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THE  WORKS  OF  JOHN  FORD. 


LONDON : 
ROBSON  AND  SONS,  PRINTERS,  PANCRAS  ROAD,  N.W. 


THE 

' 

WORKS    OF   JOHN    FORD, 


NOTES  CRITICAL  AND  EXPLANATORY 

BY 

WILLIAM  GIFFORD,  ESQ? 

A  NEW  EDITION,   CAREFULLY  REVISED, 
WITH  ADDITIONS   TO  THE  TEXT  AND   TO   THE   NOTES 

BY  THE 

REV.  ALEXANDER  DYCE. 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 

VOL.  I. 


LONDON: 

JAMES  TOOVEY,    177   PICCADILLY. 
1869. 


PR 


v.l 


PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 


WHEN  I  assented  (rather  unwillingly)  to  the  pub 
lisher's  request  that  I  would  re-edit  Gifford's  edition 
of  Ford,  I  certainly  expected  that  I  should  have  had 
a  comparatively  easy  task,  believing  that  little  more 
would  be  required  of  me  than  to  see  that  Gilford's 
text  and  notes  were  carefully  followed  by  the  printer. 
But,  to  my  surprise,  I  soon  discovered  that  I  had 
ignorantly  formed  too  high  an  estimate  of  the  merits 
of  his  edition. 

That  Gilford  did  much  for  Ford,  rectifying  passim 
sundry  mistakes  of  the  old  copies  which  had  baffled 
the  incapacity  of  Weber,  is  undeniable  :  notwithstand 
ing  which,  however,  his  edition  is  far  indeed  from 
perfect.  To  say  nothing  of  the  intolerable  inaccuracy 
of  his  quotations  and  references  in  the  notes,  Gifford 
sometimes  carelessly  deviates  in  minute  particulars 
from  the  original  text ;  sometimes  passes  over,  with 
out  any  attempt  to  correct  them,  gross  errors  of  the 
old  copies  (vol.  i.  p.  102,  p.  291,  vol.  ii.  p.  23,  p.  101, 
p.  195,  &c.);  and  sometimes  deliberately  alters  the 
readings  of  the  quartos  with  what  seems  unaccount- 


vi  PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 

able  rashness  in  one  who  had  devoted  so  much  time 
to  the  study  of  our  early  dramatists  (see  a  remarkable 
instance  of  this  in  his  alteration  of  "  a  sister's  thread" 
to  "a  spider's  thread,"  vol.  iii.  p.  54). 

Gifford  appended  to  his  Introdtiction  a  list  of  nu 
merous  mistakes  committed  by  his  predecessor  Weber, 
and  of  his  own  corrections  of  them  :  and  in  p.  Ixvi.  of 
that  Introduction  he  observes  \  "Of  the  general  na 
ture  of  this  person's  [Weber's]  notes  some  idea  may 
be  formed  by  the  few  (they  are  but  a  few[?])  which 
I  have  placed  as  specimens  in  the  Introductory  part. 
My  remarks,  together  with  the  innumerable  correc 
tions  of  the  text,  should  have  been  subjoined  to  the 
respective  pages,  had  I  not  indulged  a  hope  that 
whenever  another  edition  of  this  poet  should  be 
called  for,  the  future  editor  (as  the  reading  will  then 
probably  be  considered  as  established)  would  remove 
this  part  of  the  Introduction,  and  relieve  the  work 
altogether  from  the  name  of  Weber."  In  the  present 
edition,  therefore,  I  have  omitted,  according  to  his 
desire,  the  concluding  portion  of  Gifford's  Introduc 
tion,  preserving,  however,  certain  explanations  of  the 
text  with  which  it  is  interspersed,  and  which  I  have 
transferred  to  the  notes  on  the  respective  passages  in 
question. 

We  find  our  poet's  name  variously  spelt, — Ford, 
Forde,  and  even  Foard  (see  vol.  iii.  p.  102)  and  Foord 
(see  Introduction,  p.  li.) :  and  in  the  prefatory  matter 


PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION.  Vll 

to  The  Broken  Heart  Gifford  remarks ;  "  Ford  has  pre 
fixed  as  a  motto  the  words  Fide  Honor  [also  prefixed 
to  his  Perkin  Warbeck  and  The  Lady's  Trial\  an  ana 
gram  of  his  own  name,  which  therefore  should  perhaps 
be  written,  as  he  sometimes  wrote  it  himself,  John 
Forde"  But  since,  as  Gifford  elsewhere  observes,  In 
troduction,  p.  li.,  "Few  of  our  old  writers  could  spell 
their  own  names  correctly,  and  still  fewer  followed 
any  standard,"  I  believe  that,  however  Ford  may  have 
chosen  to  write  his  name  on  other  occasions,  he 
would  not  have  scrupled,  when  disposed  to  turn  it 
into  an  anagram,  to  spell  it,  merely  "  for  the  nonce," 
with  a  final  e. 

The  languor  and  weakness  consequent  on  a  very 
long  and  serious  illness  having  made  it  almost  impos 
sible  for  me  personally  to  examine  any  public  records 
with  a  view  to  the  biography  of  Ford,  I  was  fortunate, 
in  that  emergency,  to  meet  with  friends  who  kindly 
undertook  to  act  as  my  substitute.  I  accordingly  beg 
to  return  my  best  thanks  to  Mr.  John  Bruce,  who  more 
than  once  visited  the  Prerogative  Office  in  order  to 
search  out  for  me  the  Will  of  Ford ;  but  his  labour 
was  thrown  away,  and  he  was  forced  at  last  to  come 
to  the  decided  conclusion  that  it  was  not  extant  there, 
though  he  lighted  on  the  Wills  of  several  persons 
bearing  the  same  names  as  the  poet :  also  to  Mr. 
William  Macpherson,  who  procured  for  me  from  the 
Middle  Temple  the  exact  words  of  the  entry  of  Ford's 


Vlll  PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 

admission  into  that  society.  I  have  besides  to  express 
my  obligations  to  Mr.  J.  O.  Halliwell  and  Mr.  W.  J. 
Thorns,  who  zealously  exerted  themselves,  though  in 
vain,  to  ascertain  for  me  where  was  to  be  seen  a  copy 
of  the  prose  tract  about  Mother  Sawyer,  who  figures 
so  strikingly  in  our  author's  Witch  of  Edmonton. 


ALEXANDER  DYCE. 


33  Oxford  Terrace,  Hyde  Park. 
Feb.  i$th,  1869. 


[     ix     ] 


When  I  made  some  additions  to  the  complimentary  verses  by 
Ford  on  the  writings  of  his  friends  (see  vol.  iii.),  I  overlooked  the 
following  lines.  D. 


Of  Master  Richard  Brome  his  ingenious  comedy 
The  Northern  Lass.    To  the  Reader. 

Poets  and  painters  curiously  compar'd 

Give  life  to  fancy,  and  achieve  reward 

By  immortality  of  name  :  so  thrives 

Art's  glory,  that  all  what  it  breathes  on  lives. 

Witness  this  Northern  Piece.    The  court  affords 

No  newer  fashion  or  for  wit  or  words. 

The  body  of  the  plot  is  drawn  so  fair 

That  the  soul's  language  quickens  with  fresh  air. 

This  well-limb'd  poem  by  no  rate  or  thought 

Too  dearly  priz'd,  being  or  sold  or  bought. 

JOHN  FORD, 

The  author's  very  friend. 

In  the  same  vol.,  p.  331,  I  ought  not  to  have  inserted  the  lines 
signed  "Johannes  Ford,  Encomiastes,"  which  I  now  believe  are 
from  the  pen  of  the  poet's  cousin.  D. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  I. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  BY  GIFFORD      .'        .        .         .         .  xiii 

LIST  OF  PLAYS .         .        .*'•..        .        .         .        .        .  kx 

COMMENDATORY  VERSES      .         .         .        .        .         .  Ixxi 

THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY        .         .         .        .    '     .  r 

'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE '.         .....  107 

THE  BROKEN  HEART 209 


INTRODUCTION 

BY  GIFFORD. 


IT  is  incidentally  observed  by  Dr.  Farmer  (Essay  on 
Shakespeare)  "  that  play-writing  in  the  poet's  days  was 
scarcely  thought  a  creditable  employ."  To  this,  per 
haps,  may  in  some  measure  be  attributed  the  slight 
notice  which  is  taken  of  the  personal  history  of  the 
dramatic  writers  by  their  contemporaries,  and  the 
little  degree  of  interest  which  they  appear  to  have 
excited.  Of  the  immortal  bard  himself  scarcely  any 
thing  is  known  but  what  is  told  by  Jonson ;  and 
Mr.  Malone,  who  had  been  foraging  for  anecdotes 
of  him  nearly  half  a  century,  and  had  dwelt,  over 
and  over,  with  full  conviction,  on  the  reports  current 
about  him  down  to  the  times  of  Rowe  and  Theobald, 
ends  with  rejecting  the  whole  of  them,  and  discom- 
fortably  but  honestly  confesses  that  his  life  is  a  blank.1 
The  two  bulky  volumes  of  Dr.  Drake  scarcely  add 
a  single  fact  to  history  or  criticism ;  and  we  are 

1  Even  the  cherished  peccadillo  of  deer-stealing, 
"That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind," 

the  crown  and  ornament  of  Shakespeare's  youthful  vivacity,  must 
now  be  given  up  ;  for  Mr.  Malone  has  proved  with  immense  effort 
that  Sir  T.  Lucy  had  no  park,  and  could  therefore  have  no  deer  to 
be  stolen  ! 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

doomed  to  the  same  crambe  recocta  in  all  who  treat 
on  the  subject. 

It  would  seem  as  if  the  dramatic  poets  themselves 
— for  the  rest  are  not  so  chary  of  names  and  circum 
stances — entertained  some  such  idea  as  Farmer  men 
tions  ;  and  either  from  mortification  or  humility  com 
monly  abstained  from  dwelling  or  even  entering  upon 
their  personal  history.  Though  frequent  in  dedica 
tions,  they  are  seldom  explicit;  and  even  their  pre 
faces  fail  to  convey  any  information  except  of  their 
wants,  or  their  grievances  from  evils  which  are  rarely 
specified. 

The  stock  of  the  Fords  was  highly  respectable  : 
they  appear  to  have  settled  at  an  early  period  in  the 
north-west  of  Devonshire,  and  to  have  possessed  con 
siderable  property  in  the  contiguous  parishes  of  Ash- 
burton,  Ilsington,  &c.  Some  account,  or  rather  some 
mention  of  them  may  be  found  in  Prince;  but  that 
worthy  chronicler  of  nameless  names  has  contrived 
to  perplex  the  little  manual  of  their  pedigree  with 
such  indescribable  success,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible 
to  appropriate  a  single  circumstance.  To  spare  the 
reader,  therefore,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  the 
family  mainly  consisted  of  two  branches,  which  ran 
collateral  with  each  other,  and  from  the  junior  of 
which  the  ancestors  of  our  poet  appear  to  have  sprung. 
Frequent  intermarriages,  and  a  singular  attachment  to 
the  name  of  John,  bewilder  the  early  inquirer  from 
step  to  step;  but  thus  much  may  be  relied  on  by 
those  who  are  content  to  take  up  the  poet's  pedigree 
from  a  comparatively  modern  period. 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

John  Ford  of  Ashburton,  by  his  fourth  wife  Joan, 
daughter  of  John  Trobridge,  Esquire,  relict  of  Gilbert 
St.  Clair,  had  issue  John.  George  Ford  of  Ilsington, 
the  son  of  the  above  John  Ford  by  a  former  mar 
riage,  wedded  Joan,  a  daughter  of  Gilbert  St.  Clair 
(his  relation  John's  wife),  and  had  issue  several  child 
ren,  the  eldest  of  whom,  Thomas  Ford  of  Ilsington, 
married  the  sister  (daughter)  of  the  famous  Lord  Chief- 
Justice,  John  Popham,  and  had  issue  John  (the  poet), 
and  several  others.  John  Ford  of  Bagtor,  in  Ilsing 
ton  (the  cousin,  I  take  it,  of  the  poet),  married  the 
daughter  and  sole  heiress  of  George  Drake  Sprat- 
shays,  Esquire,  and  had  issue  Henry  Ford  of  Nut- 
well  Bagtor  and  Spratshays,  whose  life  is  a  part  of  the 
general  history  of  the  times,  and  who  was  also  a  piece 
of  a  poet. 

John  (our  author)  was  the  second  son  of  Thomas 
Ford.  His  elder  brother  probably  lived  in  tranquil 
obscurity,  and  died  on  the  spot  which  gave  him  birth. 
John  was  destined  to  a  wider  range,  and  to  a  life  of 
somewhat  more  energy. 

From  an  extract  of  the  baptismal  register  of  Il 
sington,  procured  by  Mr.  Malone  from  the  vicar,2  it 
appears  that  Ford  was  baptised  there  on  the  iyth 


2  The  Rev.  Jonathan  Palk.  From  this  worthy  man,  who  was 
my  associate  both  at  the  grammar-school  and  at  Exeter  College,  I 
indulged  a  hope  of  procuring,  through  the  medium  of  our  common 
schoolfellow  the  Dean  of  Westminster  [Dr.  Ireland],  a  few  addi 
tional  notices  respecting  the  poet's  connections  ;  but  the  long  and 
severe  illness  which  afflicted  him,  and  which  terminated  in  death  a 
few  months  since,  took  away  the  power  of  all  communication. — [See 
Malone's  Shakespeare  by  Boswell,  vol.  i.  p.  414.  D.] 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

April  1586  ;  and  as  he  became  a  member  of  the 
Middle  Temple  Nov.  16,  i6o2,3  he  could  scarcely 
have  spent  more  than  a  term  or  two  (if  any)  at  either 
of  the  Universities  :  there  was,  however,  more  than 
one  grammar-school  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  his 
birthplace  fully  competent  to  convey  all  the  classical 
learning  which  he  ever  possessed,  and  of  which,  to 
say  the  truth,  he  was  sufficiently  ostentatious  in  his 
earliest  work,  though  he  became  more  reserved  when 
age  and  experience  had  enabled  him  to  compare  his 
attainments  with  those  of  his  contemporaries. 

It  appears  from  Rymer's  Ftxdercfi  that  the  father 
of  our  poet  was  in  the  commission  of  the  peace. 
Whether  this  honourable  situation  was  procured  for 
him  by  the  interest  of  his  wife's  father  cannot  be  told  : 
it  may,  however,  be  reasonably  surmised  that  his  con 
nection  with  one  of  the  first  law-officers  of  the  crown 
led  to  the  course  of  studies  subsequently  pursued 
by  both  branches  of  the  family.  Popham  was  made 
Attorney-General  in  1581 ;  and  in  1592  he  was  ad 
vanced  to  the  rank  of  Chief-Justice  of  the  King's 
Bench,  which  he  held  for  many  years  ;  so  that  his 

"  1602  Decimo  sexto  die  Novembris  anno  praed. 

fforde  Jo.          Mr  Johannes  fforde  filius  secundus  Thome 
ad.  fforde  de   Ilsington    in   Com.    Devon,    ar. 

admissus  est  in  Societatem  Medii  Tempi! 
Specialiter  et  Obligatus  una  cum  Marl8 
Georgio  Hooper  et  Thoma  fforde  et  dat 
pro  fine — iij1  vj8  viijd." — 

Mr.  Collier,  in  his  Introduction  to  our  author's  Honour  Triumphant 
and  A  Line  of  Life,  reprinted  for  the  Shake.  Soc.,  erroneously  states 
that  Ford  "had  been  admitted  a  student  of  Grays  Inn  in  1602."  D. 
4  Tom.  xviii.  p.  575. 


INTRODUCTION.  XV11 

patronage,  which  must  have  been  considerable  (as 
he  appears  to  have  been  in  some  favour  both  with 
Elizabeth  and  her  successor),  probably  afforded  many 
facilities  to  his  young  relatives  in  the  progress  of  their 
studies,  and  opened  advantages  of  various  kinds. 

Our  poet  had  been  preceded  in  his  legal  studies 
by  his  cousin  John  Ford,  son  of  an  elder  brother  of 
his  father's  family,  to  whom  he  appears  to  have  looked 
up  with  much  respect,  and  to  have  borne  an  almost 
fraternal  affection.  This  gentleman  was  entered  at 
Gray's  Inn ;  but  Popham.  seems  to  have  taken  his 
young  relation  more  immediately  under  his  own  care, 
and  placed  him  at  the  Middle  Temple,  of  which  he 
had  been  appointed  treasurer  in  1581. 

It  is  probable  that  Ford  was  not  inattentive  to  his 
studies;  but  we  hear  nothing  of  him  till  1606  (four 
years  after  his  admission),  when  he  published  fame's 
Memorial,  or  the  Earl  of  Devonshire  deceased,  &c.,  an 
elegiac  poem,  in  quarto,  which  he  dedicated  to  the 
Countess  his  widow.  Why  he  came  forward  in  so 
inauspicious  a  cause  cannot  now  be  known.  He  was 
a  stranger  to  both  parties ;  yet  he  appears  to  bewail 
the  death  of  the  Earl  as  if  it  had  been  attended  with 
some  failure  of  professional  hope  to  himself.  "  Ele 
gies"  and  "  Memorials"  were  sufficiently  common  at 
that  period,  and  indeed  long  after  it ;  but  the  authors 
steadfastly  looked  to  the  surviving  heir  for  pay  or 
patronage  in  return  for  their  miserable  dole  of  con 
solation  ;  and  our  youthful  poet  sets  out  with  affirm 
ing  (and  he  deserves  the  fullest  credit)  that  his  Muse 
was  unfee'd.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  argued  no  little 

VOL.  i.  b 


XV111  INTRODUCTION. 

spirit  in  him  to  advocate  an  unpopular  cause,  and 
step  forward  in  the  sanguine  expectation  of  stemming 
the  current  of  general  opinion  :  not  to  add,  that  the 
praise  which  he  lavishes  on  the  Earl  of  Essex  could 
scarcely  fail  to  be  ill  received  by  the  Lord  Chief-Jus 
tice,  who  was  one  of  those  commissioned  by  the 
Queen  to  inquire  into  the  purport  of  the  military 
assemblage  at  his  house,  was  detained  there  by  the 
troops  during  the  crazy  attempt  of  this  ill-starred 
nobleman  to  raise  an  insurrection,  and  was  finally  a 
witness  against  him  for  the  forcible  detention. 

Fame's  Memorial  adds  little  or  nothing  to  the 
poet's  personal  history.  It  would  seem,  if  we  might 
venture  to  understand  him  literally  (for  he  writes  to 
the  aweroi,  and  takes  especial  pains  to  keep  all  but 
those  familiarly  acquainted  with  him  in  complete  ig 
norance  of  his  story),  that  he  had  involved  himself 
in  some  unsuccessful  affair  of  love,  while  at  home, 
with  a  young  lady,  whom,  by  an  ungallant  allusion,  I 
fear,  to  the  Greek,  he  at  one  time  calls  the  cruel  Lycia, 
and  at  another  the  cruel  subtle  Lycia.  He  wishes  that 
she  were  less  wise;  and  in  truth  she  does  exhibit 
no  unfavourable  symptom  of  good  sense  in  "  con 
fining  her  thoughts  to  elder  merits,"  instead  of  "  so 
lacing"  her  youthful  admirer,  who,  at  the  period  of 
first  taking  the  infection  into  his  eye,  could  not  have 
reached  his  eighteenth  year.  Yet  he  owes  something 
to  this  pursuit.  He  had  evidently  wooed  the  lady 
(herself  a  Muse)  in  verse,  and  symptoms  of  wounded 
vanity  occasionally  appear  at  the  inflexibility  of  this 
second  Lyde,  to  whose  obstinate  ears  he  sang  in  vain  : 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

yet  the  attempt  gave  him  some  facility  in  compo 
sition  •  for  though  he  evinces  little  of  either  taste  or 
judgment,  his  lines  flow  smoothly,  and  it  may  be  said 
of  him,  as  it  was  of  a  greater  personage, 

"  He  caught  at  love,  and  fill'd  his  arms  with  bays." 

In  consequence  of  her  blindness  or  obduracy,  he 
declares  his  intention  of  "  travailing  till  some  comfort 
reach  his  wretched  heart  forlorn."  This  is  merely  a 
rhetorical  flourish;  for  the  travail  which  he  contem 
plated  appears  to  be  the  labour  and  pains  employed, 
to  divert  the  current  of  his  thoughts,  on  the  "  lamen 
tation  for  this  great  lord." 

He  found,  however,  better  resources  against  ill- 
requited  love  than  "perpetual  lamentation"  for  one 
who  was  not  unwillingly  forgotten  by  his  contempo 
raries,  in  the  pursuit  of  the  law,  to  which  he  prudently 
adhered ;  a  circumstance  which  he  never  forgets,  nor 
ever  suffers  his  patrons  to  forget,  as  if  he  feared 
to  pass  with  them  more  for  a  poet  than  a  man  of 
business. 

But  he  had  yet  another  resource.  He  had  appa 
rently  contracted  a  strong  and  early  passion  for  the 
stage,  to  which  he  devoted  most  of  his  hora  subse- 
civce;  and,  without  prematurely  grasping  at  a  name, 
wrote,  as  the  custom  then  was,  in  conjunction  with 
the  regular  supporters  of  the  minor  theatres.  That 
he  published  nothing,  we  are  warranted  to  conclude 
from  the  assertion  in  the  dedication  to  the  Lover's 
Melancholy  (given  to  the  press  in  1629),  that  this  was 
"  the  first"  (dramatic)  "  piece  of  his  that  ever  courted 
reader?  But  in  the  twenty-three  years  which  had 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

elapsed  since  the  appearance  of  his  elegy,  he  had 
more  than  once  courted  the  favour  of  the  spectator? 
and  "  stood  rubric"  with  others  in  the  title-page  of 
several  plays  which  have  come  down  to  us,  and  in 
more,  perhaps,  which  remain  to  be  discovered.  The 
late  Mr.  G.  Chalmers  gave  to  the  public  the  names 
of  three  pieces  hitherto  unnoticed,  in  which  he  was 
concerned :  The  Fairy  Knight  and  The  Bristowe  Mer 
chant,  written  in  conjunction  with  Decker;  and  A  late 
Murther  of  the  Sonne  upon  the  Mother?  in  which  he 
was  assisted  by  Webster :  and  Isaac  Reed,  in  the  in 
terleaved  copy  of  his  Langbaine  (now  in  the  posses 
sion  of  Mr.  Heber),  has  given  from  the  Stationers' 
books  the  title  of  several  others,  entered  under  our 
poet's  name,  among  which  are  Sir  Thomas  Overtures 
Life  and  untimely  Death,  25th  November  1615;  The 
Line  of  Life?  loth  October  1620;  An  ill  Beginning 
has  a  good  End,  &c.,  which  is  known  to  have  been 
brought  on  the  stage  as  early  as  1613.  When  to  these 
we  add  the  four  plays8  which  were  among  the  manu 
script  dramas  destroyed  by  Mr.  Warburton's  servant, 

6  We  have  the  authority  of  Singleton  for  the  fact,  who,  in  the 
lines  prefixed  to  this  very  play  (The  Lover's  Melancholy),  says, 
"  Nor  seek  I  praise  for  thee,  when  thine  own  pen 
Hath  forc'd  a  praise  long  since  from  knowing  men." 

