOHN  CEOWNE. 

Peneus.  And  no  one  near  speaks  more  in  vain  than  I ; 

He  spurns  me  from  his  presence  like  a  dog. 
Antigone.  O,  then — 
Peneus.  She  faints,  she  swoons,  I  frighten'd  her; 

O,  I  spake  indiscreetly.     Daughter,  child, 

Antigone,  I  '11  go,  indeed  I  '11  go. 
Antigone.  There  is  no  help  for  me  in  heaven  or  earth. 
Peneus.  There  is,  there  is ;  despair  not,  sorrowful  maid, 

All  will  be  well.     I  am  going  to  the  king, 

And  will  with  powerful  reasons  bind  his  hands; 

And  something  in  me  says  I  shall  prevail. 

But  to  whose  care  shall  I  leave  thee  the  while  ? — 

For,  O  !  I  dare  not  trust  thee  to  thy  grief. 
Antigone.  I  '11  be  disposed  of,  father,  as  you  please, 

Till  I  receive  the  blest  or  dreadful  doom. 
Peneus.  Then  come,  dear  daughter,  lean  upon  my  arm, 

Which  old  and  weak  is  stronger  yet  than  thine ; 

Thy  youth  hath  known  more  sorrow  than  my  age. 

I  never  hear  of  grief,  but  when  I  'in  here ; 

But  one  day's  diet  here  of  sighs  and  tears 

Returns  me  elder  home  by  many  years. 

ATREUS,  to  entrap  Ms  brother  THYESTES,  who  has  lived  a  con- 
cealed  life,  lurking  in  woods,  to  elude  Ms  vengeance,  sends 
PHILISTHENES  and  old  PENEUS  to  Mm  with  offers  of  recon 
ciliation,  and  an  invitation  to  court,  to  be  present  at  the  nup 
tials  (/ANTIGONE  with  PHILISTHENES. 

THYESTES.    PHILISTHENES.    PENETJS. 
Thy.  Welcome  to  my  arms, 

My  hope,  my  comfort !  Time  has  roll'd  about 

Several  months  since  I  have  seen  thy  face, 

And  in  its  progress  has  done  wondrous  things. 
Phil.  Strange  things  indeed  to  chase  you  to  this  sad 

Dismal  abode  ;  nay,  and  to  age,  I  think : 

I  see  that  winter,  thrusting  itself  forth, 

Long,  long  before  its  time,  in  silver  hairs. 
Thy.  My  fault,  my  son ;  I  would  be  great  and  high ; 

Snow  lies  in  summer  on  some  mountain  tops. 

Ah,  son !  I  am  sorry  for  thy  noble  youth. 

Thou  hast  so  bad  a  father;  I  am  afraid, 

Fortune  will  quarrel  with  thee  for  my  sake. 

Thou  wilt  derive  unhappiness  from  me, 

Like  an  hereditary  ill  disease. 
Phil.  Sir,  I  was  born,"when  you  were  innocent ; 

And  all  the  ill  you  have  contracted  since, 

You  have  wrought  out  by  painful  penitence ; 

For  healthy  joy  returns  to  us  again; 

Nay,  a  more  vigorous  joy  than  e'er  we  had. 

Like  one  recover'd  from  a  sad  disease, 


THTESTES.  543 

Nature  for  damage  pays  him  double  cost, 
And  gives  him  fairer  flesh  than  e'er  he  had.  • 

THTESTES  is  won  from  his  retirement  by  the  joint  representations 
of  PHILISTHENES  and  PENETJS,  of  the  apparent  good  faith,  and 
retitrninff  kindness  of  his  brother ;  and  visits  Mycence  ; — his 
confidence ;  his  returning  misgivings. 

THYESTES.     PHILISTHENES.     PENEUS. 
Thy.  O  wondrous  pleasure  to  a  banish'd  man, 
I  feel  my  loved  long-look'd-for  native  soil ! 
And,  O  !  my  weary  eyes,  that  all  the  day 
Had  from  some  mountain  travell'd  toward  this  place, 
Now  rest  themselves  upon  the  royal  towers 
Of  that  great  palace  where  I  had  my  birth. 