6  "  Letter  of  O.  Gilchrist,  Esquire,  to  W.  Gifford,  on  the  late 
edition  of  Ford's  Plays."  1811,  [p.  17], 

7  Gifford,  not  having  seen  this  production,  erroneously  supposed 
that  it  was  a  play.     It  is  included  in  the  present  edition,  vol.  iii. 
p.  381.  D. 

8  But  An  ill  Beginning,  &c.  was  one  of  the  four  plays  by  Ford 
which  Warburton's  servant  destroyed  ;  the  other  three  being  Beauty 
in  a  Trance,  The  London  Merchant,  and  The  Royal  Combat:  see 
List  of  Ford's  Plays  at  the  end  of  this  Introduction.  D. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

and  recollect  that  this  is  still  but  an  imperfect  list  of 
his  dramatic  labours,  we  may  venture  to  appreciate 
the  just  force  of  the  expression  quoted  in  the  preced 
ing  page  [but  one] ;  and,  at  all  events,  to  admit  that, 
though  new  to  the  press,  he  came  before  the  public 
well  graduated  to  the  stage. 

This  will  be  yet  more  apparent  when  the  two 
pieces,  The  Sun's  Darling,  vol.  iii.  p.  101,  and  The 
Witch  of  Edmonton,  vol.  iii.  p.  171,  are  taken  into  the 
account. 

The  first  of  these,  in  the  composition  of  which  Ford 
joined  with  Decker,  is  termed  a  "moral  masque." 
For  a  moral  masque,  however,  it  sets  the  main  busi 
ness  of  life  sufficiently  low :  there  is  nothing  worthy 
of  a  wise  and  good  man ;  nothing,  in  short,  beyond 
what  one  of  the  herd  of  Epicurus  might  desire — sen 
sual  pleasures  and  gross  enjoyments.  The  plot  may 
be  briefly  dispatched.  "  Raybright  (the  Sun's  Dar 
ling)  is  roused  from  a  pleasant  dream,  and  informed 
that  his  great  progenitor,  the  Sun,  will  descend  from 
his  sphere  to  gratify  his  wildest  longings  for  enjoy 
ment.  Accordingly,  at  his  imperial  command,  he  is 
entertained  by  the  Four  Seasons  in  succession,  all  of 
whom  endeavour  to  recommend  themselves  to  his 
affection,  and  to  all  of  whom  he  vows  eternal  fidelity ; 
but  abruptly  abandons  each  of  them  in  turn,  at  the 
instigation  of  Humour  and  her  attendant,  Folly." 

The  result  may  be  anticipated.  The  youth  recog 
nises  his  error,  and  determines  to  be  very  wise  and 
virtuous  for  the  residue  of  his  days;  when  he  is  told,  in 
strains  not  unworthy  of  the  subject,  that  his  days  are 


Xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

already  numbered,  and  that  the  inevitable  hour  is  fast 
closing  upon  all  his  earthly  prospects. 

Indifferent  as  is  the  execution  of  this  piece,  it  is 
still  far  superior  to  its  conception.  Passages  of  con 
siderable  beauty,  especially  in  the  last  two  acts,  fre 
quently  occur;  but  there  is  nothing  to  redeem  the 
absurdity  of  the  plot.  Instead  of  taking  up  an  in 
experienced,  unsophisticated  youth,  and  opening  the 
world  to  him  for  the  first  time,  for  the  instruction  of 
others,  the  authors  have  inconsiderately  brought  for 
ward  a  kind  of  modern  Virbius, — a  character  who  had 
previously  run  through  life,  and  its  various  changes, 
and  seen  and  enjoyed  infinitely  more  than  is  tendered 
to  him  in  his  new  career. 

The  Sun's  Darling,  in  its  present  state,  was  per 
formed  in  1624,  but  not  printed  till  1658  [wrong: — 
see  vol.  iii.  p.  102],  when  the  long  persecution  of  the 
stage  (fortunately  for  the  lovers  of  the  old  drama)  com 
pelled  the  actors  to  have  recourse  to  the  press  with 
such  of  the  prompters'  copies  as  remained  in  their 
hands,  for  a  temporary  relief.  In  the  dedication  to 
the  Earl  of  Southampton  we  are  told  that  "  the  poem 
lived  by  the  breath  of  general  applause ;"  and  it  might 
have  attained  some  degree  of  popularity,  from  the 
quick  succession  of  characters,  the  songs,  the  dances, 
and  other  incidental  entertainments,  which,  though 
rude  and  homely,  were  yet  all  that  the  theatres  could 
give,  and  such  as  the  audiences  of  those  days  were 
well  content  to  admire. 

Langbaine  tells  us  that  the  greatest  part  of  The 
Sun's  Darling  was  written  by  Ford ;  but  he  quotes  no 


INTRODUCTION.  XX111 

authority  for  the  assertion.  A  piece  with  this  name 
[?  see  vol.  iii.  p.  102]  is  mentioned  in  Henslowe's  MSS. 
as  having  once  belonged  to  the  Rose  Theatre.  I  sus 
pect  that  this  was  the  foundation  of  the  present  masque, 
and  that  Decker  was  the  author  of  it.  If  it  be  so,  the 
incongruous  nature  of  the  fable  is  easily  accounted  for, 
by  the  additions  which  other  poets,  and  above  all  our 
author,  were  called  upon  to  supply,  as  occasions  pre 
sented  themselves;  for  we  deceive  ourselves  greatly 
if  we  suppose,  from  the  combination  of  names  which 
sometimes  appears  on  the  old  title-pages,  that  those 
who  are  specified  were  always  simultaneously  employed 
in  the  production  of  the  same  play. 

The  second  piece,  The  Witch  of  Edmonton,  was 
brought  out  about  the  same  period  as  the  former,  and 
printed  in  1658,  probably  at  the  suggestion  of  Bird, 
whose  name  appears  to  a  few  introductory  lines,  which 
he  calls  a  Prologue.  If  I  understand  him,  he  says 
that  it  was  favourably  received  on  the  stage ;  and  he 
therefore  argues  well  of  its  reception  from  the  general 
reader ; 

' '  But  as  the  year  doth  with  his  plenty  bring 
As  well  a  latter  as  a  former  spring, 
So  hath  this  Witch  enjoy'd  the  first ;  and  reason 
Presumes  she  may  partake  the  other  season." 

In  the  title-page  it  is  called  "  a  known  true  story." 
All  my  acquaintance  with  it  is  derived  from  the  fol 
lowing  passages  in  Caulfield's  popular  collection  of 
Porttaits^  Memoir s,  and  Characters  of  Remarkable  Per 
sons,  1794.  "  Elizabeth  Sawyer,  executed  in  1621  for 
witchcraft." 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

"  The  following  title,"  Mr.  Caulfield  adds,  "  is  pre 
fixed  to  a  4to  pamphlet  printed  in  London,  1621 ; 

"  The  wonderfull  discoverie  of  Elizabeth  Sawyer, 
a  witch,  late  of  Edmonton ;  her  conviction,  and  con 
demnation  and  death ;  together  with  the  [relation  of 
the]  divel's  accesse  to  her,  and  their  conference  to 
gether.  Written  by  Henry  Goodcole,  minister  of  the 
word  of  God,  and  her  constant  [continual]  visitor  in 
the  gaole  at  [of]  Newgate." 

I  have  not  been  able  to  procure  a  sight  of  this 
pamphlet,9  and  therefore  can  only  venture  to  speak 
from  conjecture;  but  I  am  disposed  to  believe  that 
it  furnished  our  poets  with  little  more  than  a  title- 
page.  It  is  apparently  a  story  made  up  for  the  occa 
sion,  and  though  it  is  highly  probable  that  a  woman 
of  this  name  was  executed  for  a  witch,  yet  I  place  no 
reliance  on  the  date,  though,  in  compliance  with  the 
general  supposition,  I  have  fixed  its  first  appearance 
in  1623.  The  Witch  of  Islington1®  appears  among  the 

9  Neither  have  I.     But  in  Robinson's  History  and  Antiquities 
of  the  Parish  of  Edmonton,  &c.  is  the  following  article;  "Mother 
Sawyer,  the  Witch  of  Edmonton,  (with  a  woodcut  of  her  '  from  a 
rare  print  in  the  collection  of  W.  Beckford,  Esq.').    Elizabeth  Sawyer 
was  a  poor  woman,  that  in  the  superstitious  reign  of  James  the 
First  probably  incurred  the  displeasure  of  some  more  potent  neigh 
bour,  who,  having  no  just  cause  of  complaint  to  allege  against  her, 
accused  her  of  witchcraft ;  a  crime  that,  of  all  others,  was  at  this 
period  most  dreaded :  very  little  time  was  allowed  between  the  accu 
sation,   condemnation,  and  death  of  a  suspected  witch  ;  and  if  a 
voluntary  confession  was  wanting,  they  never  failed  extorting  a  forced 
one  by  tormenting  the  suspected  person.     The  following  title  is  pre 
fixed  to  a  .quarto  pamphlet  printed  in  London  in  the  year  1621 ; 
The  Wonderful  Discovery  of  Elizabeth  Sawyer,"  &c.  p.  117.   D. 

10  Henslowe's  Diary,  p.  90,  ed.  Shake.  Soc.— I  greatly  doubt  if 
The  Witch  of  Edmonton  was  founded  on  it.  D. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

plays  performed  by  Mr.  Henslowe's  company  [the 
Lord  Admiral's  men]  in  1597 ;  this  was  not  too  early 
for  Decker,  and  may  have  been  the  foundation  of 
the  present  work,  with  a  more  popular  name  :  for  Ed 
monton  had  already  given  a  "  Devil  to  the  delighted 
stage  •"  and  this  may  be  thought  to  account  in  some 
measure  for  the  "&c."  subjoined  to  the  list  of  writers 
in  the  title-page. 

And  popular,  no  doubt,  the  piece  was.  The  sor 
ceress  of  our  times  (for  they  will  not  be  called  witches 
now)  is  a  splendid  character ;  she  moves  like  a  vol 
cano  amidst  smoke  and  fire,  and  throws  heaven  and 
earth  into  commotion  at  every  step ;  but  the  witch  of 
those  days  was  a  miserable  creature,  enfeebled  by  age, 
soured  by  poverty,  and  maddened  by  inveterate  per 
secution  and  abuse.  And  what  were  the  scenic  ad 
juncts  which  gave  reality  and  life  to  the  pranks  of  this 
august  personage?  Briefly,  a  few  hereditary  "pro 
perties"  from  the  greenroom  of  old  John  Heywood's 
days,  the  whole  of  which  might  inhabit  lax  in  a  single 
cloak-bag.  No  sweet  symphonies  from  viewless  harps, 
no  beautiful  displays  of  hell  broke -up,  and  holiday 
devils  dancing  ad  libitum  through  alternate  scenes  of 
terror  and  delight,  were  at  our  poet's  command,  call 
for  them  as  he  might :  a  black  shaggy  rug  in  imita 
tion  of  a  dog's -skin,11  into  which  a  clever  imp  was 

11  In  speaking  of  the  Black  Dog  of  Newgate  (vol.  iii.  p.  245),  it 
escaped  me  that  a  piece  with  this  title,  by  R.  Hathway,  was  per 
formed  in  1602.  A  drama  with  a  similar  name,  by  Luke  Hutton,  is 
mentioned  by  the  Editor  of  Dodsley's  Old  Plays  as  printed  before 
1600.  I  have  never  seen  it.  Vol.  viii.  p.  172.  ["  Mr.  Gifford  mis- 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

thrust,  and  taught  to  walk  on  all  fours,  with  permis 
sion  to  relieve  himself  occasionally  by  "  standing  on 
his  hind  legs,"  and  "  a  mask  and  visor  for  a  spirit  in 
the  shape  of  Katherine,"  were  all  the  machinery  which 
the  simplicity  or  poverty  of  the  old  theatre  allowed 
him ;  and  these  were  not  regarded  without  consider 
able  interest  by  those  who  knew  no  superstitions  but 
the  legendary  ones  of  long  ages,  and  whose  creed  was 
in  full  accordance  with  that  of  the  stage.  We  laugh 
at  all  this  now ;  and  we  do  well :  but,  in  justice  to 
the  poets,  we  should  try  them  by  the  code  under 
which  they  lived  and  wrote.  Nothing  more  is  re 
quired. 

If  it  were  worth  the  pains  to  enter  more  at  large 
on  the  subject,  it  might  be  observed  that  the  two 
parts  of  this  drama  (the  human  and  superhuman)  are 
very  loosely,  not  to  say  unskilfully,  combined.  If  the 
authors  ever  had  a  plan,  they  made  good  haste  to  for- 


takenly  terms  Luke  Hutton's  '  Black  Dog  of  Newgate'  a  play.  That 
there  was  a  drama  with  this  title  cannot  be  doubted :  it  is  mentioned 
in  Henslowe's  Diary  as  the  authorship  of  R.  Hathway  [Day,  Smith, 
and  another  poet]  ;  but  Hutton's  tract  is  quite  of  a  different  cha 
racter,  being  an  attack,  in  prose  and  verse,  chiefly  upon  the  vices 
prevalent  in  London.  The  supposed  author  was  hanged  at  York  in 
1598  for  robbery,  so  that  '  The  Black  Dog  of  Newgate'  must  have 
appeared  about  that  date ;  and  we  may  presume  that  it  was  not 
penned  by  Hutton,  but  by  some  pamphleteer  of  the  time,  who 
wished  to  take  advantage  of  the  highwayman's  notoriety.  It  was 
reprinted  in  1638,  with  various  changes  and  some  additions,  in  order 
to  give  the  work  the  appearance  of  novelty.  An  account  of  this 
impression  is  inserted  in  the  '  Bridgewater  Catalogue,'  4to,  1837, 
p.  149,  and  a  copy  of  the  original  edition  is  in  the  British  Museum." 
COLLIER.  D.] 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV11 

get  it.  Mother  Sawyer  becomes  a  witch  to  revenge 
herself  on  Old  Banks,  who  had  ill  treated  her;  yet 
she  passes  him  without  injury  to  wreak  her  malice  on 
Carter,  who  had  never  wronged  her,  nor  even  come 
into  contact  with  her.  In  addition  to  which,  it  may 
be  noticed  that  not  a  single  circumstance  takes  place 
in  the  serious  part  which  calls  for  the  intervention  of 
supernatural  aid.  Young  Thorney  required  no  instiga 
tion  to  perpetrate  any  mischief:  he  carried  the  fiend  (a 
far  more  awful  demon  than  the  stage  could  supply)  in 
his  own  breast,  and  the  meddling  of  Mother  Sawyer's 
familiar  was  altogether  superfluous.  Skilfully  disen 
cumbered  of  this  poor  traditionary  juggling,  the  fable 
would  form  a  beautiful  whole,  and  prove  one  of  the 
most  tender  and  affecting  of  our  domestic  tragedies. 

It  has  been  observed  (p.  xvii.)  that  the  poet  enter 
tained  a  high  degree  of  love  and  respect  for  his  cou 
sin  John  Ford,  of  Gray's  Inn ;  and  he  took  the  earliest 
opportunity  of  showing  it,  by  prefixing  his  name,  with 
that  of  one  or  two  others  of  "  his  honoured  friends  of 
that  noble  society,"12  to  his  first  acknowledged  piece, 
The  Lover's  Melancholy.  There  is  an  affectation  of 
modesty  in  the  dedication,  which,  when  the  writer's 
age  is  considered  (for  he  was  now  in  the  full  ma 
turity  of  life),  might  be  wished  away ;  and  there  is 
something  of  unsuspicious  pleasantry  in  following  up 
the  timely  hint  "  that  printing  his  works  might  soon 
grow  out  of  fashion  with  him,"  by  sending  all  his  sub 
sequent  ones  to  the  press  ! 

12  Nathaniel  Finch,  Esq.,  Mr.  Henry  Blunt  (probably  some  re 
lation  of  the  Devonshire  family),  and  Mr.  Rob.  Ellice. 


XXVlll  INTRODUCTION. 

The  Lover's  Melancholy  was  published  in  1629.  It 
appeared  on  the  stage  in  the  winter  of  the  preceding 
year ;  and  was  probably  written  not  long  before,  since 
Burton's  popular  work,  The  Anatomic  of  Melancholic, 
on  which  the  comic  part  (si  Dis  placet}  of  the  story  is 
founded,  and  to  which  the  title  evidently  refers,  had 
not  been  above  a  year  or  two,  I  believe,  before  the 
public. 

Mr.  Campbell  speaks  favourably  of  the  poetic  por 
tion  of  this  play ;  he  thinks,  and  I  fully  agree  with 
him,  that  it  has  much  of  the  grace  and  sweetness 
which  distinguish  the  genius  of  Ford.  It  has  also 
somewhat  more  of  the  sprightliness  in  the  language 
of  the  secondary  characters  than  is  commonly  found 
in  his  plays ;  and,  could  we  suppose  that  the  idle  buf 
foonery  was  introduced  at  a  later  period,  in  compli 
ance  with  the  taste  of  the  age,  which  seems  to  have 
found  a  strange  and  unnatural  delight  in  the  exhibi 
tion  of  these  humiliating  aberrations  of  the  human 
mind,  we  might  almost  be  tempted  to  surmise  that 
the  rest  of  the  drama  was  of  an  earlier  period  than 
is  here  set  down  for  it. 

Were  it  my  plan  to  analyse  the  story  of  this  and 
the  succeeding  dramas,  and  to  lengthen-out  the  intro 
ductory  matter  by  extracts,  I  scarcely  know  where 
more  favourable  specimens  of  the  harmony  and  un 
affected  pathos  of  the  writer  might  be  found  than  in 
The  Lover's  Melancholy,  debased  as  it  is  by  abortive 
attempts  at  humour,  and  the  admission  of  what  the 
facetious  Corax  is  pleased  to  term  the  Masque  of 
Melancholy,  especially  when  the  author  had  skilfully 


INTRODUCTION.  XXIX 

presented,  in  the  characters  of  Meleander  and  the 
Prince,  two  species  of  melancholy  on  which  the  fable 
hinges,  and  to  which  none  of  the  examples  intro 
duced  from  Burton  bear  the  slightest  reference.  The 
catastrophe,  indeed  the  whole  of  the  last  act,  is  beau 
tifully  written,  and  exhibits  a  degree  of  poetical  talent 
and  feeling  which  few  of  the  dramatic  writers  of  that 
day  surpassed. 

Ford  had  somewhat  pettishly  observed  in  the  epi 
logue  to  this  piece,  that  if  it  failed  to  please  the  audi 
ence,  he  would  not  trouble  them  again ;  and  in  the 
same  peevish  mood  he  tells  his  cousin  of  Gray's  Inn, 
in  the  dedication,  that  offering  "  a  play  to  the  reader 
may  soon  grow  out  of  fashion  with  him."  He  cer 
tainly  evinced  no  great  degree  of  earnestness  to  ap 
pear  again  before  the  public,  as  the  next  play,  9Tts 
pity  she's  a  Whore,  was  not  given  to  the  press  till 
nearly  four  years  after  the  former ;  when,  as  if  to 
indemnify  himself  for  his  constrained  forbearance, 
he  published  three  of  his  dramas  at  short  intervals. 
The  present  play  has  neither  prologue  nor  epilogue ; 
but  in  the  dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Peterborough, 
who  had  openly  manifested  his  satisfaction  with  the 
piece  on  its  first  appearance  (when  the  actors  exerted 
themselves  with  such  success  as  to  call  for  a  separate 
acknowledgment),  Ford  terms  it  "  the  first-fruits  of  his 
leisure."  And  here,  again,  we  have  to  lament  that 
indistinctness  which  everywhere  obscures  the  per 
sonal  history  of  the  poet.  The  first-fruits  of  his 
leisure  the  play  before  us  could  scarcely  be ;  as  (to 
omit  all  mention  of  those  in  which  he  joined  with 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

Decker)  one  of  his  dramas  was  performed  at  court 
nearly  twenty  years  before  the  date  of  the  present,13 
which  bears  besides  tokens  of  a  mind  habituated 
to  deep  and  solemn  musings,  and  formed  by  long 
and  severe  practice  to  a  style  of  composition  at  once 
ardent  and  impressive. 

The  groundwork  of  this  dreadful  plot  is  loosely  no 
ticed  by  Bandello ;  but  it  appears,  from  a  note  in  the 
last  edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  (vol.  i.  p.  239 
[i79]14),  that  the  tale  is  extant  in  a  small  collection  of 
French  Tales  by  Rossell  [Rosset]  ;  from  whom  Ford 
perhaps  may  have  borrowed  it.  "  Rossell  [Rosset]  re 
lates  the  story  as  having  actually  happened  [in  France] 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV."  To  me,  however,  it  has 

13  An  ill  Beginning,  &c.     See  p.  xx. 

14  "  Histoires  Tragiques  de  notre  temps.     Paris,  1616.     lamo, 
p.  174."     My  attempts  to  procure  this  volume,  though  seconded  by 
the  kindness  of  Mr.  Petrie  and  some  other  friends,  have  not  proved 
successful. — [The  second  edition  ofLes  Histoires  Tragiques  de  nostre 
temps,  &<:.,  Composes  par  Francois  de  Rosset,  &c.,  1615,  i2mo,  is 
now  before  me.     The  Fifth  Histoire  is  entitled  "  Des  amovrs  inces- 
tueuses  d'vn  frere  et  d'vne  sceur,  et  de  leur  fin  malheureuse  et  tra- 
gique  :"  but  though  Ford  may  probably  have  read  it,  there  are  no 
particular  resemblances  between  it  and  the  play.     According  to  the 
novel,  the  guilty  pair  were  the  offspring  of  a  gentleman  ' '  en  vne  des 
meilleures  prouinces  de  France,  appellee  anciennement  Neustrie  :" 
the  sister  is  named  Doralice,  the  brother  Lyzaran.     The  young  lady 
marries  a  rich  old  man  called  Timandre.     At  last  the  incestuous 
lovers  ' '  delibererent  ensemble  du  moyen  qu'ils  pourroient  prendre 
pour  iouyr  avec  plus  de  liberte"  de  leurs  plaisirs.     C'est  que  le  lende- 
main  elle  prendroit  tous  ses  ioyaux,  et  puis  sur  le  soir  lorsque  tout 
le  monde  seroit  couche",  il  la  monteroit  en  croupe,  et  apres  cela  ils 
s'en  iroient  en  quelque  prouince  pour  y  passer  le  reste  de  leurs  iours." 
After  wandering  about  to  several  places,  they  take  refuge  in  Paris  ; 
where  they  are  arrested,  condemned  to  death,  and  beheaded  :  "ce 
fut  en  la  place  de  Greue  ou  1'execution  se  feit."  D.] 


INTRODUCTION. 

not  the  air  of  a  French  adventure.  France  is  not  the 
soil  for  the  production  of  such  fervid  and  frantic  dis 
plays  of  unhallowed  desire;  her  domestic  histoires 
tragiques,  as  far,  at  least,  as  they  have  come  under  my 
notice,  take  their  rise  principally  from  avarice  and  re 
venge;  but  I  can  readily  believe  that  Italy,  or  even 
Spain  (and  Ford  has  here  drawn  his  characters  from 
both  countries),  actually  furnished  materials  for  the 
plot,  which  is  laid  in  Parma,  and  has  not  one  French 
name  in  it. 

It  is  not  easy  to  speak  too  favourably  of  the 
poetry  of  this  play  in  the  more  impassioned  pass 
ages;  it  is  in  truth  too  seductive  for  the  subject, 
and  flings  a  soft  and  soothing  light  over -what  in  its 
natural  state  would  glare  with  salutary  and  repulsive 
horror. 

Somewhat  too  much  indulgence  has  been  shown 
to  the  management  of  the  two  principal  characters : 
the  author  has  been  praised  for  the  skill  with  which 
he  has  marked  the  progress  of  their  guilt,  from  the 
innocence  of  fraternal  intercourse  to  all  the  madness 
of  incestuous  passion ;  and  said  to  have  "  held  them 
up  to  our  admiration  at  the  commencement,  the  one 
gifted  with  every  qualification  of  a  generous  and  phi 
losophical  soul,  the  other  interesting  for  everything 
which  can  render  a  female  mind  amiable."  But  is  it 
so  ?  Giovanni  comes  upon  the  scene  a  professed  and 
daring  infidel,  and,  like  all  other  infidels,  a  fatalist; 
a  shameless  avower  and  justifier  of  his  impure  pur 
pose  :  Annabella  is  not  a  jot  behind  him  in  preco 
city  of  vice,  and,  as  appears  from  a  confession  wrung 


XXX11  INTRODUCTION. 

from  her  with  little  effort,  had  long  suffered  her 
thoughts  to  wander  in  the  same  polluted  path  as 
her  brother;  and  though  her  conscience,  as  she  sub 
sequently  professes,  stood  up  against  her  lust,  it  was 
not  till  the  ominous  solitude  to  which  she  was  con 
demned  by  her  husband  convinced  her  that  speedy 
and  fearful  vengeance  was  about  to  overwhelm  her. 
After  all,  her  repentance  is  of  a  very  questionable 
nature ;  while,  on  his  part,  Giovanni  continues  to 
accumulate  crime  on  crime  till  the  harassed  mind 
can  bear  no  more. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  prolong  these  remarks,  as 
occasional  observations  on  the  subject  will  be  found 
in  the  notes  :  it  may,  however,  be  added,  that  the 
comic  characters  are  simply  inoffensive  in  this  drama ; 
a  rare  merit  in  our  poet. 

The  Broken  Heart  was  given  to  the  press  in  the 
same  year  as  the  foregoing  piece  (1633).  It  was 
brought  out  at  the  Black  Friars ;  but  the  date  of  its 
appearance  is  not  known.  Ford  seems  to  have  felt 
some  alarm  at  the  deep  tragedy  which  he  was  about 
to  develop ;  and  he  therefore  takes  an  early  oppor 
tunity,  in  the  prologue,  to  inform  the  audience  that 
the  story  was  a  borrowed  one,  and  that  "  what  may 
be  thought  a  fiction, 

when  time's  youth 
Wanted  some  riper  years,  was  known  a  truth." 

He  could  not  be  so  ignorant  of  history  as  to  sup 
pose  that  Sparta  was  ever  the  scene  of  a  tragedy  like 
this ;  and  he  probably  means  no  more  than  that  it  was 
extant  in  some  French  or  Italian  collection  of  tales. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXX111 

But  whatever  may  be  the  groundwork,  it  must,  after 
all,  be  admitted  that  the  story  derives  its  main  claim 
on  our  affections  from  the  poetic  powers  of  the  author 
himself.  They  are  here  exerted  with  wonderful  effect : 
the  spell  is  early  laid,  and  we  have  scarcely  stepped 
within  the  circle  when  we  feel  the  charm  too  effectual 
to  resist,  and  abide  under  it,  not  without  occasional 
misgivings,  till  all  is  dissolved  in  the  awful  catastrophe. 
Ford  was  not  unconscious  of  its  merits ;  he  had,  he 
says  [in  the  prologue],  "wrought  the  piece  with  the 
best  of  his  art;"  and  it  will  not  perhaps  be  denied  that, 
with  respect  to  the  diction,  and  the  deep  inherent 
feeling  of  the  more  solemn  and  tragic  scenes,  many 
superior  to  it  will  not  be  found ;  in  truth,  it  seems 
scarcely  possible  to  turn  back  and  review  the  beautiful 
passages  which  abound  in  the  three  plays  of  the  first 
volume  without  placing  the  author  in  a  very  honour 
able  rank  among  the  dramatic  writers  of  his  day. 

Ford  occasionally  repeats  his  characters.  The  Tec- 
nicus  of  this  drama  is  an  improved  copy  of  the  Friar 
in  the  preceding  one.  He  is  skilfully  conceived,  and 
judiciously  elevated  to  the  subject :  his  incidental 
glances  at  the  moody  and  ominous  meditations  of 
Orgilus  prove  that  the  author  meant  to  invest  him 
with  something  of  the  prophetic  character ;  and  his 
language,  at  once  pious  and  monitory,  is  everywhere 
worthy  of  his  sacred  office.  It  is  observable  that 
both  are  withdrawn  before  the  catastrophe  takes 
place.  In  the  Friar's  case  it  was  undoubtedly  a  just 
measure  of  precaution ;  but  Tecnicus  might  have  wit 
nessed  the  closing  scene  with  impunity,  and  even 

VOL.  i.  c 


XXXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

with  good  effect.  He  had,  however,  fairly  fulfilled 
his  mission. 

The  Broken  Heart  is  dedicated  (not  without  the 
poet's  usual  glance  at  his  professional  industry),  in  a 
style  highly  respectful,  yet  manly  and  independent,  to 
the  well-known  Lord  Craven  ;  a  nobleman  worthy  of 
all  praise,  and  not  ill  chosen  for  the  patron  of  a  wild, 
a  melancholy,  and  romantic  tale. 

The  year  1633  must  have  proved  auspicious  to 
our  author's  fame,  for  it  also  gave  to  the  public 
Love's  Sacrifice,  printed,  like  the  former  play,  for 
Hugh  Beeston.  It  appears  to  have  been  somewhat 
of  a  favourite ;  and  was  ushered  into  the  world  with 
more  than  the  usual  accompaniments  of  approbation. 
That  it  has  many  passages  of  singular  merit,  many 
scenes  favourable  to  the  display  of  the  writer's  powers 
beautifully  executed,  it  is  impossible  to  deny ;  but  the 
plot  is  altogether  defective ;  and  the  characters  pro 
ceed  from  error  to  error,  and  from  crime  to  crime, 
till  they  exhaust  their  own  interest,  and  finally  ex 
pire  without  care  or  pity.  In  the  last  exquisite  drama, 
the  lighter  characters,  though  ill  calculated  to  please, 
may  yet  be  tolerated  j  but  in  this  they  are  gratuitously 
odious  and  repellent. 

Something,  perhaps,  should  be  attributed  to  the 
country  from  which  the  poet  derived  his  plot  (for  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  is  taken  from  an  Italian  novel), 
and  something  indulged  to  the  ill -defined  manners 
and  language  of  the  age,  which,  though  strictly  speak 
ing  not  licentious,  were  little  polished  by  the  colli 
sion  of  good  society,  which,  indeed,  could  then  be 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXV 

scarcely  said  to  exist.  Our  poet,  however,  enter 
tained  no  misgivings  of  this  kind ;  he  seems,  on  the 
contrary,  to  have  been  pleased  with  the  management 
of  the  story  (which,  as  the  title-page  informs  us,  was 
generally  well  received)  •  and,  as  a  proof  of  his  satis 
faction,  dedicates  it  to  "  his  truest  friend  and  worthiest 
cousin,"  John  Ford,  of  Gray's  Inn,  in  a  short  address 
highly  creditable  to  his  amiable  qualities,  and  full  of 
respectful  gratitude  and  affection.  The  year  before 
this  was  written,  the  indefatigable  Prynne  had  pub 
lished  his  ponderous  Histriomastix ;  in  which  he  col 
lected  and  reproduced,  with  increased  bitterness  and 
rancour,  all  his  former  invectives  against  the  stage : 
to  this  Ford  adverts  with  becoming  warmth.  "  The 
contempt,"  he  says,  "  thrown  on  studies  of  this  kind 
by  such  as  dote  on  their  own  singularity  hath  almost 
so  outfaced  invention  and  proscribed  judgment,  that 
it  is  more  safe,  more  wise  to  be  suspectedly  silent 
than  modestly  confident  of  opinion  herein."  In  this 
he  is  supported  by  Shirley,  who  has  a  compliment 
ary  poem  prefixed  to  Lovers  Sacrifice ;  in  which,  after 
reproaching  Prynne  with  his  voluminous  ignorance 
and  impudence,  he  calls  upon  him  to  read  Ford's 
tragedy,  and  then  turn  to  his  own  interminable  far 
rago,  which  he  had  not  only  termed  "  the  actors' 
tragedy"  as  if  in  scorn  of  them,  but  divided  into  acts 
and  scenes. 

The  admirers  of  Ford  had  by  this  time  apparently 
supped  full  of  horrors.  Three  tragedies  of  the  deepest 
kind,  in  rapid  succession,  were  probably  as  many  as 
the  stage  would  then  endure  from  him ;  and  in  an 


XXXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

hour  not  unpropitious  to  his  reputation  he  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  historical  drama  of  his  own  country. 
Perkin  Warbeck,  which  appeared  in  1634,  and  which 
was  accompanied  with  more  than  the  usual  proportion 
of  commendatory  verses,15  is  dedicated  to  the  Earl 
(better  known  as  the  Duke)  of  Newcastle,  in  a  strain 
which  shows  that  the  poet  was  fully  sensible  of  the 
"  worthiness"  as  well  as  the  difficulty  of  the  subject, 
which  he  had  spared  no  pains  to  overcome.  It  is 
observed,  in  a  critical  notice  of  this  drama  which 
appeared  in  1812,  that  "though  the  subject  of  it  is 
such  as  to  preclude  the  author  from  the  high  praise 
of  original  invention  and  fancy,"  a  circumstance  which 
he  himself  notices  in  the  very  opening  of  his  dedica 
tion,  "  the  play  is  so  admirably  conducted,  so  adorned 
with  poetic  sentiment  and  expression,  so  full  of  fine 
discrimination  of  character  and  affecting  incidents, 
that  we  cannot"  (continue  the  critics)  "  help  regarding 
that  audience  as  greatly  disgraced  which,  having  once 
witnessed  its  representation,  did  not  insure  its  per 
petuity  on  the  English  stage.  If  any"  (historic)  "  play 
in  the  language  can  induce  us  to  admit  the  lawfulness 
of  a  comparison  with  Shakespeare,  it  is  this."16  There 
is  little  to  add  to  this  commendation,  and  I  am  not 
aware  that  much  can  be  taken  away  from  it.  It  may, 
however,  be  observed,  that  the  language  of  this  piece 
is  temperately  but  uniformly  raised ;  it  neither  bursts 

15  Among  them  are  a  few  lines  from  John  Ford,  of  Gray's  Inn, 
who  thus  returns  the  kindness  with  which  his  cousin  had  inscribed 
Loves  Sacrifice  to  him. 

16  Monthly  Review. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXV11 

into  the  enthusiasm  of  passion,  nor  degenerates  into 
uninteresting  whining,  but  supports  the  calm  dignity 
of  historic  action,  and  accords  with  the  characters  of 
the  "  graced  persons"  who  occupy  the  scene. 

I  have  elsewhere  noticed  the  uncommon  felicity 
with  which  Ford  has  sustained  the  part  of  Warbeck : 
he  could  scarcely  believe  the  identity  of  this  youth 
with  the  young  prince,  yet  he  never  permits  a  doubt 
of  it  to  escape  him,  and  thus  skilfully  avoids  the  awk 
wardness  of  shaking  the  credit  and  diminishing  the 
interest  of  his  chief  character;  for  Perkin,  and  not 
Henry,  is  the  hero  of  the  play.  More  will  be  found 
in  the  notes  on  this  subject;  but  it  may  be  added 
here,  that  the  king  was  probably  less  indebted  to  his 
armoury  than  to  his  craft  and  his  coffers  for  the  sup 
pression  of  these  attempts,  which  occasionally  assumed 
a  very  threatening  aspect :  even  the  ill-judged  attack 
on  the  coast,  feeble  as  it  undoubtedly  was,  created  a 
considerable  degree  of  alarm ;  and  it  appears  from  a 
letter  to  Sir  John  Paston,17  "  that  a  mightie  aid  of 
help  and  succor"  was  earnestly  requested  to  secure 
the  towns  of  Sandwich  and  Yarmouth. 

Notwithstanding  the  warm  commendations  of  his 
friends  on  this  production,  Ford  did  not  renew  his 
acquaintance  with  the  Historic  Muse ;  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  did  he  return  to  the  deep  and  impas 
sioned  tone  of  the  preceding  dramas.  He  appears  to 
have  fostered  the  more  cheerful  feeling  which  he  had 
recently  indulged,  and  to  have  adopted  a  species  of 
serious  comedy,  which  should  admit  of  characters  and 

17  Fenris  Letters,  vol.  v.  p.  427. 


XXXV111  INTRODUCTION. 

events  well  fitted  for  the  display  of  the  particular  bent 
of  his  genius.  He  was  not  in  haste,  however,  to 
court  the  public;  for  nothing  is  heard  of  him  till  1638 
(with  the  single  exception  of  a  warm  eulogium  to  the 
"  memory  of  the  best  of  poets,  Ben  Jonson,"  who  died 
in  the  preceding  year),  when  he  published  The  Fancies 
Chaste  and  Noble.  The  date  of  its  first  appearance 
on  the  stage  is  not  known,  but  it  probably  did  not 
long  precede  its  being  given  to  the  press.  The  play 
is  dedicated  to  the  well-known  Earl  (afterwards  Mar 
quis)  of  Antrim.  And  here  again  Ford  asserts  that 
his  "  courtship  of  greatness"  never  aimed  at  any  pe 
cuniary  advantage.  Granted  ;  but  he  forgets  that  he 
had  no  need  of  it ;  and  there  is  something  in  this 
implied  triumph  over  his  necessitous  contemporaries, 
which,  to  say  the  best  of  it,  is  to  be  praised  neither 
for  its  generosity  nor  its  delicacy. 

The  poet  takes  to  himself  the  merit  of  constructing 
this  comedy  with  original  materials  :  there  is  nothing 
in  it,  he  says,  but  what  he  knows  to  be  his  own, 
"  without  a  learned  theft."  There  must  surely  have 
been  a  pretty  general  notion  of  Ford's  adopting  the 
practice  of  the  dramatic  writers  of  his  day,  and  found 
ing  his  plots  on  Spanish  or  rather  Italian  fables,  to 
render  these  frequent  abjurations  necessary;  and  when 
we  compare  the  prologue  of  The  Lover's  Melancholy 
with  the  conduct  of  that  piece,  we  shall  not  be  in 
clined  to  understand  such  expressions  too  strictly.  If 
it  be  as  he  says,  we  can  only  regret  that  what  was 
conceived  with  considerable  ingenuity,  and  afforded 
ample  scope  for  an  interesting  and  amusing  story, 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXIX 

should  produce  so  little  effect.  After  all,  the  fable  is 
so  probable,  when  told  of  a  Transalpine  magnifico, 
that  I  can  scarcely  avoid  thinking  Ford  found  some 
hint,  something  analogous  to  his  plot,  among  the 
Italian  novels  of  those  days.  We  have  a  very  inade 
quate  idea  of  the  solicitude  with  which  the  dramatic 
and  romantic  treasures  of  Spain  and  Italy  were  sought 
for  and  circulated  in  this  country.  The  literary  in 
tercourse  was  then  far  more  alive  than  it  is  at  pre 
sent,  for  there  were  many  readers  and  many  trans 
lators  at  hand  to  furnish  them  with  a  succession  of 
novelties ;  and,  though  it  must  be  admitted,  I  fear, 
that  the  exchange  ran  grievously  against  us — that  we 
imported  much,  and  sent  out  little, — yet  the  bare  la 
bour  of  working-up  what  we  received  had,  as  in  other 
cases,  a  salutary  and  quickening  effect.  Meanwhile, 
I  am  persuaded  that  far  the  greater  number  of  our 
dramas  are  founded  on  Italian  novels.  This  would, 
perhaps,  scarcely  be  a  matter  of  debate  at  this  time, 
were  it  not  for  the  fire  of  1666,  which  destroyed,  be 
yond  hope  of  recovery,  no  inconsiderable  portion  of 
the  light  and  fugitive  literature  of  the  preceding  age. 
In  the  wide  and  deep  vaults  under  St.  Paul's  lay 
thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  pamphlets,  novels, 
romances,  histories,  plays,  printed  and  in  manuscript ; 
all  the  amusement  and  all  the  satire  of  Nash  and 
Harvey,  of  Lodge  and  Peele  and  Greene,  and  innu 
merable  others,  which  even  then  made  up  the  prin 
cipal  part  of  the  humble  libraries  of  the  day.  Here 
they  had  been  placed  for  security;  and  here,  when 
the  roof  of  the  cathedral  fell  in,  and  the  burning 


Xl  INTRODUCTION. 

beams  broke  through  the  floor,  they  were  involved  in 
one  general  and  dreadful  conflagration. 

I  would  not  willingly  be  suspected  of  deeming  too 
lightly  of  this  drama  :  it  is  the  plot  in  which  I  think 
the  poet  has  failed ;  the  language  of  the  serious  parts 
is  deserving  of  high  praise,  and  the  more  prominent 
characters  are  skilfully  discriminated  and  powerfully 
sustained.  The  piece,  however,  has  no  medium ;  all 
that  is  not  excellent  is  intolerably  bad. 

In  the  prologue  to  The  Fancies  the  poet  makes 
the  only  allusion  to  his  native  county  which  appears 
in  any  part  of  his  works ; 

' '  if  traduc'd  by  some, 
Tis  well,  he  says,  he's  far  enough  from  home."™ 

The  succeeding  year  (1639)  gave  to  the  public 
2 he  Lady's  Trial,  which,  it  appears,  had  been  per 
formed  in  May  1638.  It  is  dedicated,  in  the  spirit  of 
true  kindness,  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wyrley;  and  the  poet, 
though  now  near  the  close  of  his  dramatic  labours, 
has  not  yet  conquered  his  fear  of  misemploying  his 
time,  or  rather  of  being  suspected  of  it,  and  assures 
his  partial  friends  that  the  piece  which  he  has  thus 
placed  under  their  tuition  is  the  "  issue  of  some  less 
serious  hours."  There  seems  but  little  occasion  for 
this ;  his  patrons  must  have  known  enough  of  his  per 
sonal  concerns  to  render  such  apologies  unnecessary. 

18  I  once  thought — or  rather,  without  thinking,  followed  the 
prevailing  opinion — that  Ford  was  now  on  his  travels  :  the  words 
quoted  prove  that  this  could  not  be,  as  the  poet  speaks  in  his  own 
person.  He  probably  alludes  to  the  old  manor-house  at  Ilsington, 
which,  though  in  a  dilapidated  state,  is  still  standing.  It  was  built 
as  early  as  Elizabeth's  reign. 


INTRODUCTION.  xli 

At  fifty-two — and  Ford  had  now  reached  that  age — 
his  professional  industry  could  surely  be  no  subject 
of  doubt ;  and  it  requires  some  little  portion  of  for 
bearance  in  the  general  reader  to  tolerate  this  affected 
and  oft-repeated  depreciation  of  the  labour  to  which 
the  genius  and  inclination  of  the  writer  perpetually 
tended,  and  overlook  the  wanton  abasement  of  his 
own  claims  to  fame. 

The  Lady's  Trial,  like  The  Fancies •,  declines  in  in 
terest  towards  the  conclusion,  in  consequence  of  the 
poet's  imperfect  execution  of  his  own  plan :  that  he 
meditated  a  more  impressive  catastrophe  for  both  is 
sufficiently  apparent,  but  event  comes  huddling  on 
event,  and  all  is  precipitation,  weakness,  and  confu 
sion.  It  is  curious  that  in  the  winding-up  of  each  of 
these  pieces  the  same  expedient  is  employed ;  and 
the  honour  of  Adurni  in  the  former,  like  that  of  Troylo 
in  the  latter,  ultimately  vindicated  by  an  unlooked-for 
marriage.  Feeble  and  imperfect,  however,  as  the  plot 
of  The  Lady's  Trial  is,  and  trifling  as  some  of  the 
characters  will  be  found,  it  is  not  destitute  of  passages 
which  the  lovers  of  our  ancient  drama  may  contem 
plate  with  unreproved  pleasure. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  dedication,  or  in  the  pro 
logue  and  epilogue  to  this  play,  that  indicates  the 
slightest  inclination  of  the  poet  to  withdraw  from  the 
stage :  on  the  contrary,  his  mind  seems  to  have  at 
tained  a  cheerful  tone  and  a  sprightlier  language ;  yet 
this  was  apparently  the  last  of  his  dramatic  labours, 
and  here  he  suddenly  disappears  from  view. 


xljl  INTRODUCTION. 

Much  as  has  been  said  of  the  dramatic  poets  of 
Elizabeth  and  James's  days,  full  justice  has  never  yet 
been  rendered  to  their  independence  on  one  another : 
generally  speaking,  they  stand  insulated  and  alone, 
and  draw,  each  in  his  station,  from  their  own  stores. 
Whether  it  be  that  poetry  in  that  age 

"  Wanton'd  as  in  its  prime,  and  play'd  at  will 
Its  virgin  fancies" — 

or  that  some  other  fruitful  cause  of  originality  was  in 
secret  and  powerful  operation ;  so  it  is,  that  every 
writer  had  his  peculiar  style,  and  was  content  with  it. 
At  present,  we  are  become  an  imitative,  not  to  say  a 
mimic,  race.  A  successful  poem,  a  novel,  nay  even 
a  happy  title-page,  is  eagerly  caught  at,  and  a  kind 
of  ombre  chinoise  representation  of  it  propagated  from 
one  extremity  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other.  Invention 
seems  almost  extinct  among  us.  That  it  does  not 
somewhere  exist,  it  would  be  folly  to  imagine ;  but  it 
appears  to  move,  comet-like,  in  very  eccentric  orbits, 
and  to  have  its  periods  of  occultation  of  more  than 
usual  duration.  It  may,  and  undoubtedly  will,  revisit 
us ;  meanwhile,  as  the  knight  of  the  enchanted  cavern 
judiciously  advises,  patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards  ! 