0  sacred  towers,  sacred  in  your  height, 
Mingling  with  clouds,  the  villas  of  the  gods, 
Whither  for  sacred  pleasures  they  retire ; 
Sacred  because  you  are  the  work  of  gods  ; 
Your  lofty  looks  boast  your  divine  descent ; 
And  the  proud  city,  which  lies  at  your  feet, 
And  would  give  place  to  nothing  but  to  you, 
Owns  her  original  is  short  of  yours. 

And  now  a  thousand  objects  more  ride  fast 

On  morning  beams,  and  meet  my  eyes  in  throngs ; 

And  see,  all  Argos  meets  me  with  loud  shouts  ! 
Phil.  O  joyful  sound ! 
Thy.  But  with  them  Atreus  too — 
Phil.  What  ails  my  father,  that  he  stops,  and  shakes, 

And  now  retires  ? 
Thy.  Return  with  me,  my  son, 

And  old  friend  Peneus,  to  the  honest  beasts, 

And  faithful  desert,  and  well-seated  caves : 

Trees  shelter  man,  by  whom  they  often  die, 

And  never  seek  revenge :  no  villany 

Lies  in  the  prospect  of  a  humble  cave. 
Pen.  Talk  you  of  viilany,  of  foes,  and  fraud? 
Thy.  I  talk  of  Atreus. 
Pen.  What  are  these  to  him  ? 
Thy.  Nearer  than  I  am,  for  they  are  himself. 
Pen.  Gods  drive  these  impious  thoughts  out  of  your  mind ! 
Thy.  The  gods  for  all  our  safety  put  them  there. 

Return,  return  with  me. 
Pen.  Against  our  oaths? 

1  cannot  stem  the  vengeance  of  the  gods. 

Thy.  Here  are  no  gods  :  they  have  left  this  dire  abode. 

Pen.  True  race  of  Tantalus !  who  parent-like 

Are  doom'd  in  midst  of  plenty  to  be  starved. 

His  hell  and  yours  differ  alone  in  this : 

When  he  would  catch  at  joys,  they  fly  from  him  j 


544  JOHN  CKOWNE. 

When  glories  catch  at  you,  you  fly  from  them. 
Thy.  A  fit  comparison  :  our  joys  and  his 

Are  lying  shadows,  which  to  trust  is  hell. 

The  day  of  the  pretended  nuptials. — ATEEUS  feigns  a  returning 

love  for  his  Queen. 
j^Erope.  O,  this  is  too  much  joy  for  me  to  bear ! 

You  build  new  palaces  on  broken  walls. 
Atreus.  Come,  let  our  new-born  pleasures  breathe  sweet  air; 

This  room  's  too  vile  a  cabinet  for  gold. 

Then  leave  for  ever,  love,  this  doleful  place, 

And  leave  behind  thee  all  thy  sorrows  here ; 

And  dress  thyself  as  this  great  day  requires. 

'Twill  be  thy  daughter's  nuptials ;  and  I  dream' d, 

The  Sun  himself  would  be  ashamed  to  come, 

And  be  a  guest  in  his  old  tamish'd  robe ; 

But  leave  my  court1,  to  enlighten  all  the  globe. 
PENEUS  to  ATEEUS,  dissuading  him  from  his  horrid  purpose. 
Pen.  Fear  you  not  men  or  gods  ? 
Atr.  The  fear  of  gods  ne'er  came  in  Pelops'  house. 
Pen.  Think  you  there  are  no  gods? 
Atr.  I  find  all  things 

So  false,  I  am  sure  of  notliing  but  of  wrongs. 

ATREUS.     THYESTES.     A  table  and  a  banquet. 
Atr.  Come,  brother,  sit. 
Thy.  May  not  Philisthenes 

Sit  with  us,  sir? 
Atr.  He  waits  upon  the  bride. 

A  deeper  bowl.     This  to  the  bridegroom's  health. 
Thy.  This  to  the  gods  for  this  most  joyful  day. — 

Now  to  the  bridegroom's  health. 
Atr.  This  day  shall  be 

To  Argos  an  eternal  festival. 
Thy.  Fortune  and  I  to-day  both  try  our  strengths. 