I  have  been  led  into  these  desultory  remarks  not 
withstanding  it  may  be  urged  that  an  exception  to 
the  subject  of  them  may  be  found  in  Ford.  He  ap 
pears  to  have  discovered,  indeed,  that  one  of  the 
nameless  charms  of  Shakespeare's  diction  consisted 
in  the  skill  with  which  he  has  occasionally  vivified 
it  by  converting  his  substantives  into  verbs ;  and  to 
have  aspired  to  imitate  him.  He  cannot  be  compli- 


INTRODUCTION.  xliti 

mented  on  his  success  ;  nor,  indeed,  can  much  be  ex 
pected  without  such  a  portion  of  Shakespeare's  taste 
and  feeling  as  it  seems  almost  hopeless  to  expect : — 
Ford's  grammatical  experiments  take  from  the  sim 
plicity  of  his  diction,  while  they  afford  no  strength 
whatever  to  his  descriptions.  Not  so  with  the  great 
original :  in  his  conversions  all  is  life.  Take,  for  ex 
ample,  the  following  passage.  It  is  not  a  description 
that  we  read ;  it  is  a  series  of  events  that  we  hear  and 
see  : 

' '  the  quick  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels  ;  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I  shall  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness 
I'  th'  posture  of  a  whore." 

With  this  slight  exception,  which,  after  all,  may  be 
purely  visionary,  the  style  of  Ford  is  altogether  origi 
nal  and  his  own.  Without  the  majestic  march  which 
distinguishes  the  poetry  of  Massinger,  and  with  little 
or  none  of  that  light  and  playful  humour  which  charac 
terises  the  dialogue  of  Fletcher,  or  even  of  Shirley,  he 
is  yet  elegant  and  easy  and  harmonious ;  and  though 
rarely  sublime,  yet  sufficiently  elevated  for  the  most 
pathetic  tones  of  that  passion  on  whose  romantic 
energies  he  chiefly  delighted  to  dwell.  It  has  (as 
has  been  observed)  its  inherent  beauties  and  defects : 
among  the  latter  of  which  may  be  set  down  a  pedantic 
affectation  of  novelty,  at  one  time  exhibited  in  the 
composition  of  uncouth  phrases,  at  another  (and  this 
is  Ford's  principal  failure)  in  perplexity  of  language  ; 
frequently  too,  after  perversely  labouring  with  a  remote 


xliv  INTRODUCTION. 

idea  till  he  has  confused  his  meaning,  instead  of  throw 
ing  it  aside,  he  obtrudes  it  upon  the  reader  involved 
in  inextricable  obscurity. 

"  Its  excellencies,  however,  far  outweigh  its  defects ; 
but  they  are  rather  felt  than  understood.  I  know  few 
things  more  difficult  to  account  for  than  the  deep  and 
lasting  impression  made  by  the  more  tragic  portions 
of  Ford's  poetry.  Whence  does  it  derive  that  resist 
less  power  which  all  confess,  of  afflicting,  I  had  al 
most  said  harassing,  the  better  feelings  ?  It  is  not  from 
any  peculiar  beauty  of  language, — for  in  this  he  is 
equalled  by  his  contemporaries,  and  by  some  of  them 
surpassed ;  nor  is  it  from  any  classical  or  mythological 
allusions  happily  recollected  and  skilfully  applied, — for 
of  these  he  seldom  avails  himself :  it  is  not  from  any 
picturesque  views  presented  to  the  mind, — for  of  ima 
ginative  poetry  he  has  little  or  nothing ;  he  cannot 
conjure  up  a  succession  of  images,  whether  grave  or 
gay,  to  flit  across  the  fancy  or  play  in  the  eye.  Yet 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  peruse  his  passionate  scenes 
without  the  most  painful  interest,  the  most  heart- 
thrilling  delight.  This  can  only  arise — at  least  I  can 
conceive  nothing  else  adequate  to  the  excitement  of 
such  sensations — from  the  overwhelming  efficacy  of 
intense  thought  devoted  to  the  embodying  of  concep 
tions  adapted  to  the  awful  situations  in  which  he  has, 
imperceptibly  and  with  matchless  felicity,  placed  his 
principal  characters. 

Mr.  Campbell  observes,  that  Ford  interests  us  in 
no  other  passion  than  that  of  love;  "in  which  he  dis 
plays  a  peculiar  depth  and  delicacy  of  romantic  feel- 


INTRODUCTION.  xlv 

ing."  Comparatively  speaking,  this  may  be  admitted ; 
but  in  justice  to  the  poet  it  should  be  added,  that  he 
was  not  insensible  to  the  power  of friendship,  and  in 
more  than  one  of  his  dramas  has  delineated  it  with  a 
master-hand.  Had  the  critic  forgotten  the  noble  Dai- 
yell,  the  generous  and  devoted  Malfato  ?  Nor  can  it 
justly  be  inferred  (even  setting  aside  the  romantic  feel 
ings  here  alluded  to)  that  the  female  characters  of  his 
second-rate  pieces  fail  to  interest  us,  and  occasionally 
in  a  high  degree,  in  affections  and  passions  very  dis 
tinct  from  those  of  love.  Mr.  Campbell,  however, 
terms  him  "  one  of  the  ornaments  of  our  ancient 
poetry." 

So  many  remarks  are  incidentally  scattered  through 
these  pages  on  the  nature  of  our  poet's  plots,  that  little 
more  seems  called  for  here  than  to  remark  that  in  the 
construction,  or  rather  perhaps  in  the  selection,  of  his 
fables  there  is  usually  much  to  commend  :  like  Kent, 
indeed,  he  possessed  the  faculty  of  marring  a  plain 
tale  in  the  telling ;  but  this  is  only  saying,  in  other 
words,  that  he  planned  better  than  he  executed. 
His  besetting  error  was  an  unfortunate  persuasion 
that  he  was  gifted  with  a  certain  degree  of  pleasantry, 
with  which  it  behoved  him  occasionally  to  favour  the 
stage ;  and  to  this  we  are  indebted  for  the  intrusion  of 
those  ill-timed  underplots,  and  those  prurient  snatches 
of  language,  which  debase  and  pollute  several  of  his 
best  dramas.  It  saddens  the  heart  to  see  a  man, 
from  whom  nature  has  withheld  all  perception  of  the 
tones  and  attitudes  of  humour,  labouring  with  all  his 
might  to  be  airy  and  playful  ;  and  it  is  impossible 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION. 

to  contemplate  Ford  under  this  strange  infatuation 
without  being  reminded  of  the  poor  maniacs  in  The 
Masque  of  Corax,  to  whom  many  of  the  characters 
that  figure  in  his  idle  buffooneries  might  be  intro 
duced  without  ceremony.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  dwell 
on  these  defects,  though  justice  requires  that  they 
should  be  noticed.  Time  has  long  since  avenged 
them :  for  it  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that  somewhat 
of  the  obscurity  into  which  the  poet  has  fallen  should 
be  laid  to  their  charge. 

But  Ford  is  not  all  alone  unhappy.  In  his  day 
there  was,  in  fact,  no  model  to  work  after.  The  ele 
ments  of  composition,  as  far  as  regards  taste  and 
judgment,  far  from  being  established,  were  not  even 
arranged ;  and  with  the  exception  of  Sir  Philip  Sid 
ney's  Essay,  nothing  can  be  more  jejune  and  unsatis 
factory  than  the  few  attempts  at  poetic  criticism 
then  before  the  public.  Add  to  this,  that  the  scale 
of  ethic  as  well  as  of  poetic  fitness  seems  to  have  had 
few  gradations  marked  on  it,  and  those  at  remote  and 
uncertain  distances ;  hence  the  writers  suddenly  drop 
from  all  that  is  pure  in  taste  and  exquisite  in  feeling 
to  whining  imbecility,  and  from  high-toned  sentiment 
and  ennobling  action  to  all  that  is  mean  and  vicious, 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  vast  interval  through 
which  they  have  passed,  and  the  depth  to  which  they 
have  fallen.  In  other  respects,  they  all  seem  to  have 
acquiesced  in  the  humble  station  in  which  prejudice 
had  placed  them,19  and  instead  of  attempting  to  cor 
rect  the  age,  to  have  sought  little  more  than  to  in- 

19  See  p.  xiii. 


INTRODUCTION.  xlvii 

terest  and  amuse  with  the  materials  so  richly  provided 
for  them  by  the  extraordinary  times  on  which  they 
were  cast.  One  man20  indeed  there  was,  one  eminent 
man,  who  sought  from  early  life  to  enlist  the  stage  on 
the  side  of  learning  and  virtue,  and  called  on  the 
people  to  view  the  scene  in  its  genuine  light ; 

' '  Attired  in  the  majesty  of  art, 
Set  high  in  spirit  with  the  precious  taste 
Of  sweet  philosophy,  and,  which  is  most, 
Crown'd  with  the  rich  traditions  of  a  soul 
That  hates  to  have  her  dignity  profan'd 
With  any  relish  of  an  earthly  thought." 

But  he  found  few  supporters,  and  no  followers ;  and 
the  stage  went  on  as  before ;  attended,  but  not  hon 
oured  ;  popular,  but  not  influential. 

It  is  not  a  little  mortifying  to  reflect,  that  while 
dramatic  poetry  towered  in  its  pride  of  place,  and  long 
sustained  itself  at  an  elevation  which  it  will  never 
reach  again,  the  writers  themselves  possessed  no  sway 
whatever  over  the  feelings  of  the  people ;  while  at  a 
subsequent  period,  when  the  power  of  the  stage  for 
good  and  evil  was  understood,  it  was  turned  wholly 
to  the  purposes  of  the  latter,  and  the  greatest  men  of 
the  age  formed  themselves  into  factions  for  trash  that 
would  not  now  be  heard,  and  names  that  cannot  be 
pronounced  without  scorn  and  shame,  that  depravity 
of  every  kind  might  be  transmitted  from  the  court 
to  the  stage,  from  the  stage  to  the  people,  and  none 
escape  the  contagion.  And  who  was  the  Choragus 
of  this  pernicious  band  ?  Let  Gibber  tell.  "  In  this 
almost  general  corruption,  Dryden,  whose  plays  were 

20  i.e.  Benjonson.  D. 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION. 

more  famed  for  their  wit  than  their  chastity,  led  the 
way ;  which  he  fairly  confesses,  and  endeavours  to  ex 
cuse,  in  his  epilogue  to  The  Pilgrim,  revived  in  1700 
for  his  benefit  in  his  declining  age  and  fortune."20 

Langbaine  supposes  Ford  [and  Decker]  to  be 
dead  when  The  Sun's  Darling21  was  published,  by  Bird 
and  Penneycuicke,  in  1657  [see  vol.  iii.  p.  102].  He 
probably  had  no  better  authority  than  an  expression 
in  the  dedication,  that  "  the  piece  was  an  .orphan  one." 
It  may,  however,  be  so,  for  at  this  period  he  would  have 
passed  his  seventieth  year ;  but  this  still  leaves  a  con 
siderable  interval  in  his  history  during  which  nothing 
is  heard  of  him.  Of  Decker's  decease  there  can  be  little 
doubt ;  he  talks  of  himself  as  a  worn-out  old  man  in 
the  dedication  to  Match  me  in  London,  published  in 
1631,  when  Ford  was  only  in  his  forty-fifth  year.  "  I 
have  been,"  he  says,  "a  priest  in  Apollo's  temple  many 
years  ;  my  voice  is  decaying  with  my  age,"  &c.  Why 
it  is  so  generally  assumed  that  our  poet  died  almost 
immediately  after  the  appearance  of  The  Lady's  Trial, 
except  that  he  ceased  to  write,  I  have  never  been  able 
to  conjecture.  Faint  traditions  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  his  birthplace  lead  rather  to  the  supposition  that, 
having  from  his  legal  pursuits  acquired  a  sufficient 
fortune,  he  retired  to  his  home,  to  pass  the  remainder 

20  Gibber's  Life,  p.  219,  ed.  1750.     Such  as  desire  to  see  what 
Gibber  calls  his  "excuse''  may  turn  to  the  passage.      For  an  old 
man  of  seventy,   it  is  a  very  gracious  plea.     Dryden  died  a  few 
months  after  this. 

21  The  Sun's  Darling]  Here  Gifford  carelessly  prints  "  The  Witch 
of  Edmonton." — See  Langbaine's  Account  of  the  Engl.  Dram.  Poets, 

1691,  p.   222.     D. 


INTRODUCTION.  xllX 

of  his  days  among  the  youthful  connections  whom 
time  had  yet  spared  him.22 

Nor  were  there  wanting  powerful  motives  for  the 
retirement  of  one  of  Ford's  lonely  and  contemplative 
mood,  who  watched  the  signs  of  the  times.  Deep  and 
solemn  notes  of  preparation  for  a  tragedy  far  more 
terrible  than  aught  the  stage  could  show  were  audible 
in  the  distance ;  and  hollow  mutterings,  which  could 
not  be  mistaken,  told  that  the  tempest  was  gathering 
round  the  metropolis  with  fearful  acceleration.  It  is 
possible  that  he  may  have  foreseen  the  approaching 
storm,  and  fled  from  the  first  efforts  of  its  violence,23 

' '  Apparent  dirae  facies,  inimicaque  Trojae 
Numina." 

The  Covenanters  were  already  in  arms,  and  advancing 
towards  the  Borders ;  and  at  home  the  stern  and  un 
compromising  enemies  of  all  that  was  graceful  and 
delightful  were  rapidly  ascending  in  the  scale  of 
power. 

Of  what  nature  Ford's  chief  employment  at  the 
Temple  was  we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining.  That 
he  was  not  called  to  the  bar  may  be  fairly  surmised, 
as  he  never  makes  the  slightest  allusion  to  his  plead 
ings;  and  his  anxious  disavowals  to  his  several  patrons 

22  I  looked  into  Mr.  Carrington's  poem  on  Dartmoor  with  the 
hope  of  finding  some  memorial  of  the  poet.     All  that  this  gentleman 
says,  is  ;    "At  Bagtor  is  a  seat  of  Lord  Ashburton,  with  woods, 
where  was  born,  in  1586,  John  Ford,  the  dramatic  writer,  whence 
sprung  the  family  of  the  same  name  and  place."    Notes,  Poems, 
vol.  i.  p.  130. 

23  It  fell,   indeed,   soon  after  with  fatal  fury  on  the  dramatic 
writers.     The  theatres  were  closed  in  1641. 

VOL.   I.  d 


1  INTRODUCTION. 

of  permitting  his  dramatic  labours  to  encroach  upon 
his  proper  business,  would  almost  lead  to  a  conclusion 
that  he  acted  as  a  kind  of  auditor  or  comptroller  for 
the  landed  property  of  the  nobility,  and  managed  the 
pecuniary  concerns  of  their  estates,  for  which  his 
knowledge  of  the  law  afforded  facility  on  the  one 
side,  and  security  on  the  other. 

Of  his  social  habits  there  little  can  be  told  with 
certainty.  There  is  sufficient,  however,  to  show  that 
he  lived,  if  not  familiarly,  yet  friendlily,  with  the  dra 
matic  writers  of  his  day,  and  neither  provoked  nor 
felt  personal  enmities.  He  speaks,  indeed,  of  oppo 
sition  ;  but  this  is  merely  the  language  of  the  stage ; 
opposition  is  experienced  by  every  dramatic  writer 
worth  criticism,  and  has  nothing  in  common  with  or 
dinary  hostility.  In  truth,  with  the  exception  of  an 
allusion  to  the  "  voluminous"  and  rancorous  Prynne, 
nothing  can  be  more  general  than  his  complaints. 
Yet  Ford  looked  not  much  to  the  brighter  side  of  life; 
he  could,  like  Jaques,  "  suck  melancholy  out  of  a 
song  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs ;"  but  he  was  unable,  like 
this  wonderful  creation  of  our  great  poet,  to  extract 
mirth  from  it.  When  he  touched  a  lighter  string,  the 
tones,  though  pleasingly  modulated,  were  still  sedate ; 
and  it  must,  I  think,  be  admitted  that  his  poetry  is 
rather  that  of  a  placid  and  serene  than  of  a  happy 
mind :  he  was,  in  truth,  an  amiable  ascetic  amidst  a 
busy  world. 

Something  of  this  may  be  attributed  to  his  parents. 
To  take  a  moody  youth  from  his  classical  studies,  or 
from  his  first  terms  at  college,  and  plunge  him  at 


INTRODUCTION.  .11 

once  into  the  moping  drudgery  of  the  law,  is  not, 
perhaps,  the  most  approved  recipe  for  enlivening  him, 
especially  if  he  happens  also  to  have  fallen  in  love ; 
and  thus  our  poet's  retired  and  gloomy  turn  may  in 
some  measure  be  accounted  for;  but,  exclusively  of 
this,  it  seems  clear  that 

' '  Nature  in  his  soul 
Put  something  of  the  raven." 

In  the  Time's  Poets^  the  first  and  almost  the  only  place 
in  which  he  is  noticed  by  his  contemporaries,24  it  is 
said, 

"  Deep  in  a  dump  John  Forde  was  alone  got  [gat?], 
With  folded  arms  and  melancholy  hat." 

These  "  signs  of  the  judicious,"  as  Shirley  calls  them, 

24  In  a  doggerel  list,  by  Heywood  [in  his  Hierarchic  of  the 
blessed  Angels,  1635,  lib.  iv.  p.  206],  of  the  familiar  appellations  by 
which  the  writers  for  the  stage  were  known  among  their  acquaint 
ance,  he  says  of  our  poet ; 

"And  hee's  now  but  Jacke  Foord,  that  once  was  John."* 

One  word  with  respect  to  this  disputed  name.  I  inquired  of  my 
old  friend  Mr.  Palk,  if  that  which  he  copied  for  Mr.  Malone  was 
without  an  e  final  ?  The  answer  was  in  the  affirmative.  Little,  un 
doubtedly,  can  be  concluded  from  this,  when  the  lax  mode  of  spell 
ing  in  that  age  is  considered  ;  but  the  anagram  which  is  seen  on 
several  of  the  title-pages  of  Ford's  plays — FIDE  HONOR — appears  to 
me  more  like  the  impress  on  the  armorial  bearing  of  the  family  than 
a  proud  claim  set  forward  by  the  poet.  I  am  not  skilled  enough 
in  the  mysteries  of  this  profound  science  to  know  whether  its  hiero- 
phants  admitted  of  an  extra  symbol  ;  but,  in  common  parlance,  a 
letter  more  or  less  weighs  little  with  our  old  writers,  few  of  whom 
could  spell  their  own  names  correctly,  and  still  fewer  followed  any 
standard. 

*  Heywood  is  singular  in  his  spelling  of  our  poet's  name.  But 
Gifford,  with  his  usual  unendurable  incorrectness  of  quotation,  gives 
the  line  thus  ; 

"And  he's  but  now  Jacke  Ford,  -who  once  was  John."  D. 


Ill  INTRODUCTION. 

were  undoubtedly  assumed  by  many  who,  like  Master 
Stephen,  aspired  to  look  fashionable  as  well  as  wise ; 
but  Ford  had  apparently  no  affectation  of  this  kind, 
and  they  must  therefore  be  taken  as  genuine  indica 
tions  of  his  humour.  His  love  of  seclusion  is  here 
noticed — he  was  alone. 

No  village  anecdotes  are  told  of  him,  as  of  his 
countryman  Herrick,  nor  do  any  memorials  of  his 
private  life  remain.  The  troubles  which  followed,  and 
the  confusion  which  frequently  took  place  in  the  parish- 
registers  in  consequence  of  the  intrusion  of  ministers 
little  interested  in  local  topics,  have  flung  a  veil  of 
obscurity  over  much  of  the  domestic  history  of  that 
turbulent  and  disastrous  period.  In  these  troubles  the 
retreat  of  the  Fords  is  known  to  have  largely  shared ; 
and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  the  family  suffered 
under  the  Usurpation.  The  neighbourhood  was  dis 
tinguished  for  its  loyalty ;  and  many  of  the  fugitives 
who  escaped  from  the  field  after  the  overthrow  of 
Lord  Went  worth  at  Bo  vey- Tracy  by  Cromwell,  un 
fortunately  for  the  village,  took  refuge  in  Ilsington 
church,  whither  they  were  pursued  and  again  driven 
to  flight  by  the  victorious  army. 

There  is  no  appearance  of  Ford's  being  married 
at  the  period  of  his  retirement  from  the  Temple,  as 
none  of  his  dedications  or  addresses  make  the  slight 
est  allusion  to  any  circumstance  of  a  domestic  nature ; 
it  is  probable,  therefore,  that  he  accommodated  himself 
with  a  wife  at  Ilsington.  If  he  withdrew,  as  I  have 
supposed,  about  1639,  he  was  then  in  his  fifty-third 
year, — no  very  auspicious  period,  it  must  be  allowed, 


INTRODUCTION. 


liii 


for  venturing  on  a  matrimonial  connection,  and  yet 
no  uncommon  one  for  those  who,  like  himself,  have 
devoted  their  time  to  the  arduous  and  absorbing  pro 
fession  of  the  law.  Be  this  as  it  may,  there  is,  or 
rather  was,  an  indistinct  tradition  among  his  neigh 
bours  that  he  married  and  had  children.  The  cruelty 
of  the  flinty  Lycia  could  now  affect  him  but  little,  as 
she  was  probably  herself  a  grandmother ;  but  a  per 
son  of  our  poet's  character  and  fortune  had  not  far 
to  seek  for  a  worthy  partner,  and  with  such  a  one  it 
is  pleasing  to  hope  that  he  spent  the  residue  of  his 
blameless  and  honourable  life. 

None  of  his  descendants,  however,  are  specified, 
but  Sir  Henry  Ford  (Secretary  for  Ireland  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  II.),  who  is  traditionally  reported  to  be 
the  poet's  grandson,  or  rather  son,  and  in  whom,  be 
he  who  he  will  (for  I  suspect  that  he  was  of  a  more 
remote  branch),  the  property  of  the  family  eventually 
centered.  Sir  Henry  left  no  family;  and  with  him,  who 
died  in  1684,  terminated  the  line  of  the  Fords,  and 
the  property  was  dispersed.  Much  of  it  fell  by  pur 
chase  to  Egerton  Falconer,  Esq.,  whose  descendants 
held  it  till  within  a  few  years  of  the  present  period, 
when  it  passed  altogether  into  the  hands  of  strangers. 

All  that  now  remain  of  this  once  opulent  and  re 
spectable  name  are  a  little  charity-school  founded  at 
Ashburton  by  a  Mr.  John  Ford,  who  endowed  it  with 
a  few  pounds  a  year  for  a  master  "  to  teach  reading 
and  writing ;"  and  a  small  parcel  of  land  of  the  annual 
value  of  twenty  pounds,  bequeathed  to  the  parish  of 
Ilsington  by  a  Mrs.  Jane  Ford,  for  "  instructing  the 


Hv  INTRODUCTION. 

children  of  the  poor,  and  for  the  purchase  of  Bibles." 
What's  property,  dear  Swift  ? — 

It  is  said  by  Winstanley  that  Ford's  plays  were 
profitable  to  the  managers.  It  might  be  so ;  though 
Winstanley,  as  Langbaine  justly  observes,  is  not  the 
best  authority  for  this  or  any  other  fact  relative  to  the 
stage.  They  seem,  however,  not  to  have  found  many 
readers,  since  few  if  any  of  them  ever  reached  a  se 
cond  edition.  True  it  is  that  the  civil  commotions 
supplied  other  employment  for  men's  minds  about  the 
close  of  Ford's  dramatic  career;  but  he  could  at  no 
period  of  his  life  have  been  a  popular  writer.  Not 
the  slightest  mention  of  his  name  occurs  in  Wright's 
excellent  Dialogue  on  the  old  stage ;  nor  does  it  once 
appear  in  the  long  lists  of  Downes  the  prompter, 
when,  upon  the  Restoration,  the  repositories  of  the 
playhouses  were  ransacked  for  dramas  to  gratify  the 
rising  passion  for  theatrical  performances.  Once,  and 
but  once,  he  is  mentioned  by  Pepys  (an  unwearied 
frequenter  of  the  stage),  who  witnessed  the  represen 
tation  of  The  Lady's  Trial.^  I  have  not  Pepys  before 
me  at  this  instant,  and  may  therefore  have  mistaken 
the  piece :  whatever  it  was,  however,  he  passes  it  over 
with  perfect  indifference.  From  this  period  (1669) 
nothing  farther  is  heard  of  the  poet  till  the  year  1714, 
when  an  absurd  attempt  was  made  to  overthrow  the 
Pretender's  hopes  by  a  reprint  of  Perkin  Warbeck! 

25  Pepys's  words  are;  "March  3,  1668-9.  TO  the  Duke  of 
York's  playhouse,  and  there  saw  an  old  play,  the  first  time  acted 
these  forty  years,  called  'The  Lady's  Tryall,'  acted  only  by  the 
young  people  of  the  house  ;  but  the  house  very  full."  D. 


INTRODUCTION.  Iv 

and  again,  in  i745,26  when,  with  similar  wisdom  and 
similar  expectations,  that  play  was  brought  out  at 
Goodman's  Fields  ! 

From  this  period  (with  the  exception  of  Macklin's 
despicable  forgery,  which  took  place  in  1748),  the 
dramatic  works  of  Ford,  together  with  his  name,  re 
lapsed  into  obscurity.  He  is  not  mentioned  by  Mr. 
G.  Ellis  nor  by  Mr.  Headley.  At  length,  however,  he 
appears  to  have  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  C.  Lamb, 
who,  in  his  Specimens  of  Dramatic  Authors,  gave  se 
veral  extracts  of  considerable  length  from  his  best 
pieces  :  and  to  the  elaborate  and  somewhat  metaphy 
sical  eulogium  which  was  subjoined  to  one  of  them, 
my  ingenious  friend,  Mr.  O.  Gilchrist,27  attributed  his 
being  finally  thought  worthy  of  a  reprint. 

The  person  selected  by  the  booksellers  for  this 
purpose  was  Mr.  Henry  Weber.  It  would  be  curious  to 
learn  the  motives  of  this  felicitous  choice.  Mr.  Weber 
had  never  read  an  old  play  in  his  life ;  he  was  but 
imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  language ;  and  of  the 
manners,  customs,  habits — of  what  was  and  what  was 
not  familiar  to  us  as  a  nation — he  possessed  no  know 
ledge  whatever;  but,  secure  in  ignorance,  he  enter 
tained  a  comfortable  opinion  of  himself,  and  never 
doubted  that  he  was  qualified  to  instruct  and  enliven 
the  public.  With  Ford's  quartos,  therefore,  and  a 
wallet  containing  Cotgrave's  French  Dictionary,  The 
Variorum  Edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  Dodsley's  Col- 

26  '  Tis  pity  she's  a  Whore  had,  however,  been  given  to  the  pub 
lic  the  year  before  by  Dodsley. 

27  Letter,  &c.  p.  15. 


Ivi  INTRODUCTION. 

lection  of  Old  Plays,  he  settled  himself  to  his  appointed 
task,  and  in  due  time  produced  the  two  volumes  now 
before  the  public,  much  to  the  delight  of  "  the  judi 
cious  admirers  of  our  ancient  drama,"  and  so  entirely 
to  the  satisfaction  of  his  employers,  that  they  wisely 
resolved  to  lose  no  time  in  securing  his  valuable  ser 
vices  for  an  edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

All,  however,  did  not  quite  agree  with  "  the  judi 
cious  admirers  of  the  ancient  drama"  respecting  the 
value  of  Mr.  Weber's  labours.  In  particular,  Mr.  Oc- 
tavius  Gilchrist,  whose  memory  will  long  be  cherished 
by  the  sincere  inquirer  after  truth,  for  the  vigorous 
and  successful  stand  which  he  made  against  the  base 
attacks  of  the  Shakespeare  commentators  on  the  moral 
character  of  Jonson,  came  once  more  forward  in  the 
same  cause,  and  was  again  triumphant.28 

Mr.  Weber  seems  to  have  relied  for  the  success 
of  his  undertaking  not  so  much  on  the  merits  of  his 
author  as  on  the  exposition  (for  the  hundredth  time) 
of  the  "  bitter  enmity  of  Ben  Jonson  towards  him  on 
account  of  his  close  intimacy  with  Shakespeare."  Ob 
tuse  as  the  optics  of  this  person  were,  they  were  keen 

28  This  gentleman,  whom,  with  Mr.  Roscoe,  I  lament  to  call 
"the  late  ingenious  Mr.  Gilchrist,"  had  not  reached  the  meridian 
of  life  when  he  fell  a  sacrifice  to  some  consumptive  complaint  which 
had  long  oppressed  him.  His  last  labour  of  love  was  an  attempt  to 
rescue  Pope  from  the  rancorous  persecution  of  his  editor,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bowles.  I  know  not  why  this  doughty  personage  gives  himself 
such  airs  of  superiority  over  Mr.  Gilchrist ;  nor  why,  unless  from 
pure  taste,  he  clothes  them  in  a  diction  not  often  heard  out  of  the 
purlieus  of  St.  Giles.  Mr.  Gilchrist  was  a  man  of  strict  integrity ; 
and  in  the  extent  and  accuracy  of  his  critical  knowledge  and  the 
patient  industry  of  his  researches,  as  much  superior  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Bowles  as  in  good  manners. 


INTRODUCTION.  Ivii 

enough  to  discover  that  abuse  of  Jonson,  however 
hackneyed,  was  still  a  saleable  commodity ;  and,  as 
recent  examples  powerfully  proved,  if  seasoned  with 
an  additional  sprinkling  of  falsehood  and  malignity, 
thankfully  received  by  the  public,  and  no  questions 
asked.  On  this  hint  Mr.  Weber  spake.  He  manifests 
a  visible  impatience  to  reach  the  main  subject  of  his 
work;  and  accordingly  he  has  hardly  entered  upon 
the  Introduction  before  he  brings  from  The  Variorum 
Shakespeare  all  the  baffled  trash  which  Steevens  had 
raked  together  for  a  particular  purpose ;  though,  as 
Mr.  Gilchrist  justly  observes,  "  after  its  complete  over 
throw  by  such  a  determined  champion  of  Shakespeare 
as  Mr.  Malone,  it  certainly  required  more  than  ordinary 
intrepidity  to  repeat  imputations  already  refuted,  and 
[in  pretended  confirmation  of  them]  refer  to  documents 
[proofs]  which  have  not,  nor  ever  had,  existence."29 

I  have  no  wish  to  afflict  the  reader  with  the  de 
tails  of  this  scandalous  transaction,  and  shall  there 
fore  merely  observe  that  Macklin,  who  in  1745  was 
alike  ignorant  of  Ford  and  his  works  (see  v.  ii.  p.  no), 
shortly  became  so  familiar  with  both,  that  in  1748  he 
fixed  upon  one  of  his  plays  (The  Lover's  Melancholy) 
for  his  wife's  benefit.  As  the  piece  was  new  to  the- 
town,  Macklin  inserted  a  letter  in  The  General  Adver 
tiser,  dilating  on  its  surprising  merits,  which  are  fully 
accounted  for  by  the  "close  intimacy  that  subsisted 
between  the  author  and  Shakespeare,  as  appears  from 
several  of  Ford's  sonnets  and  verses"  !  As  the  public 
did  not  appear  to  interest  themselves  much  in  this 

29  Letter  to  W.  Gifford,  p.  24. 


Iviii  INTRODUCTION. 

connection,  a  new  stimulant  was  found  necessary. 
The  performance  was  put  off  for  a  week,  during 
which  Macklin  laboriously  exerted  himself  in  fabri 
cating  a  libel  against  Jonson,  of  whom  he  had  not 
even  thought  before,  in  which  every  calumny  that 
avarice,  working  on  ignorance  and  impudence,  could 
devise,  is  brought  forward  against  an  innocent  man, 
for  the  unworthy  purpose  of  disposing  of  a  few  addi 
tional  tickets.30 

The   reader  may  wonder,  perhaps,  why  this   ex- 

30  If  the  reader  wishes  for  more  on  this  subject,  let  him  have  the 
goodness  to  turn  to  the  introductory  remarks  on  The  New  Inn 
(Jonson,  vol.  v.  p.  314),  where  sufficient  to  gratify  his  curiosity  will 
be  found  in  a  connected  narrative. 

It  has  not  been  observed  that  this  republication  of  Macklin's 
forgeries  might  lead  in  some  degree  to  the  fabrications  of  "young 
Master  Ireland."  Macklin,  who  only  wanted  his  trick  to  succeed 
for  a  night  or  two,  was  satisfied  with  referring  to  "  Ford's  Sonnets 
and  Poems"  as  a  convincing  proof  that  he  lived  in  strict  friendship 
with  Shakespeare ;  but  his  more  enterprising  follower,  who  saw  a 
fair  prospect  of  raising  a  fortune  on  the  gullibility  of  this  great  lubber, 
the  town,  prudently  chose  to  take  the  Shakesperian  papers  ("Sonnets 
and  Poems  and  Plays")  into  his  own  hands,  and  bequeath  them,  in 
the  name  of  the  great  poet,  to  an  ancestor  of  his  own— a  certain 
W.  H.  Ireland,  Esq.,  who,  like  Ford,  "lived  in  strict  friendship 
with  Shakespeare,"  and  was  intrusted  with  the  care  of  his  Mss. ! 

It  is  mortifying  to  look  back  a  few  years  to  this  disgraceful  event, 
and  to  see  George  Chalmers  fighting  knee-deep  in  authorities  for  the 
authenticity  of  this  most  ridiculous  stuff ;  and  Dr.  Parr  on  his  knees 
reverently  kissing  a  vulgar  scrawl  dangling  from  a  dirty  piece  of  red 
tape,  with  Dr.  Warton  close  behind  him  !  * 

It  is  still  more  mortifying  to  reflect  that  had  this  youth,  who  was 
a  poor  illiterate  creature,  possessed  but  a  single  grain  of  prudence, 
and  known  when  and  where  to  stop,  his  worthless  forgeries  might  at 
this  moment  be  visited  by  anniversary  crowds  of  devoted  pilgrims, 
in  some  splendid  shrine  set  apart  in  his  father's  house  for  these  pious 
purposes.  

*  See  "H.  Ireland's  Confessions." 


INTRODUCTION.  lix 

ploded  stuff  was  admitted  into  The  Variorum.  It 
may  be  easily  explained.  In  reprinting  the  "  Com 
mendatory  Poems"  on  Shakespeare,  it  became  neces 
sary  to  commence  with  that  of  Jonson  "to  the  me 
mory  of  his  beloved  friend :"  a  panegyric,  be  it  said, 
which  was  not  only  the  first  in  date,  but  which,  in 
warmth  of  affection  and  judicious  and  zealous  praise, 
is  worth  all  that  has  since  appeared  on  the  subject. 
To  leave  Jonson  with  the  impression  of  this  most  cor 
dial  testimony  to  the  talents  and  virtues  of  our  great 
poet  on  the  reader's  mind  was  death  to  Steevens ; 
and  he  had  hardly  patience  to  copy  the  last  word  of 
it  before  he  again  burst  forth :  "  What  you  have  just 
seen  is  mere  hypocrisy ;  I  will  now  show  you  Jon- 
son's  real  sentiments  :"  and  accordingly  he  brings  for 
ward  the  forgeries  of  Macklin  from  some  old  news 
papers,  where  they  had  lain  covered  with  dust  for 
nearly  half  a  century,  "  without  entertaining"  as  Mr. 
Weber  is  pleased  to  assure  us  (Introduction,  p.  xxiv.), 
"  any  suspicion  of  their  authenticity"  ! 

I  have  elsewhere  called  Steevens  the  Puck  of  Com 
mentators  ;  and  I  know  not  that  I  could  have  described 
him  more  graphically.  Yet  in  this,  strict  justice,  I  fear, 
is  hardly  done  to  Puck.  Both  delighted  to  mislead, 
and  both  enjoyed  the  fruits  of  their  mischievous  ac 
tivity;  but  the  frank  and  boisterous  laugh,  the  jolly 
hoh  !  hoh  !  hoh  !  of  the  fairy  hobgoblin  degenerated 
in  his  follower  to  a  cold  and  malignant  grin,  which 
he  retired  to  his  cell  to  enjoy  alone.  Steevens  was 
an  acute  and  apprehensive  mind,  cankered  by  envy 
and  debased. 


Ix  INTRODUCTION. 

With  respect  to  the  credulity  of  this  subdolous 
spirit,  for  the  sincerity  of  which  the  undoubting  Mr. 
Weber  so  freely  vouches,  there  is  not  a  syllable  of 
truth  in  it.  Mr.  Malone  assured  me,  over  and  over, 
that  Steevens  did  not  believe  one  word  of  it.  The 
last  conversation  which  I  had  with  this  gentleman 
(which  took  place  as  we  were  walking  in  Piccadilly) 
turned  upon  this  very  subject,  when  he  repeated  his 
assurances ;  adding  that  Steevens,  exclusively  of  other 
causes,  espoused  the  forgery  with  the  insidious  hope 
of  deceiving  others.  With  Mr.  Malone,  who,  as  he 
frankly  confesses,  was  prompt  to  believe  the  worst  of 
Jonson,  he  was  completely  successful  at  first ;  but  be 
fore  he  could  avail  himself  of  his  triumph  his  colleague 
anticipated  his  discovery,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
Whalley  and  a  few  well -ascertained  facts  and  dates, 
exposed  at  once  the  ignorance  and  impudence  of  this 
malicious  fabrication. 

Had  Mr.  Weber  contented  himself  with  simply 
copying  his  predecessor's  calumnies,  though  he  would 
not  have  gained  much  as  an  author,  he  might  have 
escaped  censure ;  but  this  was  not  enough  for  his 
ambition ;  he  saw  how  little  was  required  to  insult  a 
man  of  integrity,  learning,  and  genius,  and  he  aspired 
to  the  honour  of  adding  his  name  to  the  long  list 
of  Jonson's  persecutors,  and  fabricating  new  charges 
against  him.  Could  he  be  suspected  of  reading  the 
works  on  which  he  has  been  occasionally  employed, 
it  might  be  thought  that  he  had  adopted,  with  regard 
to  Jonson,  as  too  many  others  have  done,  the  advice 
and  opinion  of  the  old  romancer ; 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixi 

"  Hew  off  his  honde,  his  legge,  his  theye,  his  armys  : 
It  is  the  Turk! — though  he  be  sleyn,  noon  harm  is  !" 

It  is  but  Jonson  ! 

Here,  however,  Mr.  Weber's  better  Genius  forsook 
him ;  for  his  additional  violation  of  truth  called  forth 
that  "  Letter"  to  which  I  have  so  often  alluded,  and 
levelled  the  whole  of  his  audacious  calumnies  in  the 
dust.  What  Mr.  Weber  thought  of  this  detection  of 
his  falsehood,  this  exposure  of  his  ignorance,  is  only 
known  to  his  inmates.  To  justify  himself  was  impos 
sible  ;  and  signals  of  distress  were  therefore  thrown 
out  on  every  side  ; 

"  forthwith  to  his  aid  was  run" 

by  some  of  his  early  friends ;  one  of  whom  did  every 
thing  that  kindness  could  suggest,  and  prepared  a  spe 
cies  of  apology  (defence  there  could  be  none),  which 
was  subsequently  inserted  in  the  prefatory  matter  and 
in  the  notes  to  the  last  edition  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher. 

The  sequel  of  this  transaction  is  curious.  The 
whole  of  Macklin,  which  occupies  so  large  a  part  of 
Mr.  Weber's  Introduction,  together  with  "  the  authen 
tic  documents"  in  Mr.  Weber's  possession  of  the  tender 
friendship  of  Ford  and  Shakespeare,  and  the  conse 
quent  envy  of  "  the  malignant  Ben  ;"  in  a  word,  every 
syllable  of  the  charge  as  far  as  relates  to  the  latter, 
is  flung  overboard  without  ceremony  !  Instead,  how 
ever,  of  regretting  his  injustice,  and  expressing  some 
what  like  contrition  for  the  daring  falsehood  which 
he  had  advanced  and  the  calumnies  he  had  fabricated, 


Ixii  INTRODUCTION. 

the  editor  returns  to  the  attack,  and  is  permitted  by 
his  ill-advised  friends  to  look  back  thirty  years  for  a 
proof  of  Jonson's  enmity — not  to  Ford,  but — to  Shake 
speare  !  "  in  that  strong  passage  in  The  Return  from 
Parnassus  (1606)"  which  forms  the  only  blot  in  Shake 
speare's  character,  as  it  exhibits  him  wantonly  joining 
a  rabble  of  obscure  actors  in  persecuting  Jonson,  who 
was  struggling  for  existence,  and  who  had  not  offended 
him  even  in  thought.  So  besotted  is  malice  ! 

The  note  will  now  be  changed,  and  with  an  air 
of  affected  commiseration  I  shall  be  asked — for  old 
experience  in  these  perversities  has  endued  me  with 
something  like  prophetic  strain — why,  with  the  senti 
ments  which  I  am  known  to  entertain  of  the  com 
mentator,  I  have  "condescended" — blessings  on  the 
phrase  ! — to  notice  him  at  length  ?  or  why,  indeed,  at 
all  ?  I  reply  in  the  very  words  which  I  once  heard 
Macklin  himself  make  use  of:  they  cannot  be  much 
praised  for  their  courtesy,  it  must  be  admitted;  but 
Macklin  was  not  courteous ; 

"I'll  not  answer  that : 
But  say  it  is  my  humour  ;  is  it  answer'd?" 

Reproof,  indeed,  does  not  always  profit  the  object 
of  it ;  nor  is  it  expected  that  it  should  :  for  what  cen 
sor  was  ever  vain  or  mad  enough  to  suppose  that  he 
could  reform  a  detractor  without  feeling,  a  scribbler 
without  shame  !  But  the  example  is  not  lost  on 
others;  and  on  this  consideration  alone  interference 
is  fully  justified.  It  is  not,  it  never  can  be  good,  that 
petulance  should  find  immunity  in  its  wantonness,  or 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixiii 

malevolence  in  its  excess  ;  and  setting  aside  dramatic 
criticism  for  the  moment,  there  are  other  departments 
of  literature  in  which  the  seasonable  exposure  of  the 
stupendous  ears  of  a  maitre  dne  (a  Hunt  or  a  Haz- 
litt,  for  example)  frequently  relieves  the  public  from 
the  wearisome  braying  of  a  drove  of  less  audacious 
brutes. 

And  on  what  particular  ground  is  Mr.  Weber  en 
titled  to  forbearance?  Omitting  his  calumnies  and 
his  falsehoods,  his  insolence  is  at  least  as  notorious 
as  his  ignorance.  In  the  Introduction  to  Massinger31 
I  spoke  of  Monck  Mason  naso  adunco,  as  I  was  abund 
antly  warranted  in  doing ;  but  that  gentleman  did 
not  always  repose  in  his  disgraceful  negligence.  He 
saw  his  error,  acknowledged  and  reformed  it.  He 
studied  the  old  editions  of  our  dramatic  writers  with 
care  and  success,  and  subsequently  became  one  of 
the  most  acute  and  rational  commentators  on  our 
great  poet.  It  appears  that  he  also  meditated  an 
edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  had  prepared 
a  considerable  body  of  notes  to  accompany  it.  The 
extent  of  the  work  alarmed  him,  and  he  laid  it  aside, 
after  sending  to  the  press  a  great  number  of  emenda 
tions  and  elucidatory  remarks  creditable  at  once  to  his 
industry  and  his  judgment.  These  fell,  of  course,  into 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Weber,  and  constitute  the  only  valu 
able  part  of  his  publication,  for  his  own  notes  are  of 
the  most  contemptible  kind ;  yet  he  has  the  hardi 
hood  to  speak  of  Mr.  Monck  Mason  as  if  he  had 
never  advanced  a  step  beyond  his  Massinger,  and  of 

31  See  Mass.  vol.  i.  p.  xcix. 


IxiV  INTRODUCTION. 

every  preceding  editor  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  with 
a  contempt  that,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  strangely  mis 
becomes  him.  Instances  of  this  might  be  produced 
from  every  page.  Assuredly,  Simpson  and  Seward 
were  no  great  champions  in  the  field  of  criticism  ; 
compared  with  Mr.  Weber,  however,  they  were  giants, 
and  worthy  to  be  cited  by  him  without  a  scoff.  We 
have  seen  with  what  contempt  he  speaks  of  "  old 
Ben;"  but  he  even  presumes  to  treat  Dr.  Johnson 
himself  without  much  more  ceremony ;  he  calls  him 
in  one  place  a  "  literary  bugbear,"  and  in  another 
sneers  at  his  "  superficial  contest"  with  Mr.  Steevens  ! 
And  here — I  know  not  how — but  the  name  recals  a 
little  anecdote  to  my  mind,  which,  as  my  best  atone 
ment,  I  am  tempted  to  preserve  from  oblivion. 