I  have  quite  tired  her  left-hand  misery  ; 

She  now  relieves  it  with  her  right-hand  joy, 

Which  she  lays  on  me  with  her  utmost  force ; 

But  both  shall  be  too  weak  for  my  strong  spirit. 
Atr.  (aside.)  So,  now  my  engines  of  delight  have  screw'd 

The  monster  to  the  top  of  arrogance ; 

And  now  he 's  ready  for  his  deadly  fall. 
Thy.  O,  these  extremes  of  misery  and  joy 

Measure  the  vast  extent  of  a  man's  soul ! 

My  spirit  reaches  Fortune's  east  and  west. 

She  has  oft  set  and  risen  here ;  yet  cannot  get 

.Out  of  the  vast  dominion  of  my  mind. — 

1  A  hint  of  the  dreadful  banquet  which  he  meditates,  at  which, 
the  Sun  is  said  to  have  turned  away  his  horses. 


THYESTES.  545 

0  !  my  proud  vaunting  has  a  sudden  check ; 
See,  from  my  head  my  crown  of  roses  falls ; 

My  hair,  though  almost  drown'd  beneath  sweet  oils, 
With  strange  and  sudden  horrors  starts  upright ! 
Something  I  know  not  what  bids  me  not  eat ; 
And  what  I  have  devour'd1  within  me  groans, 

1  fain  would  tear  my  breast  to  set  it  free : — 
And  I  have  catch'd  the  eager  thirst  of  tears, 
Which  all  weak  spirits  have  in  misery. 

I,  who  in  banishment  ne'er  wept,  weep  now. 

Atr.  Brother,  regard  it  not ;  'tis  fancy  all. 

Misery,  like  night,  is  haunted  with  ill  spirits, 
And  spirits  leave  not  easily  their  haunts. 
Tis  said,  sometimes  they  '11  impudently  stand 
A  flight  of  beams  from  the  forlorn  of  day, 
And  scorn  the  crowing  of  the  sprightly  cocks : — 
Brother,  'tis  morning  with  our  pleasure  yet, 
Nor  has  the  sprightly  wine  crow'd  oft  enough. 
See  in  great  flagons  at  full  length  it  sleeps, 
And  lets  these  melancholy  thoughts  break  in 
Upon  our  weaker  pleasures.     Rouse  the  wine, 
And  bid  him  chase  these  fancies  hence  for  shame. 
Fill  up  that  reverend  unvanquish'd  bowl, 
Who  many  a  giant  in  his  time  has  fallen, 
And  many  a  monster;  Hercules  not  more. 

Thy.  If  he  descends  into  my  groaning  breast, 
Like  Hercules,  he  will  descend  to  hell. 

'Atr.  And  he  will  vanquish  all  the  monsters  there. 
Brother,  your  courage  with  this  hero  try ; 
He  o'er  our  house  has  reign'd  two  hundred  years, 
And  he 's  the  only  king  shall  rule  you  here. 

Thy.  What  ails  me,  I  cannot  heave  it  to  my  lips? 

Atr.  What,  is  the  bowl  too  heavy? 

Thy.  No ;  my  heart. 

Atr.  The  wine  will  lighten  it. 

Thy.  The  wine  will  not 
Come  near  my  lips. 

Atr.  Why  should  they  be  so  strange  1 
They  are  near  akin. 

Thy.  Akin? 

Atr.  As  possible;  father  and  son  not  nearer. 

Thy.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Atr.  Does  not  good  wine  beget  good  blood? 

Thy.  'Tis  true. 

Atr.  Your  lips  then  and  the  wine  may  be  akin. 

1  The  mangled  limbs  of  his  son  Philisthenes,  wliieh  Atreus  has 

sdt  before  him. 


546  NAHTTM  TATE. 

Off  with  your  kindred  wine  ;  leave  not  a  drop 

To  die  alone,  bewilder'd  in  that  bowl. 

Help  him  to  heave  it  to  his  head  ;  that 's  well. 
(THTESTES  drinks.     A  clap  of  thunder.     The  lights  go  out.) 
Thy.  What  ponderous  crimes  pull  heaven  upon  our  heads  ? 

Nature  is  choked  with  some  vast  villany, 

And  all  her  face  is  black. 
Air.  Some  lights  !  some  lights  ! 
Thy.  The  sky  is  stunn'd,  and  reels  'twixt  night  and  day ; 

Old  Chaos  is  return'd. 
Atr.  It  is  to  see 

A  young  one  born,  more  dreadful  than  herself ; 

That  promises  great  comfort  to  her  age, 

And  to  restore  her  empire. 
Thy.  What  do  you  mean? 
Atr.  Confusion  I  have  in  thy  bowels  made. 
Thy.  Dire  thoughts,  like  Furies,  break  into  my  mind 

With  flaming  brands,  and  show  me  what  he  means. 

Where  is  Philisthenes  ? 
Atr.  Ask  thy  own  bowels : 

Thou  heardst  them  groan ;  perhaps  they  now  will  speak. 
Thy.  Thou  hast  not,  tyrant — what  I  dare  not  ask  ? 
Atr.  I  kill'd  thy  son,  and  thou  hast  drunk  his  blood. 


BRUTUS  OF  ALBA :  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  N.  TATE,  1678. 
RAG/USA,  and  four  more  Witches,  about  to  raise  a  storm. 

Rag.  'Tis  time  we  were  preparing  for  the  storm. 
Heed  me,  ye  daughters  of  the  mystic  art ; 
Look  that  it  be  no  common  hurricane, 
But  such  as  rend  the  Caspian  cliffs,  and  from 
The  Hyrcanian  hills  sweep  cedars,  roots  and  all. 
Speak ;  goes  all  right  ? 

All.  Uh!  Uh!  Uh!  Uh! 

1st  W.  The  cricket  leaves  our  cave,  and  chirps  no  more. 

2nd  W.  I  stuck  a  ram,  but  could  not  stain  my  steel. 

3rd  W.  His  fat  consumed  in  the  fire,  and  never  smoked. 

4th  W.  I  found  this  morn  upon  our  furnace  wall 
Mysterious  words  wrought  by  a  slimy  snail, 
Whose  night-walk  Fate  had  guided  in  that  form. 

2nd  W.  Thou  art  queen  of  mysteries,  great  Ragusa. 

How  hast  thou  stemm'd  the  abyss  of  our  black  science, 
Traced  dodging  Nature  through  her  blind  'scape-roads, 
And  brought  her  naked  and  trembling  to  the  light ! 

Raff.  Now  to  our  tasks — 

Stand  off;  and,  crouching,  mystic  postures  make, 
Gnawing  your  rivePd  knuckles  till  they  bleed, 


BRUTUS  OF  ALBA.  547 

Whilst  I  fall  prostrate  to  consult  my  art, 

And  mutter  sounds  too  secret  for  your  ear.     [storm  rises. 

Rag.  The  storm 's  on  wing,  comes  powdering  from  the  Nore ; 
'Tis  past  the  Alps  already,  and  whirls  forward 
To  the  Apennine,  whose  rifted  snow  is  swept 
To  the  vales  beneath,  while  cots  and  folds  lie  buried. 
Thou,  Myrza,  takest  to-night  an  airy  march 
To  the  Pontic  shore  for  drugs ;  and  for  more  speed 
On  my  own  maple  crutch  thou  shalt  be  mounted, 
Which  bridled  turns  to  a  steed  so  manageable, 
That  thou  mayst  rein  him  with  a  spider's  thread. 

4th  W.  And  how  if  I  o'ertake  a  bark  in  the  way  ? 

Rag.  Then,  if  aloft  thou  goest,  to  tinder  scorch 
The  fans ;  but  if  thou  takest  a  lower  cut, 
Then  snatch  the  whips  off  from  the  steersman's  hand, 
And  souse  him  in  the  foam. 

4th  W.  He  shall  be  drench'd.  [storm  thickens. 

Raa.  Ay,  this  is  music !  now  methinks  I  hear 
The  shrieks  of  sinking  sailors,  tackle  rent, 
Rudders  unhinged,  while  the  sea-raveners  swift 
Scour  through  the  dark  flood  for  the  diving  corpses. 
Ha!  art  thou  there,  my  melancholy  sister  ?  [the  owl  cries 
Thou  think' st  thy  nap  was  short,  and  art  surprised 
To  find  night  fallen  already. 