My  friend  the  late  Lord  Grosvenor  had  a  house 
at  Salt-Hill,  where  I  usually  spent  a  part  of  the  sum 
mer,  and  thus  became  a  neighbour  of  that  great  and 
good  man,  Jacob  Bryant,  who  kindly  encouraged  me 
to  visit  him.  Here  the  conversation  turned  one  morn 
ing  on  a  Greek  criticism  by  Dr.  Johnson,  in  some 
volume  lying  on  the  table,  which  I  ventured  (for  I 
was  then  young)  to  deem  incorrect,  and  pointed  it 
out  to  him.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  he  was 
somewhat  of  my  opinion ;  but  he  was  cautious  and 
reserved.  "  But,  sir,"  said  I,  willing  to  overcome  his 
scruples,  "  Dr.  Johnson  himself,"  a  fact  which  Mr. 
Bryant  well  knew,  "  admitted  that  he  was  not  a  good 
Greek  scholar."  "  Sir,"  he  replied,  with  a  serious  and 
impressive  air,  "  it  is  not  easy  for  us  to  say  what  such 
a  man  as  Johnson  would  call  a  good  Greek  scholar." 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixv 

I  hope  that  I  profited  by  the  lesson ;  certainly  I  never 
forgot  it ;  and  if  but  one  of  my  readers  do  the  same, 
I  shall  not  repent  placing  it  upon  record. 

To  return  to  Ford.  The  tragedy  reprinted  by 
Dodsley  had  both  pleased  and  interested  me;  and 
Isaac  Reed,  to  whom  I  applied,  kindly  furnished  me 
with  a  complete  collection  of  the  author's  works,  so 
that  I  was  prepared  to  welcome  the  new  edition ;  for 
of  Mr.  Weber  I  only  knew  that  he  was  patronised  by 
two  of  the  most  liberal  and  kindhearted  of  men,  and 
encouraged  to  copy  and  reprint  some  of  our  old  me 
trical  romances. 

A  slight  glance  convinced  me  that  the  republica- 
tion  was  utterly  worthless ;  and  I  proceeded,  with  my 
habitual  regard  for  truth,  and  reverence  for  the  literary 
character  of  my  country,  to  rescue  not  the  worst  of 
its  poets  from  the  ignorance  which  overlaid  him  and 
disgraced  the  national  press.  I  had  no  distinct  notion 
of  giving  an  edition  of  Ford  myself  at  that  time,  for 
which,  in  truth,  I  had  little  leisure ;  but  I  ceased  not 
to  look  forward  to  a  period  of  less  responsibility,  when 
it  might  not  be  incompatible  with  my  ordinary  pur 
suits,  and  contented  myself  in  the  interim  with  occa 
sional  revises  of  the  original  text.  Even  thus  I  should 
perhaps  have  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  age  and  ever- 
recurring  disease,  and  left  the  task  to  others,  had  I 
not  perceived  that  the  booksellers  had  profited  little 
by  experience,  and  that  our  old  poetry  was  still  foisted 
upon  the  public  from  the  modern  copies,  without  im 
provement,  and,  in  fact,  without  knowledge  :  it  was 
therefore  morally  certain  that  a  reprint  of  this  miser- 

VOL.  i.  e 


Ixvi  INTRODUCTION. 

able  job  would  eventually  appear;  and  as  I  had  pre 
viously  rescued  the  lovers  of  our  old  drama  from  a 
verbatim  copy  of  Monck  Mason's  Massingcr,  I  ven 
tured  to  hope  for  their  liberal  construction  of  my 
endeavours  in  the  kindred  office  of  relieving  them 
from  a  second  edition  of  Mr.  Weber's  Ford. 

All  this  may  savour  of  vanity — to  those  who  know 
me  not.  About  this,  however,  I  give  myself  no  con 
cern,  well  assured  that  the  most  inveterate  of  my 
enemies  cannot  entertain  a  humbler  opinion  of  this 
work  than  I  do  myself,  as  far  as  Mr.  Weber  and  his 
friends  are  concerned.  If  it  prove  useful  to  the  cause 
of  truth  and  justice,  and  tend  in  any  degree  to  check 
the  unlicensed  career  of  ignorance  and  presumption, 
I  have  all  the  reward  that  I  ever  coveted. 

To  the  text,  which  will,  I  flatter  myself,  be  found 
as  correct  as  that  of  Massinger,  a  few  short  notes  are 
subjoined :  and  here  I  must  bespeak  the  reader's  in 
dulgence  if  he  occasionally  observes  an  explanation 
when  all  seems  sufficiently  clear.  In  these  cases  the 
reference  is  always  to  the  labours  of  Mr.  Weber,  who 
might,  if  consulted,  still  mislead  the  reader.  Of  the 
general  nature  of  this  person's  notes,  some  idea  may 
be  formed  by  the  few  (they  are  but  a  few[?])  which  I 
have  placed  as  specimens  in  the  Introductory  part. 
My  remarks,  together  with  the  innumerable  correc 
tions  of  the  text,  should  have  been  subjoined  to  the 
respective  pages,  had  I  not  indulged  a  hope  that 
whenever  another  edition  of  this  poet  should  be  called 
for,  the  future  editor  (as  the  reading  will  then  pro 
bably  be  considered  as  established)  would  remove 


INTRODUCTION. 

this  part  of  the  Introduction,  and  relieve  the  work 
altogether  from  the  name  of  Weber. 

To  the  dramas  I  have  subjoined  for  the  first  time 
Fame's  Memorial,  which  had  been  already  given  to 
the  press,  from  the  old  copy,  by  Mr.  Joseph  Hasle- 
wood.32  It  requires  no  comment.  A  few  good  lines, 
and  even  stanzas,  might  be  selected  from  it ;  but  as 
a  whole  it  is  little  more  than  the  holiday  task  of  an 
ambitious  schoolboy.  The  elegies  and  encaenias  of 
those  days  were  usually  of  a  formidable  length ;  but 
the  mortuary  tribute  of  our  youthful  bard  outstrips 
them  all.  In  ten  pages  he  might  have  said  all  that 
he  had  to  say,  or  his  subject  required ;  but  he  was 
determined  to  have  fifty,  and  the  inevitable  conse 
quence  followed :  five  times  he  repeats  himself,  and 
in  every  successive  repetition  becomes  more  vapid, 
unnatural,  and  wearisome.  What  is  still  more  vex 
atious,  after  dragging  his  reader  through  an  hundred 
seven-line  stanzas,  and  very  pertinently  demanding 

"  What  more  yet  unremember'd  can  I  say?" 

he  bursts  forth  in  a  deep  and  awful  strain  of  pathos, 
which  Old  Jeronymo33  never  reached ; 

32  The  preface  to  this  publication  by  the  editor,  the  professed 
admirer  of  Mr.  Weber's  talents,  is  drawn-up  with  such  neatness  and 
perspicuity  that  it  would  be  a  crying  injustice  to  the  author  to  sup 
press  it,  were  it  not  morally  certain  that,  like  the  poem  to  which  it 
is  prefixed,  it  would  never  obtain  a  reader.     At  the  conclusion  Mr. 
Haslewood,  who  qualifies  himself  very  properly  as  an  unspleened 
dove,  has  aimed  a  swashing  blow  at  me — who  was  even  ignorant  of 
his  existence — of  a  most  tremendous  kind  ; 

"  Be  merciful,  great  duke,  to  men  of  mould  !" 

33  See  The  Spanish  Tragedy  (which  critics  agree  in  assigning  to 
the  pen  of  Kyd),  "  O  eyes  !  no  eyes,"  &c.  act  iii.   D. 


Ixvili  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Life?  ah,  no  life,  but  soon-extinguish'd  tapers  ; 
Tapers  ?  no  tapers,  but  a  burnt-out  light ; 
Light  ?  ah,  no  light,  but  exhalation's  vapours  ; 
Vapours  ?  no  vapours,  but  ill-blinded  sight ; 
Sight  ?  ah,  no  sight,  but  hell's  eternal  night ; 
A  night  ?  no  night,  but  picture  of  an  elf ; 
An  elf?  no  elf,  but  very  death  itself." 

He  then  erects  "  Nine  Tombs"  over  his  patron 's  ashes, 
upon  every  one  of  which  he  places  an  epitaph;  and,  as 
if  this  were  not  sufficient,  breaks  out  once  more  in  a 
childish  rant,  which  can  only  excite  pity  by  its  hopeless 
imbecility. 

Could  it  be  supposed  for  an  instant  that  a  single 
person  would  toil  through  this  Memorial,  I  should 
have  subjoined  an  observation  or  two,  for  which  occa 
sion  was  offered;  but  to  write  merely  to  be  overlooked 
is  not  very  encouraging  :  I  have  therefore  satisfied 
myself  with  the  reprint,  leaving  the  notes  to  be  here 
after  excogitated  by  the  former  editor,  who,  after 
innocently  confounding  the  poet  with  his  cousin  of 
Gray's  Inn,  very  feelingly  laments  that  "  there  yet  sur 
vives  a  puny  race  of  fastidious  readers  who  will  con 
tinue  to  esteem  a  naked  text  in  preference  to  a  page 
three  parts  enriched  by  notes  critical  and  illustrative" ! 

The  work  closes  with  an  additional  poem,  com 
posed  under  better  auspices  and  in  a  far  better  taste. 
It  is  a  warm  and  cordial  tribute  of  praise  to  the  "  best 
of  English  poets,"  written  in  1637,  and  published  in 
the  Jonsonus  Virbius  of  the  following  year.  Two  or 
three  smaller  pieces  of  a  complimentary  kind  might 
be  added,34  but  they  are  not  worth  the  labour  of  tran- 

34  I  have  added  two  or  three,  in  order  to  render  this  edition  as 
complete  as  possible.  D. 


INTRODUCTION.  Ixix 

scribing ;  and  the  reader,  who  has  yet  to  wade  through 
the  corruptions  of  the  last  edition,35  has  already  been 
too  long  detained  from  the  dramatic  pieces. 

35  Detailed  in  a  supplement  to  the  present  Introduction;  which 
supplement  I  have  omitted,  according  to  the  wish  of  Gifford  :  see 
p.  Ixvi.,  and  my  Preface.  D. 


A  LIST  OF  FORD'S  PLAYS. 


Ci.   The  Lovers  Melancholy,  T.  C.     Acted  at  the  Blackfriars  and 
(  the  Globe,  24th  November  1628.     Printed  1629. 

r     2.  'Tis  Pity  she's  a   Whore,  T.      Printed   1633.      Acted  at   the 
J  Phoenix. 

/     3.   The  Broken  Heart,  T.    Printed  1633.    Acted  at  the  Blackfriars. 
(4-  Loves  Sacrifice,  T.     Printed  1633.     Acted  at  the  Phoenix. 
)    5.  Perkin  Warbeck,  H.  T.     Printed  1634.     Acted  at  the  Phoenix. 

"S    6.    The  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble,  C.    Printed  1638.    Acted  at  the 
/  Phoenix. 

7.  The  Lady's  Trial,  T.  C.     Acted  at  the  Cockpit  in  May  1638. 

Printed  1639. 

8.  The  Sun's  Darling,  M.    By  Ford  and  Decker.    Acted  in  March 

1623-24,  at  the  Cockpit.     Printed  1657  [see  vol.  iii.  p.  102]. 

9.  The  Witch  of  Edmonton,  T.     By  Rowley,  Decker,  Ford,  &c. 

Printed  1658.     Probably  acted  soon  after  1622.     Acted  at 
the  Cockpit  and  at  Court. 

10.  Beauty  in  a  Trance,  T.  Entered  on  the  Stationers'  books  Sep 
tember  gth,  1653,  but  not  printed.  Destroyed  by  Mr.  War- 
burton's  servant. 


Entered  on  the  Sta 
tioners'  books  June 
29th,  1660,  but  not 
printed.  Destroyed 
by  Mr.  Warburton's 


11.  The  London  Merchant,  C. 

12.  The  Royal  Combat,  C. 

13.  An  ill  Beginning<has  a  good  End,  &c. 

C.    Played  at  the  Cockpit,  1613.      J       servant. 

14.  The  Fairy  Knight.     By  Ford  and  Decker. 

15.  A  late  Murther  of  the  Sonne  upon  the  Mother.     By  Ford  and 

Webster. 

16.  The  Bristowe  Merchant.     By  Ford  and  Decker. 

These  are  given  from  the  researches  of  Mr.  G.  Chalmers.     For 
other  pieces  attributed  to  our  author  see  p.  xx. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES  ON  FORD. 


To  my  honoured  Friend,  Master  John  Ford,  on  his 
Lover's  Melancholy. 

IF  that  thou  think'st  these  lines  thy  worth  can  raise, 
Thou  dost  mistake  :  my  liking  is  no  praise ; 
Nor  can  I  think  thy  judgment  is  so  ill 
To  seek  for  bays  from  such  a  barren  quill. 
Let  your  true  critic,  that  can  judge  and  mend, 
Allow  thy  scenes  and  style  :  I,  as  a  friend 
That  knows  thy  worth,  do  only  stick  my  name 
To  show  my  love,  not  to  advance  thy  fame. 

GEORGE  DoNNE.1 

1  George  Donne.]  Mr.  Weber  felicitates  the  poet  on  the  suc 
cess  of  this  drama,  which  had  the  good  fortune,  he  says,  to  be 
recommended  to  the  public  by  "  the  celebrated  Dr.  Donne"  !  That 
anyone  who  pretended  to  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  the  writers 
of  Ford's  time  should  be  so  incomprehensibly  ignorant  of  their 
style  and  manner  as  to  attribute  this  feeble  doggerel  to  John  Donne 
the  dean  of  St.  Paul's — but  I  dare  not  trust  myself  with  the  subject. 
At  the  moment  when  this  unfortunate  blunderer  supposes  Dr. 
Donne  anxious  to  ply  his  barren  quill  and  stick  his  name  here, 
purely  "  to  show  his  love,"  that  great  man  was  fallen  into  a  danger 
ous  sickness  (which  eventually  carried  him  off),  and  was  pressing 
forward  with  the  zeal  of  a  martyr  and  the  purity  of  a  saint  to  the 
crown  that  was  set  before  him.  George  Donne  seems  to  have  been 
a  constant  attendant  at  the  theatres.  He  was  apparently  a  kind- 
hearted,  friendly  man,  who  had  his  little  modicum  of  praise  ready 
upon  all  occasions.  He  has  verses  to  Jonson,  Massinger,  and  others. 


Ixxii  COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


To  his  worthy  Friend  the  Author  \pf  The  Lovers 
Melancholy\  Master  John  Ford. 

I  write  not  to  thy  play :  I'll  not  begin 

To  throw  a  censure  upon  what  hath  bin2 

By  th'  best  approv'd  :  it  can  nor  fear  nor  want 

The  rage  or  liking  of  the  ignorant. 

Nor  seek  I  fame  for  thee,  when  thine  own  pen 

Hath  forc'd  a  praise  long  since  from  knowing  men. 

I  speak  my  thoughts,  and  wish  unto  the  stage 

A  glory  from  thy  studies ;  that  the  age 

May  be  indebted  to  thee  for  reprieve 

Of  purer  language,  and  that  spite  may  grieve 

To  see  itself  outdone.    When  thou  art  read, 

The  theatre  may  hope  arts  are  not  dead, 

Though  long  conceal'd ;  that  poet-apes  may  fear 

To  vent  their  weakness,  mend,  or  quite  forbear. 

This  I  dare  promise ;  and  keep  this  in  store, 

As  thou  hast  done  enough,  thou  canst  do  more. 

WILLIAM  SiNGLETON.3 

2  The  old  ed.  has  "  been."  D. 

3  In  a  copy  of  verses  prefixed  to  Massiriger's  Emperor  of  the 
East  Singleton  calls  himself  "  the  friend  and  kinsman"  of  that  poet. 
I  know  nothing  more  of  him.     It  will  be  time  enough  to  speak  of 
his  immediate  follower,    Hum.    Howorth,   when  I  know  what  he 
means.    It  must  be  admitted  that  Mr.  Weber  has  placed  Dr.  Donne 
at  the  head  of  a  most  illustrious  quartette. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  Ixxiii 

To  the  Author  [of  The  Lover's  Melancholy\,  Master 
John  Ford. 

Black  choler,  reason's  overflowing  spring, 

Where  thirsty. lovers  drink,  or  anything, 

Passion,  the  restless  current  of  dull  plaints 

Affords  their  thoughts,  who  deem  lost  beauties  saints ; 

Here  their  best  lectures  read,  collect,  and  see 

Various  conditions  of  humanity, 

Highly  enlighten'd  by  thy  Muse's  rage ; 

Yet  all  so  couch'd  that  they  adorn'd  the  stage. 

Shun  Phocion's  blushes  thou ;  for,  sure,  to  please 

It  is  no  sin ;  then  what  is  thy  disease  ? 

Judgment's  applause  ?  effeminated  smiles  ? 

Study's  delight  ?  thy  wit  mistrust  beguiles  : 

Establish'd  fame  will  thy  physician  be, 

(Write  but  again)  to  cure  thy  jealousy. 

HUM.  HOWORTH. 


Of  The  Lover's  Melancholy. 

'Tis  not  the  language,  nor  the  fore-plac'd  rhymes 
Of  friends,  that  shall  commend  to  after-times 
The  Lover's  Melancholy  :  its  own  worth 
Without  a  borrow'd  praise4  shall  set  it  forth. 

'O 


4  praise]  Gifford  printed  "phrase."  D. 

5  Macklin,  with  a  degree  of  learning  which  quite  perplexes  Mr. 
Malone,  has  daringly  (but  happily)  ventured  to  put  these  profound 
symbols  into  English  characters  and  subscribe  the  quatrain  Philos. 
Mr.  Malone  thinks  he  must  have  had  the  assistance  of  some  learned 
friend. 


1XX1V  COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

To  my  Friend,  the  Author  [of'Tis  Pity  she's  a  Whore]. 

With  admiration  I  beheld  this  Whore, 
Adorn'd  with  beauty  such  as  might  restore 
(If  ever  being,  as  thy  Muse  hath  fam'd) 
Her  Giovanni,  in  his  love  unblam'd  : 
The  ready  Graces  lent  their  willing  aid ; 
Pallas  herself  now  play'd  the  chambermaid, 
And  help'd  to  put  her  dressings  on.    Secure 
Rest  thou  that  thy  name  herein  shall  endure 
To  th'  end  of  age ;  and  Annabella  be 
Gloriously  fair,  even  in  her  infamy. 

THOMAS  ELLICE.G 


To  my  Friend,  Master  John  Ford  \pn  his  Love's 
Sacrifice']. 

Unto  this  altar,  rich  with  thy  own  spice, 
I  bring  one  grain  to  thy  Love's  Sacrifice; 
And  boast  to  see  thy  flames  ascending,  while 
Perfumes  enrich  our  air  from  thy  sweet  pile. 
Look  here,  thou  that  hast  malice  to  the  stage, 
And  impudence  enough  for  the  whole  age ; 
Ftf/z/w/wzAf/y-ignorant,7  be  vext 
To  read  this  tragedy,  and  thy  own  be  next. 

JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

6  A  relative,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Robert  Ellice,  one  of  "  the  three  re 
spected  friends"  to  whom  our  poet  inscribed  The  Lover  s  Melancholy. 

7  Voluminously-ignorant,  &c.]  Antony  Wood  has  adopted  and 
justified  this  characteristic  designation  of  Prynne.     He  may  as  well 
be  called  "-voluminous  Prynne,"  he  says,   "as  Tostatus  Abulensis 
was,  two  hundred  years  before  him,  called  voluminous  Tostatus,"  &c. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

To  my  own  Friend,  Master  Joh?i  Ford,  on  his  justifi 
able  poem  of  Per  kin  War  beck,  this  ode. 

They  who  do  know  me  know  that  I, 

UnskilTd  to  flatter, 

Dare  speak  this  piece,  in  words,  in  matter, 
A  work,  without  the  danger  of  the8  lie. 

Believe  me,  friend,  the  name  of  this  and  thee 

Will  live,  your  story : 
Books  may  want  faith,  or  merit  glory ; 
This  neither,  without  judgment's  lethargy. 

When  the  arts  dote,  then  some  sick  poet  may 
Hope  that  his  pen, 
In  new-stain'd  paper,  can  find  men 
To  roar  "  He  is  the  wit;"9  his  noise  doth  sway  : 

But  such  an  age  cannot  be  known ;  for  all 
Ere  that  time  be 

Must  prove  such  truth,  mortality  : 
So,  friend,  thy  honour  stands  too  fix'd  to  fall. 

GEORGE  DONNE.IQ 

8  Gifford  printed  "a," — rightly  perhaps.  D. 

o  wit;}  The  old  ed.  has  "Wit's."  D. 

10  George  Donne.}  Here  again  credit  is  given  to  Ford  for  the 
praises  of  such  a  celebrated  pen  as  Dr.  Donne's,  who,  as  the  com 
mentator  is  not  afraid  to  assert,  was  "  the  steady  friend  of  the  poet, 
and  peculiarly  attached  to  him."  Between  Jonson  and  Donne,  in 
deed,  there  was  a  warm  and  lasting  attachment ;  their  studies  lay 
much  in  the  same  way  at  one  period  of  their  lives.  Ben,  like  him 
self,  was  a  profound  scholar,  and  deeply  versed  in  his  favourite 
pursuit,  a  knowledge  of  the  early  Fathers  of  the  Church.  But  it  is 
more  than  probable  that  Ford  was  not  even  known  to  him  by  name. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  venial  of  Mr.  Weber's  oscitancies  to  be  igno- 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


To  his  worthy  Friend,  Master  John  Ford,  tipon  his 
Perkin  Warbeck. 

Let  men  who  are  writ  poets  lay  a  claim 
To  the  Phcebean  hill,  I  have  no  name 
Nor  art  in  verse  :  true,  I  have  heard  some  tell 
Of  Aganippe,  but  ne'er  knew  the  well  ; 
Therefore  have  no  ambition  with  the  times 
To  be  in  print,  for  making  of  ill  rhymes  ; 
But  love  of  thee,  and  justice  to  thy  pen, 
Hath  drawn  me  to  this  bar  with  other  men, 
To  justify,  though  against  double  laws, 
Waving  the  subtle  business  of  his  cause, 
The  glorious  Perkin,  and  thy  poet's  art, 
Equal  with  his  in  playing  the  king's  part. 

RA.  EURE,  baronis  primogenitus.1^ 


To  my  faithful,  no  less  deserving  Friend,  the  Author  \pf 
Perkin  WarbecK\,  this  indebted  oblation. 

Perkin  is  rediviv'd  by  thy  strong  hand, 

And  crown'd  a  king  of  new ;  the  vengeful  wand 

Of  greatness  is  forgot ;  his  execution 

May  rest  unmention'd,  and  his  birth's  collusion 

Lie  buried  in  the  story ;  but  his  fame 

Thou  hast  eternis'd,  made  a  crown  his  game. 


rant  that  Dr.  Donne  had  at  the  time  this  was  written  been  two 
years  in  his  grave. 

u  "The  son  of  William,  Lord  Eure."  Of  the  Miles  who  follows 
I  can  say  nothing.  I  have,  however,  corrected  his  verses,  which 
were  shamefully  misprinted  in  the  former  edition. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  Ixxvii 

His  lofty  spirit  soars  yet :  had  he  bin12 
Base  in  his  enterprise  as  was  his  sin 
Conceiv'd,  his  title,  doubtless  prov'd  unjust, 
Had  but  for  thee  been  silenc'd  in  his13  dust. 