More  turf  to  the  fire,  till  the  black  mesh  ferment ; 
Burn  the  oil  of  basilisk  to  fret  the  storm. 
That 'was  a  merry  clap  :  I  know  that  cloud 
Was  of  my  Fricker's  rending,  Fricker  rent  it ; 
O,  'tis  an  ardent  Spirit ;  but,  beshrew  him  ! 
'Twas  he  seduced  me  first  to  hellish  arts. 
He  found  me  pensive  in  a  desert  glen, 
Near  a  lone  oak  forlorn  and  thunder- cleft, 
Where  discontented,  I  abjured  the  gods, 
And  bann'd  the  cruel  creditor  that  seized 
My  Mullees1,  sole  subsistence  of  my  life. 
He  promised  me  full  twelve  years'  absolute  reign 
To  banquet  all  my  senses,  but  he  lied, 
For  vipers'  flesh  is  now  my  only  food, 
My  drink  of  springs  that  stream  from  sulphurous  mines ; 
Beside  with  midnight  cramps  and  scalding  sweats 
I  am  almost  inured  for  hell's  worst  tortures. — 
I  hear  the  wood-nymphs  cry ;  by  that  I  know 
My  charm  has  took — 

but  day  clears  up, 
And  heavenly  light  wounds  my  infectious  eyes. 

\st  W.  Now,  sullen  dame,  dost  thou  approve  our  works? 

1  Her  cows. 

2K2      . 


548  FA-HUM  TATE. 


Rag.  Twas  a  brave  wreck  !     O,  you  Lave  well  perform'd. 

2nd  W.  Myrza  and  I  bestrid  a  cloud,  and  soar'd 

To  lash  the  storm,  which  we  pursued  to  the  city, 
Where  in  my  flight  I  snatch'd  the  golden  globe, 
That  high  on  Saturn's  pillar  blazed  in  the  air. 

3rd  W.  I  fired  the  turret  of  Minerva's  fane. 

4th  W.  I  stay'd  in  the  cell  to  set  the  spell  a-work. 

The  lamps  burnt  ghastly  blue,  the  furnace  shook  ; 
The  salamander  felt  the  heat  redoubled, 
And  frisk'  d  about,  so  well  I  plied  the  fire. 

Rag.  Now,  as  I  hate  bright  day,  and  love  moonshine, 
You  shall  be  all  my  sisters  in  the  art  : 
I  will  instruct  thee  in  each  mystery  ; 
Make  ye  all  Ragusas. 

All.  O  !  O  !  O  ! 

Rag.  Around  me,  and  I  '11  deal  to  each  her  dole. 
There  's  an  elf-lock,  tooth  of  hermaphrodite, 
A  brace  of  mandrakes  digg'd  in  fairy  ground, 
A  lamprey's  chain,  snake's-eggs,  dead  sparks  of  thunder 
Quench'd  in  its  passage  through  the  cold  mid  air, 
A  mermaid's  fin,  a  cockatrice's  comb 
Wrapp'd  in  the  dried  caul  of  a  brat  still-born. 
Burn  them.  — 

In  whispers  take  the  rest,  which  named  aloud 
Would  fright  the  day,  and  raise  another  storm. 

AIL  O!  O!  O!  O! 
SOZIMAN,  a  wicked  statesman,  employs  RAGTTSAjfor  a  charm. 

Rag.  —  my  drudges  I  '11  employ 

To  frame  with  their  best  arts  a  bracelet  for  thee, 

Which,  while  thou  wear'st  it  lock'd  on  thy  left  arm, 

Treason  shall  ne'er  annoy  thee,  sword  and  poison 

In  vain  attempt  ;  Nature  alone  have  power 

Thy  substance  to  dissolve,  nor  she  herself 

Till  many  a  winter  shock  hath  broke  thy  temper. 

Soz.  Medea  for  her  Jason  less  performed  ! 

My  greatening  soul  aspires  to  range,  like  thee, 
In  unknown  worlds,  to  search  the  reign  of  Night. 
Admitted  to  thy  dreadful  mysteries, 
I  should  be  more  than  mortal. 

Rag.  Near  my  cell, 

'Mongst  circling  rocks  (in  form  a  theatre) 
Lies  a  snug  vale. 

Soz.  With  horror  I  have  view'd  it;       •;-' 

'Tis  blasted  all  and  bare  as  the  ocean  beach, 
And  seems  a  round  for  elves  to  revel  in. 

Rag.  With  my  attendants  there  each  waning  moon 
My  dreadful  court  I  hold,  and  sit  in  state  ; 
And  when  the  dire  transactions  are  despatch'd, 


FATAL  TJlSTOtf.  549 

Our  zany  Spirits  ascend  to  make  us  mirth 
With  gambols,  dances,  masks  and  revelling  songs, 
Till  our  mad  din  strike  terror  through  the  waste, 
Spreads  far  and  wide  to  the  cliffs  that  bank  the  main, 
And  scafce  is  lost  in  the  wide  ocean's  roar. 
Here  seated  by  me  thou  shalt  view  the  sports,  • 
While  demons  kiss  thy  foot,  and  swear  thee  homage. 
RAGTTSA,  with  the  other  Witches,  having  finished  the  bracelet. 
Rag.  Proceed  we  then  to  finish  our  black  projects. 
View  here,  till  from  your  green  distilling  eyes 
The  poisonous  glances  centre  on  this  bracelet, 
A  fatal  gift  for  our  projecting  son ; — 
Seven  hours  odd  minutes  has  it  steep'd  in  the  gall 
Of  a  vile  Moor  swine-rooted  from  his  grave. 
Now  to  your  bloated  lips  apply  it  round, 
And  with  the  infectious  dew  of  your  black  breaths 
Complete  its  baleful  force. 

THE  FATAL  UNION :  A  TRAGEDY. 
AUTHOR  UNKNOWN. 

Dirge. 

Noblest  bodies  are  but  gilded  clay. 
Put  away 

But  the  precious  shining  rind, 
The  inmost  rottenness  remains  behind. 
Kings,  on  earth,  though  gods  they  be, 
Yet  in  death  are  vile  as  we. 
He,  a  thousand  kings  before, 
Now  is  vassal  unto  more. 
Vermin  now  insulting  lie, 
And  dig  for  diamonds  in  each  eye ; 
Whilst  the  sceptre-bearing  hand 
Cannot  their  inroads  withstand. 
Here  doth  one- in  odours  wade, 
By  the  regal  unction  made ; 
While  another  dares  to  gnaw 
On  that  tongue,  his  people's  law. 
Fools,  ah  !  fools  are  we,  that  so  contrive, 
And  do  strive, 
In  each  gaudy  ornament, 
Who  shall  his  corpse  in  the  best  dish  present. 


BLURT,  MASTER  CONSTABLE  :  A  COMEDY, 
BY  T.  MIDDLETON,  1602. 

Lover  kept  awake  by  lone. 
Ah  !  how  can  I  sleep?  he,  who  truly  loves, 
Burns  out  the  day  in  idle  fantasies ; 
And  when  the  lamb  bleating  doth  bid  good  night 


550  T.  MIDDLETON. 

Unto  the  closing  day,  then  tears  begin 
To  keep  quick  time  unto  the  owl,  whose  voice 
Shrieks  like  the  bellman  in  the  lover's  ears  : 
Love's  eye  the  jewel  of  sleep,  O  !  seldom  wears. 
The  early  lark  is  waken'd  from  her  bed, 
Being  only  by  love's  plaints  disquieted ; 
And  singing  in  the  morning's  ear  she  weeps, 
Being  deep  in  love,  at  lovers'  broken  sleeps. 
But  say  a  golden  slumber  chance  to  tie 
With  silken  strings  the  cover  of  love's  eye ; 
Then  dreams,  magician-like,  mocking  present 
Pleasures,  whose  fading  leaves  more  discontent. 

YIOLETTA  comes  to  seek  her  Husband  at  the  house  of  a  Courtezan. 
YIOLETTA. — IMPEKIA,  the  Courtezan. 

Vio.  By  your  leave,  sweet  beauty,  pardon  my  excuse,  which 
sought  entrance  into  this  house  :  good  sweetness, 
have   you  not  a  property  here,  improper  to  your 
house ;  my  husband  ? 
Imp.  Ah  !  your  husband  here  ? 