GEORGE  CRYMES,  miles. 


To  the  Author,  his  Friend,  upon  his  Chronicle  History 
\pf  Perkin  Warbeck}. 

These  are  not  to  express  thy  wit, 
But  to  pronounce  thy  judgment  fit, 
In  full-fil'd14  phrase,  those  times  to  raise 
When  Perkin  ran  his  wily  ways. 
Still  let  the  method  of  thy  brain 
From  error's  touch  and  envy's  stain 
Preserve  thee  free,  that  ever  thy  quill 
Fair  truth  may  wet,  and  fancy  fill. 
Thus  Graces  are  with  Muses  met, 
And  practic  critics  on  may  fret ; 
For  here  thou  hast  produc'd  a  story 
Which  shall  eclipse  their  future  glory. 

JOHN  BROGRAVE,  ar. 


To  my  Friend  and  Kinsman,  Master  John  Ford,  the 
Author  [of  Perkin  WarbecK\. 

Dramatic  poets,  as  the  times  go  now, 
Can  hardly  write  what  others  will  allow ; 

12  bin}  The  old  ed.  has  "been."  D. 

13  his]  Gifford  printed  "the," — rightly  perhaps.  D. 

14  full-fil'd]  Gifford  printed  "^//-filled."  D. 


Ixxviii  COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

The  cynic  snarls,  the  critic  howls  and  barks, 
And  ravens  croak  to  drown  the  voice  of  larks  : 
Scorn  those  stage-harpies  !     This  I'll  boldly  say, 
Many  may  imitate,  few  match  thy  play. 

JOHN  FORD,  Graiensis. 


To  Master  John  Ford,  of  the  Middle  Temple,  on  his 
Bower  of  Fancies  \pr  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble~\. 

I  follow  fair  example,  not  report, 
Like  wits  of  th'  university  or  court, 

To  show  how  I  can  write 
At  mine  own  charges,  for  the  time's  delight, 

But  to  acquit  a  debt 
Due  to  right  poets,  not  the  counterfeit. 

These  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble  are  no  strains 
Dropt  from  the  itch  of  overheated  brains ; 

They  speak  unblushing  truth, 
The  guard  of  beauty  and  the  care  of  youth ; 

Well  relish'd  might  repair 
An  academy  for  the  young  and  fair. 

Such  labours,  friend,  will  live ;  for  though  some  new 
Pretenders  to  the  stage  in  haste  pursue 

Those  laurels  which  of  old 
Enrich'd  the  actors,  yet  I  can  be  bold 

To  say  their  hopes  are  starv'd ; 
For  they  but  beg  what  pens  approv'd  deserv'd. 

EDW.  GREENFIELD. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

Upon  the  Sun's  Darling. 

Is  he,  then,  found  ?     Phoebus,  make  holiday, 
Tie  up  thy  steeds,  and  let  the  Cyclops  play ; 
Mulciber,  leave  thy  anvil,  and  be  trim, 
Comb  thy  black  muzzle,  be  no  longer  grim ; 
Mercury,  be  quick,  with  mirth  furnish  the  heavens ; 
Jove,  this  day  let  all  run  at  six  and  sevens ; 
And,  Ganymede,  be  nimble,  to  the  brim 
Fill  bowls  of  nectar,  that  the  gods  may  swim, 
To  solemnise  their  healths15  that  did  discover 
The  obscure  being  of  the  Sun's  fond  lover ; 
That  from  th'  example  of  their  liberal  mirth 
We  may  enjoy  like  freedom  [here]  on  earth. 

JOHN  TATHAM.IG 


Upon  Ford's  two  Tragedies,  Love's  Sacrifice  and 
The  Broken  Heart. 

Thou  cheat'st  us,  Ford ;  mak'st  one  seem  two  by  art : 
What  is  Love's  Sacrifice  but  the  Broken  Heart  ? 

RICHARD  CRASHAW.IT 

15  healths}  Gifford  printed  "health."  D. 

16  "John  Tatham  was  a  poet  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  and  au 
thor  of  four  plays  enumerated  in  the  Biographia  Dramatica.     From 
1657  to  1663  he  furnished  pageants  for  the  Lord  Mayor's  day,  in 
the  quality  of  city  poet."    Had  the  poets  lived  to  publish  their  own 
drama,  it  can  scarcely  be  imagined  that  they  would  have  suffered 
this  deplorable  balderdash  to  be  prefixed  to  it. 

!7  The  Delights  of  the  Muses,  1646. 


1XXX  COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

To  Master  John  Ford™  of  the  Middle  Temple,  upon  his 
Fame's  Memorial,  this  madrigal. 

If  that  renowmed  lord — whose  powerful  fame 

In  strength  of  wars  and  calms  of  peace  exceeded — 

Hath  after  death  purchas'd  so  great  a  name 
That  it  must  prosper  as  it  hath  proceeded, 
Then  must  in  time  those  spiteful  plants  be  weeded, 

Which  living,  yet  him  living  would  have  chok'd ; 
And  those  sweet  wits,  touch'd  with  a  sacred  flame 
Of  his  rich  virtues,  shall  advance  the  same. 

But  thou,  by  those  deserts  in  him  provok'd, 

That  sung  his  honours  which  so  much  exceeded, 

Whose  pleasant  pen,  in  sacred  water  soak'd 
Of  Castaly,  did  register  his  worth, 

Reapest  much  part  of  honour  for  thy  pen 

Through  him,  fair  mirror  of  our  Englishmen, 
Whom  with  due  dignity  thy  Muse  set  forth. 

BAR[NABY]  BARNES. 

IN  EUNDEM. 

Vivit,  in  cziernum  vivet  dux  indytus  armis, 
Mountjoyus  ;  nivet,  Forde,  poema  tuum  ; 

Major  uterque  suo  genio :  vi  carminis  heros, 
Materia  felix  nobilis  autor  ope. 

T.  P. 

»  To  Master  John  Ford,  &c.]  Not  reprinted  by  Gifford.  D. 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 


VOL.   I. 


This  piece,  the  author  tells  us,  was  "the  first  of  his  that  ever 
courted  reader."  It  was  licensed  by  Sir  Henry  Herbert  in  1628, 
and  brought  out  on  the  24th  of  November  in  that  year :  in  1629  it 
was  given  to  the  press,  accompanied  (as  the  manner  was)  by  several 
recommendatory  poems.  It  seems  to  have  been  favourably  received. 
The  title  of  the  4to  is  "The  Lovers  Melancholy.  Acted  at  the  Pri 
vate  House  in  the  Blacke  Friers,  and  publikely  at  the  Globe  by  the 
Kings  Maiesties  seruants.  London,  Printed  for  H.  Seile,  and  are 
to  be  sold  at  the  Tygers  head  in  Saint  Pauls  Church-yard.  1629." 

It  was  revived  at  Drury  Lane  in  1748,  by  Macklin,  for  his  wife's 
benefit ;  but  apparently  without  success. 


TO 
MY  WORTHILY  RESPECTED  FRIENDS, 

NATHANIEL  FINCH,  JOHN  FORD,  ESQUIRES  ; 
MASTER  HENRY  BLUNT,  MASTER  ROBERT  ELLICE, 

AND  ALL  THE  REST  OF  THE 

NOBLE  SOCIETY  OF  GRAY'S  INN. 


MY  HONOURED  FRIENDS, 

THE  account  of  some  leisurable  hours  is  here  summed 
up,  and  offered  to  examination.  Importunity  of  others, 
or  opinion  of  mine  own,  hath  not  urged  on  any  confi 
dence  of  running  the  hazard  of  a  censure.  A  plurality 
hath  reference  to  a  multitude,  so  I  care  not  to  please 
many ;  but  where  there  is  a  parity  of  condition,  there 
the  freedom  of  construction  makes  the  best  music. 
This  concord  hath  equally  held  between  you  the  pa 
trons  and  me  the  presenter.  .  I  am  cleared  of  all 
scruple  of  disrespect  on  your  parts ;  as  I  am  of  too 
slack  a  merit  in  myself.  My  presumption  of  coming 
in  print  in  this  kind1  hath  hitherto  been  unreprovable, 

1  in  this  kind~\  i.  e.    the  drama :    he  had  previously  printed 
"Fame's  Memorial,"  and,  probably,  other  poems,  now  lost. 


4  DEDICATION. 

this  piece  being  the  first  that  ever  courted  reader ;  and 
it  is  very  possible  that  the  like  compliment  with  me 
may  soon  grow  out  of  fashion.2  A  practice  of  which 
that  I  may  avoid  now,  I  commend  to  the  continuance 
of  your  loves  the  memory  of  his,  who,  without  the 
protestation  of  a  service,  is  readily  your  friend. 

JOHN  FORD. 

2  and  it  is  very  possible  that  the  like  compliment  with  me  may 
soon  grow  out  of  fashion.~\  This,  as  the  author  says,  is  the  first  time 
of  his  appearing  in  print  as  a  dramatic  writer ;  and  yet  he  comes 
before  the  reader  with  all  the  querulous  cant  of  an  old  professor. 
Fortunately,  this  language  of  routine  means  nothing  ;  and  the  pre 
sent  publication  was,  in  course,  followed  by  others,  as  leisure  or 
opportunity  offered. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


PALADOR,  prince  of  Cyprus. 
AMETHUS,  cousin  to  the  Prince. 
MELEANDER,  an  old  lord. 
SOPHRONOS,  brother  to  Meleander. 
MENAPHON,  son  of  Sophronos. 
ARETUS,  tutor  to  the  Prince. 
CORAX,  a  physician. 
PELIAS, 


,  two  foolish  courtiers. 
CUCULUS,  j 

RHETIAS  (a  reduced  courtier),  servant  to  Eroclea. 

TROLLIO,  servant  to  Meleander. 

GRILLA,  a  page  of  Cuculus,  in  woman's  dress. 

THAMASTA,  sister  of  Amethus,  and  cousin  to  the  Prince. 

EROCLEA  (as  PARTHENOPHIL),  )    , 

'    v  daughters  of  Meleander. 
CLEOPHILA, 

KALA,  waiting-maid  to  Thamasta. 

Officers,  Attendants,  &c. 
SCENE — Famagosta  in  Cyprus, 


The  names  of  such  as  acted. 

JOHN  LOWIN.  CURTEISE  GRIVILL. 

JOSEPH  TAYLOR.  GEORGE  VERNON. 

ROBERT  BENFIELD.  RICHARD  BAXTER. 

JOHN  SHANCK.  JOHN  TOMSON. 

EYLYARDT  SWANSTON.  JOHN  HONYMAN. 

ANTHONY  SMITH.  JAMES  HORNE. 

RICHARD  SHARPE.  WILLIAM  TRIGG. 

THOMAS  POLLARD.  ALEXANDER  GOUGH. 
WILLIAM  PENN. 

For  this  list  see  Massinger,  vol.  ii.  p.  230,  where  references  to 
several  of  the  more  celebrated  names  will  be  found.  [See  also,  for 
an  account  of  several  of  these  players,  Collier's  Memoirs  of  the 
Principal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  printed  for  the  Shake. 
SOQ.  D.] 


PROLOGUE. 

To  tell  ye,  gentlemen,  in  what  true  sense 

The  writer,  actors,  or  the  audience 

Should  mould  their  judgments  for  a  play,  might  draw 

Truth  into  rules  ;  but  we  have  no  such  law. 

Our  writer,  for  himself,  would  have  ye  know 

That  in  his  following  scenes  he  doth  not  owe 

To  others'  fancies,  nor  hath  lain  in  wait 

For  any  stol'n  invention,  from  whose  height 

He  might  commend  his  own,  more  than  the  right 

A  scholar  claims,1  may  warrant  for  delight. 

It  is  art's  scorn,  that  some  of  late  have  made 

The  noble  use  of  poetry  a  trade. 

For  your  parts,  gentlemen,  to  quit  his  pains, 

Yet  you2  will  please,  that  as  you  meet  with  strains 

Of  lighter  mixture,3  but  to  cast  your  eye 

Rather  upon  the  main  than  on  the  bye, 

His  hopes  stand  firm,  and  we  shall  find  it  true, 

The  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY  cur'd  by  you. 


1  more  than  the  right 

A  scholar  claims,  &c.]  Ford  appears  anxious,  in  this  place,  to 
anticipate  the  objections  that  might  be  raised  against  his  plagiarisms. 
That  he  has  borrowed  largely  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  but  he  has, 
certainly,  nowhere  abused  the  right  of  a  scholar:  had  he  been  more 
familiar  with  the  press,  he  would,  perhaps,  have  scarcely  thought 
that  his  freedom  with  his  predecessors  required  much  apology.  The 
confession,  however,  was  not  unwise ;  for  Burton  (to  whom,  among 
others,  he  alludes)  was  in  every  one's  hand ;  and  Strada's  charming 
apologue  was  scarcely  less  familiar. 

2  Yet  you]  Gifford  printed  "You  yet."  D. 

3  mixture,']  The  4to  has  "mixtures."  D. 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  the  palace. 
Enter  MENAPHON  and  PELIAS. 

Men.  Dangers  !  how  mean  you  dangers  ?  that  so 

courtly 
You  gratulate  my  safe  return  from  dangers  ? 

Pel.  From  travels,  noble  sir. 

Men.  These  are  delights  ; 

If  my  experience  hath  not,  truant-like, 
Misspent  the  time,  which  I  have  strove  to  use 
For  bettering  my  mind  with  observation. 

Pel.  As  I  am  modest,  I  protest  'tis  strange. 
But  is  it  possible  ? 

Men.  What? 

Pel.  To  bestride 

The  frothy  foams  of  Neptune's  surging  waves, 
When  blustering  Boreas  tosseth  up  the  deep 
And  thumps  a  thunder-bounce  ? 

Men.  Sweet  sir,  'tis  nothing  : 

Straight  comes  a  dolphin,  playing  near  your  ship, 
Heaving  his  crooked  back  up,  and  presents 


10  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

A  feather-bed,  to  waft  ye  to  the  shore 
As  easily  as  if  you  slept  i'  th'  court. 

Pel.  Indeed  !  is't  true,  I  pray  ? 

Men.  I  will  not  stretch 

Your  faith  upon  the  tenters. — Prithee,  Pelias, 
Where  didst  thou  learn  this  language  ? 

Pel.  I  this  language ! 

Alas,  sir,  we  that  study  words  and  forms 
Of  compliment  must  fashion  all  discourse 
According  to  the  nature  of  the  subject. 
But  I  am  silent : — now  appears  a  sun, 
Whose  shadow  I  adore. 

Enter  AMETHUS,  SOPHRONOS,  and  Attendants. 

Men.  My  honour'd  father  ! 

Soph.  From  mine  eyes,  son,  son  of  my  care,  my 

love, 

The  joys  that  bid  thee  welcome  do  too  much 
Speak  me  a  child. 

Men.  O  princely  sir,  your  hand. 

Amet.  Perform  your  duties  where  you  owe  them 

first; 

I  dare  not  be  so  sudden  in  the  pleasures 
Thy  presence  hath  brought  home. 

Soph.  Here  thou  still  find'st 

A  friend  as  noble,  Menaphon,  as  when1 
Thou  left'st  at  thy  departure. 

Men.  Yes,  I  know  it, 

To  him  I  owe  more  service — 

Amet.  Pray  give  leave  : 

He  shall  attend  your  entertainments  soon, 

i  as  when 

Thou  left'st  at  thy  departure.}  I  suspect  that  we  should  read 
here  "as  whom  Thou  left'st."  I  have  not  ventured  to  change  any 
thing  ;  though  the  expression  would  be  in  the  author's  manner. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  j  T 

Next  day,  and  next  day :  for  an  hour  or  two 
I  would  engross  him  only. 

Soph.  Noble  lord ! 

Amet.  Ye're  both  dismiss'd. 

Pel.  Your  creature  and  your  servant. 

[.Exeunt  all  but  Ameihus  and  Menaphon. 

Amet.  Give  me  thy  hand.  I  will  not  say,  "Thou'rt 

welcome ;" 

That  is  the  common  road  of  common  friends. 
I'm  glad  I  have  thee  here — O,  I  want  words 
To  let  thee  know  my  heart ! 

Men.  'Tis  piec'd  to  mine. 

Amet.  Yes,  'tis  ;  as  firmly  as  that  holy  thing 
Call'd  friendship  can  unite  it.     Menaphon, 
My  Menaphon,  now  all  the  goodly  blessings 
That  can  create  a  heaven  on  earth  dwell  with  thee  ! 
Twelve  months"  we  have  been  sunder'd ;  but  hence 
forth 

We  never  more  will  part,  till  that  sad  hour 
In  which  death  leaves  the  one  of  us  behind, 
To  see  the  other's  funerals  perform'd. 
Let's  now  a  while  be  free. — How  have  thy  travels 
Disburthen'd  thee  abroad  of  discontents  ? 

Men.  Such  cure  as  sick  men  find  in  changing  beds 
I  found  in  change  of  airs :  the  fancy  flatteiM 
My  hopes  with  ease,  as  theirs  do ;  but  the  grief 
Is  still  the  same. 

Amet.  Such  is  my  case  at  home. 

Cleophila,  thy  kinswoman,  that  maid 
Of  sweetness  and  humility,  more  pities 
Her  father's  poor  afflictions  than  the  tide 
Of  my  complaints. 

Men.  Thamasta,  my  great  mistress, 

Your  princely  sister,  hath,  I  hope,  ere  this 


12  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 

Confirm'd  affection  on2  some  worthy  choice. 

Amet.  Not  any,  Menaphon.     Her  bosom  yet 
Is  intermur'd  with  ice  ;  though,  by  the  truth 
Of  love,  no  day  hath  ever  pass'd  wherein 
I  have  not  mention'd  thy  deserts,  thy  constancy, 
Thy — Come,  in  troth,  I  dare  not  tell  thee  what, 
Lest  thou  mightst  think  I  fawn'd  on  [thee] — a  sin3 
Friendship  was  never  guilty  of ;  for  flattery 
Is  monstrous  in  a  true  friend. 

Men.  Does  the  court 

Wear  the  old  looks  too  ? 

Amet.  If  thou  mean'st  the  prince, 

It  does.     He's  the  same  melancholy  man 
He  was  at's  father's  death;  sometimes  speaks  sense, 
But  seldom  mirth  ;  will  smile,  but  seldom  laugh ; 
Will  lend  an  ear  to  business,  deal  in  none ; 
Gaze  upon  revels,  antic  fopperies, 
But  is  not  mov'd  ;  will  sparingly  discourse, 
Hear  music ;  but  what  most  he  takes  delight  in 
Are  handsome  pictures.     One  so  young  and  goodly, 
So  sweet  in  his  own  nature,  any  story 
Hath  seldom  mention'd. 

Men.  Why  should  such  as  I  am 

Groan  under  the  light  burthens  of  small  sorrows, 

2  Confirm'd  affection  on,  &c.]  So  the  410  reads,  but,  I  suspect, 
erroneously.     Perhaps  the  author's  word  was  "  conferr'd." 

3  Lest  thou  mightst  think  I  fawn'd  on  \thee} — a  sin]  This  is  the 
best  conjecture  which  I  can  form  of  the  speaker's  meaning.    The  old 
copy  reads, 

"  Lest  thou  mightst  think  I  fawn'd  upon  a  sin 
Friendship  was  never  guilty  of." 

I  once  conjectured, 

"  Lest  thou  mightst  think  I'd  fallen  upon  a  sin :" 

but  I  prefer  the  first.  [Qy.  is  the  old  reading  "  fawn'd  upon"  right, 
and  equivalent  to  the  simple  "fawn'd"?  So  our  early  writers  use 
"  look  upon"  without  any  substantive  following  it :  see  my  Gloss,  to 
Shakespeare.  D.] 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  13 

Whenas  a  prince  so  potent  cannot  shun 

Motions  of  passion  ?     To  be  man,  my  lord, 

Is  to  be  but  the  exercise  of  cares 

In  several  shapes  :  as  miseries  do  grow, 

They  alter  as  men's  forms ;  but  how  none  know. 

Amet.  This  little  isle  of  Cyprus  sure  abounds 
In  greater  wonders  both  for  change  and  fortune 
Than  any  you  have  seen  abroad. 

Men.  Than  any 

I  have  observ'd  abroad :  all  countries  else 
To  a  free  eye  and  mind  yield  something  rare ; ' 
And  I,  for  my  part,  have  brought  home  one  jewel 
Of  admirable  value.4 

Amet.  Jewel,  Menaphon ! 

Men.  A  jewel,  my  Amethus,  a  fair  youth ; 
A  youth,  whom,  if  I  were  but  superstitious, 
I  should  repute  an  excellence  more  high 
Than  mere  creations  are  :  to  add  delight, 
I'll  tell  ye  how  I  found  him. 

Amet.  Prithee  do. 

Men.  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  and5  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in.0 

4  value.'}  Gifford  printed  "virtue."  D. 


talue.']  Gifford  printed  "vir 
ind]  The  4to  has  "or."  D. 


6  Vide  (Ford  says)  Fami.  Stradam,  lib.  ii.   Prolus.  6.  Acad.  2. 


14  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

Amef.  I  cannot  yet  conceive  what  you  infer 
By  art  and  nature. 

Men.  I  shall  soon  resolve  ye. 

A  sound  of  music  touch'd  mine  ears,  or  rather 
Indeed  entranc'd  my  soul.     As  I  stole  nearer, 
Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 
This  youth,  this  fair-fac'd  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  flock'd  about  him,  all  stood  silent, 
Wondering  at  what  they  heard.     I  wonder'd  too. 

Amet.  And  so  do  I ;  good,  on  ! 

Men.  A  nightingale, 

Nature's  best-skill'd  musician,  undertakes 
The  challenge,  and  for  every  several  strain 
The   well-shap'd  youth   could   touch,    she  sung  her 

own;7 

He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 
Upon  his  quaking  instrument  than  she, 
The  nightingale,  did  with  her  various  notes 
Reply  to  :  for  a  voice  and  for  a  sound, 
Amethus,  'tis  much  easier  to  believe 
That  such  they  were  than  hope  to  hear  again. 

Amet.  How  did  the  rivals  part  ? 

Men.  You  term  them  rightly; 

For  they  were  rivals,  and  their  mistress,  harmony. — 
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, 


Imitat.  Claudian.  This  story,  as  Mr.  Lamb  observes,  has  been 
paraphrased  by  Crashaw,  Ambrose  Philips,  and  others:  none  of 
those  versions,  however,  can  at  all  compare  for  harmony  and  grace 
with  this  before  vis. 

7  own;]  The  4to  has  "down."  D. 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  1 5 

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. 

Amet.  Now  for  the  bird. 

Men.  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  dropp'd  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  ; 
That,  trust  me,  my  Amethus,  I  could  chide8 
Mine  own  unmanly  weakness,  that  made  me 
A  fellow-mourner  with  him. 

Amet.  I  believe  thee. 

Men.  He  look'd9  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 
Then  sigh'd,  then  wip'd  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,10 
I  suddenly  stept  in. 

Amet.  Thou  hast  discours'd 

8  /  could  chide,  &c.]  It  should  rather  be,  "I  could  not  chide;" 
unless  the  speaker  means  to  insinuate  that  his  grief  was  too  poignant 
and  profuse  for  a  man. 

9  look'd'}  The4tohas  "lookes."  D. 

10  As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a.  tree,~\  i.  e.  dashing  it.     See 
Massinger,  vol.  i.  p.  38. 


j6  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

A  truth  of  mirth  and  pity.11 

Men.  I  repriev'd 

Th'  intended  execution  with  entreaties 
And  interruption. — But,  my  princely  friend, 
It  was  not  strange  the  music  of  his  hand 
Did  overmatch  birds,  when  his  voice  and  beauty, 
Youth,  carriage,  and  discretion  must,  from  men 
Endu'd  with  reason,  ravish  admiration  : 
From  me  they  did. 

Amet.  But  is  this  miracle 

Not  to  be  seen  ? 

Men.  I  won  him  by  degrees 

To  choose  me  his  companion.    Whence  he  is, 
Or  who,  as  I  durst  modestly  inquire, 
So  gently  he  would  woo  not  to  make  known  ; 
Only — for  reasons  to  himself  reserv'd — 
He  told  me,  that  some  remnant  of  his  life 
Was  to  be  spent  in  travel :  for  his  fortunes, 
They  were  nor  mean  nor  riotous  ;  his  friends 
Not  publish'd  to  the  world,  though  not  obscure  ; 
His  country  Athens,  and  his  name  Parthenophil. 

Amet.  Came  he  with  you  to  Cyprus  ? 

Men.  Willingly. 

The  fame  of  our  young  melancholy  prince, 
Meleander's  rare  distractions,  the  obedience 
Of  young  Cleophila,  Thamasta's  glory, 
Your  matchless  friendship,  and  my  desperate  love, 
Prevail'd  with  him  ;  and  I  have  lodg'd  him  privately 

11  Thou  hast  discoursd 

A  truth  of  mirth  and  pity, .]  This  is  evidently  corrupt ;  but  I  can 
suggest  no  remedy.  The  sense  might  be  somewhat  improved  by 
reading  "tale"  for  "truth"  or,  with  less  violence,  "  I'  truth,  of," 
&c.  :  but  what  can  be  done  with  "mirth'"?  Pathetic,  indeed,  this 
most  beautiful  tale  is,  but  it  certainly  contains  nothing  of  merriment. 
[I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there  is  no  corruption  here, — that  "A 
truth  of  mirth  and  pity"  may  mean  "A  true  story  which  both  affords 
amusement  and  excites  pity."  D.] 


SCENE  II.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  17 

In  Famagosta. 

Amet.  Now  thou'rt  doubly  welcome  : 

I  will  not  lose  the  sight  of  such  a  rarity 
For  one  part  of  my  hopes.    When  d'ye  intend 
To  visit  my  great-spirited  sister  ? 

Men.  May  I 

Without  offence  ? 

Amet.  Without  offence. — Parthenophil 

Shall  find  a  worthy  entertainment  too. 
Thou  art  not  still  a  coward? 

Men.  She's  too  excellent, 

And  I  too  low  in  merit 

Amet.  I'll  prepare 

A  noble  welcome ;  and,  friend,  ere  we  part, 
Unload  to  thee  an  overcharged  heart.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  Another  room  in  the  palace. 

Enter  RHETIAS,  carelessly  attired. 
Rhe.  I  will  not  court  the  madness  of  the  times  ; 
Nor  fawn  upon  the  riots  that  embalm 
Our  wanton  gentry,  to  preserve  the  dust 
Of  their  affected  vanities  in  coffins 
Of  memorable  shame.    When  commonwealths 
Totter  and  reel  from  that  nobility 
And  ancient  virtue  which  renowns  the  great, 
Who  steer  the  helm  of  government,  while  mushrooms 
Grow  up,  and  make  new  laws  to  license  folly ; 
Why  should  not  I,  a  May-game,12  scorn  the  weight 

12  why  should  not  I,  a  May-game,  &c.]  i.e.  an  unconsidered 
trifle,  a  jest,  a  piece  of  mirth.  This  expression  occurs  in  the  same 
sense  in  the  next  piece;  "Wilt  make  thyself  a  May-game  to  all 
the  world?"  The  motive  which  Rhetias  assigns  for  assuming  the 
part  of  an  all-licensed  fool  is  not  very  creditable  to  him  ;  nor  does  he 

VOL.  I.  C 


1 8  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

Of  my  sunk  fortunes  ?  snarl  at  the  vices13 
Which  rot  the  land,  and,  without  fear  or  wit,14 
Be  mine  own  antic  ?    'Tis  a  sport  to  live 
When  life  is  irksome,  if  we  will  not  hug 
Prosperity  in  others,  and  contemn 
Affliction  in  ourselves.     This  rule  is  certain, 
"  He  that  pursues  his  safety  from  the  school 
Of  state  must  learn  to  be  madman  or  fool." 
Ambition,  wealth,  ease,  I  renounce — the  devil 
That  damns  ye  here  on  earth.     Or  I  will  be 
Mine  own  mirth,  or  mine  own  tormentor. — So  ! 
Here  comes  intelligence  ;  a  buzz  o'  the  court. 

Enter  PELIAS. 

Pel.  Rhetias,  I  sought  thee  out  to  tell  thee  news, 
New,  excellent  new  news.     Cuculus,  sirrah, 
That  gull,  that  young  old  gull,  is  coming  this  way. 

Rhe.  And  thou  art  his  forerunner  ? 

Pel.  Prithee,  hear  me. 

Instead  of  a  fine  guarded  page15  we've  got  him 
A  boy,  trick'd  up  in  neat  and  handsome  fashion  ; 
Persuaded  him  that  'tis  indeed  a  wench, 
And  he  has  entertain'd  him :  he  does  follow  him, 
Carries  his  sword  and  buckler,  waits  on 's  trencher, 


turn  the  character  to  much  account.  Some  part  of  what  he  here 
says,  however,  though  it  might  be  expressed  with  less  effort,  is  the 
result  of  sound  observation. 

13  snarl  at  the  vices]  Snarl  (as  well  as  girl)  is  commonly  made  a 
dissyllable  by  our  poet :  he  passed  his  youth  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Dartmoor,  and  probably  adopted  the  practice  of  that  wild  district. 
This  mode  of  enunciation  still  prevails  in  the  northern  counties,  at 
least  in  poetry,  where  what  to  an  English  ear  sounds  like  a  soft  d  is 
interposed  between  r  and  /  in  such  monosyllables  as  end  with  these 
two  letters. 

14  without  fear  or  wit,~\  For  boldly,  desperately,  without  care  of 
consequences. 

15  Instead  of  a  fine  guarded  page\  i.  e.  of  a  page  with  a  livery 
richly  laced,  or  turned  up.     The  expression  is  common  to  all  our  old 
writers. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  19 

Fills  him  his  wine,  tobacco ;  whets  his  knife, 
Lackeys  his  letters,  does  what  service  else 
He  would  employ  his  man  in.     Being  ask'd 
Why  he  is  so  irregular  in  courtship, 
His  answer  is,  that  since  great  ladies  use 
Gentlemen-ushers  to  go  bare  before  them, 
He  knows  no  reason  but  he  may  reduce 
The  courtiers  to  have  women  wait  on  them ; 
And  he  begins  the  fashion  :  he  is  laugh'd  at 
Most  complimentally.     Thou'lt  burst  to  see  him. 

Rhe.  Agelastus,  so  surnamed  for  his  gravity,16  was 
a  very  wise  fellow,  kept  his  countenance  all  days  of  his 
life  as  demurely  as  a  judge  that  pronounceth  sentence 
of  death  on  a  poor  rogue  for  stealing  as  much  bacon 
as  would  serve  at  a  meal  with  a  calf  s  head.  Yet  he 
smiled  once,  and  never  but  once  : — thou  art  no  scho 
lar? 

Pel.  I  have  read  pamphlets  dedicated  to  me. — 
Dost  call  him  Agelastus  ?    Why  did  he  laugh  ? 

Rhe.  To  see  an  ass  eat  thistles.  Puppy,  go  study 
to  be  a  singular  coxcomb.  Cuculus  is  an  ordinary  ape; 
but  thou  art  an  ape  of  an  ape. 

Pel.  Thou  hast  a  patent  to  abuse  thy  friends. — 
Look,  look,  he  comes  !  observe  him  seriously. 

Enter  CUCULUS,  followed  by  GRILLA,  both  fantasti 
cally  dressed. 

Cue.  Reach  me  my  sword  and  buckler. 
Gril.  They  are  here,  forsooth. 

16  Agelastus,  so  surnamed  far  his  gravity,  &c.]  Thus  Jonson,  in 
the  New  Inn; 

"The  Roman  alderman, 
Old  Master  Gross,  surnamed  'A.?i*.a,<rrts, 
Was  never  seen  to  laugh  but  at  an  ass." 

The  story  is  in  Pliny,  who  tells  it  of  Crassus,  the  grandfather  of  the 
unfortunate  Crassus  who  fell  the  victim  of  his  rapacity  in  Parthia. 


20  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  I. 

Cue.  How  now,  minx,  how  now  !  where  is  your 
duty,  your  distance  ?  Let  me  have  service  methodi 
cally  tendered ;  you  are  now  one  of  us.  Your  curtsy. 
[GRILLA  curtsies.}  Good  !  remember  that  you  are  to 
practise  courtship.17  Was  thy  father  a  piper,  sayest 
thou? 

Gril.  A  sounder  of  some  such  wind-instrument, 
forsooth.18 

Cue.  Was  he  so  ? — Hold  up  thy  head.  Be  thou 
musical  to  me,  and  I  will  marry  thee  to  a  dancer ; 
one  that  shall  ride  on  his  footcloth,19  and  maintain 
thee  in  thy  muff  and  hood. 

Gril.  That  will  be  fine  indeed. 

Cue.  Thou  art  yet  but  simple. 

Gril.  D'ye  think  so  ? 

Cue.  I  have  a  brain,  I  have  a  head-piece :  o'  my 
conscience,  if  I  take  pains  with  thee,  I  should  raise 
thy  understanding,  girl,  to  the  height  of  a  nurse,  or  a 
court-midwife  at  least :  I  will  make  thee  big  in  time, 
wench. 

Gril.  E'en  do  your  pleasure  with  me,  sir. 

Pel.  [coming  forward}  Noble,  accomplished  Cucu- 
lus! 

Rhe.  \coming  forward}  Give  me  thy  fist,  innocent. 

Cue.  Would  'twere  in  thy  belly !  there  'tis. 

17  courtship.}  The  behaviour  necessary  to  be  observed  at  court ; 
the  manners  of  a  courtier.  Steevens.     Thus  the  word  is  used  in  the 
preceding  page — "so  irregular  in  courtship." 

18  Gril.    A   sounder  of  some  such  wind-instrument,  forsooth.} 
Grilla's  answer  is  meant  to  intimate  that  her  father  was  a  sow-gel- 
der.  [Sow-gelders,  it  appears,  used  formerly  to  blow  a  horn.     So  in 
Fletcher's  Beggars  Bush,  act  iii.  sc.  i ; 

"Enter  Higgen  disguised  as  a  sow-gelder,  singing  as  follows. 
Have  ye  any  work  for  the  sow-gelder,  ho  ? 
My  horn  goes  to  high,  to  low,  to  high,  to  low."  D.] 

19  footcloth,']  i.e.  housings  of  cloth,  hanging  down  on  each  side 
of  the  horse.  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  2 1 

Pel  That's  well ;  he's  an  honest  blade,  though  he 
be  blunt. 

Cue.  Who  cares  ?  We  can  be  as  blunt  as  he,  for's 
life. 

Rhe.  Cuculus,  there  is,  within  a  mile  or  two,  a  sow- 
pig  hath  sucked  a  brach,20  and  now  hunts  the  deer, 
the  hare,  nay,  most  unnaturally,  the  wild-boar,  as  well 
as  any  hound  in  Cyprus. 

Cue.  Monstrous  sow-pig !  is 't  true  ? 

Pel.  I'll  be  at  charge  of  a  banquet  on  thee  for  a 
sight  of  her. 

Rhe.  Every  thing  takes  after  the  dam  that  gave  it 
suck.  Where  hadst  thou  thy  milk  ? 

Cue.  I  ?  Why,  my  nurse's  husband  was  a  most 
excellent  maker  of  shittlecocks. 

Pel.  My  nurse  was  a  woman-surgeon.21 

Rhe.  And  who  gave  thee  pap,  mouse  ? 

Gril.  I  never  sucked,  that  I  remember. 

Rhe.  La  now,  a  shittlecock-maker !  all  thy  brains 
are  stuck  with  cork  and  feather,  Cuculus.  This  learned 
courtier  takes  after  the  nurse  too;  a  she-surgeon;  which 
is,  in  effect,  a  mere  matcher  of  colours.  Go  learn  to 
paint  and  daub  compliments,  'tis  the  next  step  to  run 
into  a  new  suit.  My  Lady  Periwinkle  here  never 
sucked:  suck  thy  master,  and  bring  forth  moon 
calves,  fop,  do  !  This  is  good  philosophy,  sirs ;  make 
use  on't. 

Gril.  Bless  us,  what  a  strange  creature  this  is  ! 
Cue.  A  gull,  an  arrant  gull  by  proclamation. 

20  brack,~\  The  kennel  term  for  a  bitch-hound.     See  Mass.  vol.  i. 
p.  210.     The  late  Sir  Harry  Mildmay  had  a  "sow-pig"  that  would 
apparently  do  all  that  Cuculus  thinks  so  monstrous,  without  having 
sucked  a  brack  for  the  matter.  [And  see  note,  p.  52.  D.] 

21  woman-surgeon.}  i.e.  as  Rhetias  presently  explains  it,  a  dealer 
in  paints  and  cosmetics  for  the  ladies. 


22  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

Enter  CORAX,  passing  over  the  stage. 

Pel.  Corax,  the  prince's  chief  physician  ! 
What  business  speeds  his  haste? — Are  all  things  well, 
sir? 

Cor.  Yes,  yes,  yes. 

Rhe.  Phew!  you  may  wheel  about,  man;  we  know 
you're  proud  of  your  slovenry  and  practice ;  'tis  your 
virtue.  The  prince's  melancholy  fit,  I  presume,  holds 
still. 

Cor.  So  do  thy  knavery  and  desperate  beggary. 

Cue.  Aha  !  here's  one  will  tickle  the  ban-dog. 

Rhe.  You  must  not  go  yet. 

Cor.  I'll  stay  in  spite  of  thy  teeth.  There  lies  my 
gravity.  \Throws  off  his  gown^  Do  what  thou  dare  st; 
I  stand  thee. 

Rhe.  Mountebank[s],  empirics,  quack  -  salvers, 
mineralists,  wizards,  alchemists,  cast-apothecaries,  old 
wives  and  barbers,  are  all  suppositors  to  the  right 
worshipful  doctor,  as  I  take  it.  Some  of  ye  are  the 
head  of  your  art,  and  the  horns  too — but  they  come 
by  nature.  Thou  livest  single  for  no  other  end  but 
that  thou  fearest  to  be  a  cuckold. 

Cor.  Have  at  thee !  Thou  aifectest  railing  only  for 
thy  health ;  thy  miseries  are  so  thick  and  so  lasting, 
that  thou  hast  not  one  poor  denier  to  bestow  on  open 
ing  a  vein  :  wherefore,  to  avoid  a  pleurisy,  thou'lt  be 
sure  to  prate  thyself  once  a  month  into  a  whipping, 
and  bleed  in  the  breech  instead  of  the  arm. 

22  There  lies  my  gravity.  {Throws  off  his  gown.']  Thus  Prospero, 
when  he  throws  off  his  mantle,  exclaims, 
".Lie  there,  my  art." 

And  Fuller  tells  us  that  the  great  Lord  Burleigh,  when  he  put  off  his 
gown  at  night,  used  to  say, 

"  Lie  there,  Lord  Treasurer" 

[Here  Gifford  borrows  from  Steevens's  note  on  The  Tempest,  act  i. 
sc.  2. — For  some  similar  expressions  see  my  Gloss,  to  Shakespeare, 
sub  "Lie  there,  my  art."  D.J 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  23 

Rhe.  Have  at  thee  again  ! 

Cor.  Come  ! 

Cue.  There,  there,  there  !  O  brave  doctor  ! 

Pel.  Let  'em  alone. 

Rhe.  Thou  art  in  thy  religion  an  atheist,  in  thy 
condition  a  cur,  in  thy  diet  an  epicure,  in  thy  lust  a 
goat,  in  thy  sleep  a  hog ;  thou  takest  upon  thee  the 
habit  of  a  grave  physician,  but  art  indeed  an  impostor- 
ous  empiric.  Physicians  are  the  cobblers,  rather  the 
botchers,  of  men's  bodies  ;23  as  the  one  patches  our 
tattered  clothes,  so  the  other  solders  our  diseased 
flesh.  Come  on ! 

Cue.  To't,  to't!  hold  him  to't !  hold  him  to't! 
to't,  to't,  to't! 

Cor.  The  best  worth  in  thee  is  the  corruption  of 
thy  mind,  for  that  only  entitles  thee  to  the  dignity  of  a 
louse,  a  thing  bred  out  of  the  filth  and  superfluity  of 
ill  humours.  Thou  bitest  anywhere,  and  any  man 
who  defends  not  himself  with  the  clean  linen  of  secure 
honesty ;  him  thou  darest  not  come  near.  Thou  art 
fortune's  idiot,  virtue's  bankrupt,  time's  dunghill,  man 
hood's  scandal,  and  thine  own  scourge.  Thou  wouldst 
hang  thyself,  so  wretchedly  miserable  thou  art,  but 
that  no  man  will  trust  thee  with  as  much  money  as 
will  buy  a  halter ;  and  all  thy  stock  to  be  sold  is  not 
worth  half  as  much  as  may  procure  it. 

Rhe.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  this  is  flattery,  gross  flattery. 

Cor.  I  have  employment  for  thee,  and  for  ye  all. 
Tut,  these  are  but  good-morrows  between  us. 

Rhe.  Are  thy  bottles  full  ? 

23  Physicians  are  the  cobblers,  rather  the  botchers,  of  men's  bodies;} 
I  have  omitted  the  word  "bodies,"  which  seems  to  have  slipped  in 
before  "cobblers."  This  is  not,  -I  suspect,  the  only  error ;  but  'tis  to 
little  purpose  to  waste  time  on  what,  after  all,  will  scarcely  be 
thought  worth  mending.  In  the  opening  of  this  speech  the  poet  uses 
condition,  like  all  the  writers  of  his  time,  for  disposition,  nature,  &q. 


24  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

Cor.  Of  rich  wine ;  let's  all  suck  together. 

Rhe.  Like  so  many  swine  in  a  trough. 

Cor.  I'll  shape  ye  all  for  a  device  before  the  prince : 
we'll  try  how  that  can  move  him. 

Rhe.  He  shall  fret  or  laugh. 

Cue.  Must  I  make  one  ? 

Cor.  Yes,  and  your  feminine  page  too. 

Gril.  Thanks,  most  egregiously. 

Pel.  I  will  not  slack  my  part. 

Cue.  Wench,  take  my  buckler. 

Cor.  Come  all  unto  my  chamber :  the  project  is 
cast ;  the  time  only  we  must  attend. 

Rhe.  The  melody  must   agree24  well   and  yield 

sport, 

When  such  as  these  are,  knaves  and  fools,  consort.25 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  An  apartment  in  the  house  of  THAMASTA. 
Enter  AMETHUS,  THAMASTA,  and  KALA. 

Amet.  Does  this  show  well  ? 

Tha.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

Amet.  Not  like  a  lady  of  the  trim,  new  crept 
Out  of  the  shell  of  sluttish  sweat  and  labour 
Into  the  glittering  pomp  of  ease  and  wantonness, 
Embroideries,  and  all  these  antic  fashions 
That  shape  a  woman  monstrous ;  to  transform 
Your  education  and  a  noble  birth 
Into  contempt  and  laughter.     Sister,  sister, 

24  agree]  Here  probably  Ford  wrote  "gree"  (which  is  very  com 
mon  in  our  old  authors).  D. 

26  The  audience  must  be  light  o  the  sere  to  whom  such  "  melody 
could  yield  sport."  It  is  generally  a  relief  to  escape  from  the  sad 
efforts  of  the  author's  attempts  at  pleasantry.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
appears  to  entertain  some  suspicion  of  his  success  in  this  part  of  the 
plot,  and  has  therefore  besought  the  audience,  when  ' '  they  met  some 
lighter  strain,  rather  to  look  at  the  main  than  the  bye." 


SCENE  in.          THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  25 

She  who  derives  her  blood  from  princes  ought 
To  glorify  her  greatness  by  humility. 

Tha.  Then  you  conclude  me  proud  ? 

Amet.  Young  Menaphon, 

My  worthy  friend,  has  loVd  you  long  and  truly : 
To  witness  his  obedience  to  your  scorn, 
Twelve  months,  wrong'd  gentleman,  he  undertook 
A  voluntary  exile.    Wherefore,  sister, 
In  this  time  of  his  absence  have  you  not 
Dispos'd  of  your  affections  on  some  monarch  ? 
Or  sent  ambassadors  to  some  neighbouring  king 
With  fawning  protestations  of  your  graces, 
Your  rare  perfections,  admirable  beauty  ? 
This  had  been  a  new  piece  of  modesty 
Would  have  deserv'd  a  chronicle  ! 

Tha.  You're  bitter ; 

And,  brother,  by  your  leave,  not  kindly  wise.26 
My  freedom  is  my  birth's  ;27  I  am  not  bound 
To  fancy  your  approvements,  but  my  own. 
Indeed,  you  are  an  humble  youth  !     I  hear  of 
Your  visits  and  your  loving  commendation 
To  your  heart's  saint,  Cleophila,  a  virgin 
Of  a  rare  excellence.    What  though  she  want 
A  portion  to  maintain  a  portly  greatness  ? 
Yet  'tis  your  gracious  sweetness  to  descend 
So  low ;  the  meekness  of  your  pity  leads  ye  ! 
She  is  your  dear  friend's  sister  !  a  good  soul ! 
An  innocent ! — 

Amet.  Thamasta ! 

Tha.  