Vio.  Nay,  be  as  you  seem  to  be,  white  dove,  without  gall. 
Do  not  mock  me,  fairest  Venetian.  Come,  I  know 
he  is  here.  I  do  not  blame  him,  for  your  beauty 
gilds  over  his  error.  'Troth,  I  am  right  glad  that 
you,  my  countrywoman,  have  received  the  pawn  of 
his  affections.  You  cannot  be  hardhearted,  loving 
him ;  nor  hate  me,  for  I  love  him  too.  Since  we 
both  love  him,  let  us  not  leave  him,  till  we  have 
called  home  the  ill  husbandry  of  a  sweet  straggler. 
Prithee,  good  wench,  use  him  well. 
Imp.  So,  so,  so — 

Vio.  If  he  deserve  not  to  be  used  well  (as  I  'd  be  loath  he 
should  deserve  it),  I  '11  engage  myself,  dear  beauty, 
to  thine  honest  heart :  give  me  leave  to  love  him, 
and  I  '11  give  him  a  kind  of  leave  to  love  thee.  I 
know  he  hears  me.  I  prithee  try  my  eyes,  if  they 
know  him ;  that  have  almost  drowned  themselves  in 
their  own  salt-water,  because  they  cannot  see  him. 
In  truth,  I  '11  not  chide  him.  If  I  speak  words 
rougher  than  soft  kisses,  my  penance  shall  be  to  see 
him  kiss  thee,  yet  to  hold  my  peace. 

Good  partner,  lodge  me  in  thy  private  bed ; 

Where,  in  supposed  folly,  he  may  end 

Determined  sin.     Thou  smilest.     I  know  thou  wilt. 

What  looseness  may  term  dotage, — truly  read, 

Is  love  ripe-gather'd,  not  soon  withered. 
Imp.  Good  truth,  pretty  Wedlock,  thou  makest  my  little  eyes 
smart  with  washing  themselves  in  brine.     I  mar 


551 

such  a  sweet  face  I — and  wipe  off  that  dainty  red  ! 
and  make  Cupid  toll  the  bell  for  your  lovesick  heart! 
— no,  no,  no — if  he  were  Jove's  own  ingle  Ganymede 
— fie,  fie,  fie — 1  '11  none.  Your  chamber-fellow  is 
within.  Thou  shalt  enjoy  him. 
Vio.  Star  of  Venetian  beauty,  thanks ! 


HOFFMAN'S  TEAOEDY:  OE,  EEVENGE  FOR  A 
FATHEE,  1631.    AUTHOR  UNKNOWN. 

The  sons  of  the  Duke  of  Saxony  run  away  with  LTJCIBEL,  the 
Duke  of  Austria's  daughter. — The  two  dukes,  in  separate  pur 
suit  of  their  children,  meet  at  the  cell  of  a  Hermit :  in  which 
Hermit,  Saxony  recognises  a  banished  brother ;  at  which  sur 
prised,  all  three  are  reconciled. 
Aust.  That  should  be  Saxon's  tongue. 
Sax.  Indeed  I  am  the  duke  of  Saxony. 
Aust.  Then  thou  art  father  to  lascivious  sons, 

That  have  made  Austria  childless. 
Sax.  O  subtle  duke, 

Thy  craft  appears  in  framing  the  excuse. 

Thou  dost  accuse  my  young  sous'  innocence. 

I  sent  them  to  get  knowledge,  learn  the  tongues, 

Not  to  be  metamorphosed  with  the  view 

Of  nattering  beauty — peradventure  painted. 
Aust.  No,  T  defy  thee,  John  of  Saxony. 

My  Lucibel  for  beauty  needs  no  art ; 

Nor,  do  1  think,  the  beauties  of  her  mind 

Ever  inclined  to  this  ignoble  course, 

But  by  the  charms  and  forcings  of  thy  sons. 
Sax.  O,  would  thou  wouldst  maintain  thy  words,  proud  duke ! 
Her.  I  hope,  great  princes,  neither  of  you  dare 

Commit  a  deed  so  sacrilegious. 

This  holy  cell 

Is  dedicated  to  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

The  foot  of  man  never  profaned  this  floor ; 

Nor  doth  Wrath  here  with  his  consuming  voice 

Affright  these  buildings.     Charity  with  prayer, 

Humility  with  abstinence  combined, 

Are  here  the  guardians  of  a  grieved  mind. 
Aust.  Father,  we  obey  thy  holy  voice. 

Duke  John  of  Saxony,  receive  my  faith  ; 

Till  our  ears  hear  the  true  course,  which  thy  sons 

Have  taken  with  my  fond  and  misled  child, 

I  proclaim  truce.     Why  dost  thou  sullen  stand? 

If  thou  mean  peace,  give  me  thy  princely  hand. 
Sax.  Thus  do  I  plight  thee  truth,  and  promise  peace. 
Aust.  Nay,  but  thy  eyes  agree  not  with  thy  Tieart. 


552  HOFFMAN'S  TRAGEDY. 

In  vows  of  combination  there 's  a  grace, 
That  shows  the  intention  in  the  outward  face. 
Look  cheerfully,  or  I  expect  no  league. 

Sax.  First  give  me  leave  to  view  awhile  the  person 
Of  this  Hermit — Austria,  view  him  well. 
Is  he  not  like  my  brother  Roderic  ? 

Aust.  He  's  like  him.     But  I  heard,  he  lost  his  life 
Long  since  in  Persia  by  the  Sophy's  wars. 

Her.  I  heard  so  much,  my  lord.     But  that  report 

Was  purely  feign'd ;  spread  by  my  erring  tongue, 

As  double  as  my  heart,  when  I  was  young. 

I  am  that  Roderic,  that  aspired  thy  throne ; 

That  vile  false  brother,  that  with  rebel  breath,      [death. 

Drawn  sword,  and  treacherous    heart,  threaten'd  your 

Sax.  My  brother ! — nay  then  i'  faith,  old  John,  lay  by 
Thy  sorrowing  thoughts ;  turn  to  thy  wonted  vein, 
And  be  mad  John  of  Saxony  again. 
Mad  Roderic,  art  alive  ? — my  mother's  son, 
Her  joy,  and  her  last  birth  ! — O,  she  conjured  me 
To  use  thee  thus ;  [embracing  him]  and  yet  I  banish'd 
Body  o'  me  !  I  was  unkind,  I  know;  [thee. — 

But  thou  deservedst  it  then :  but  let  it  go. 
Say  thou  wilt  leave  this  life,  thus  truly  idle, 
And  live  a  statesman ;  thou  shalt  share  in  reign, 
Commanding  all  but  me  thy  sovereign. 

Her.  I  thank  your  highness ;  I  will  think  on  it : 
But  for  my  sins  this  sufferance  is  more  fit. 

Sax.  Tut,  tittle  tattle,  tell  not  me  of  sin.— 

Now,  Austria,  once  again  thy  princely  hand : 
I  '11  look  thee  in  the  face,  and  smile ;  and  swear, 
If  any  of  my  sons  have  wrong'd  thy  child, 
I  '11  help  thee  in  revenging  it  myself. 
But  if,  as  I  believe,  they  mean  but  honour, 
(As  it  appeareth  by  these  jousts  proclaimed,) 
Then  thou  shalt  be  content  to  name1  him  thine, 
And  thy  fair  daughter  I  '11  account  as  mine. 

Aust.  Agreed. 

Sax.  Ah,  Austria !  'twas  a  world,  when  you  and  J 
Ran  these  careers  !  but  now  we  are  stiff  and  dry, 

Aust.  I  am  glad  you  are  so  pleasant,  good  my  lord. 

Sax.  'Twas  my  old  mood :  but  I  was  soon  turn'd  sad, 
With  over-grieving  for  this  long-lost  lad, — 
And  now  the  boy  is  grown  as  old  as  I ; 
His  very  face  as  full  of  gravity. 

1  By  one  of  the  Duke's  sons  (her  lover)  in  honour  of  Lucibel. 
THE  END. 


L 


PR      Lamb,  Charles 

1263       Specimens  of  English 

L35     dramatic  poets  who  lived 

about  the  time  of  Shakspeare 

New  ed. 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY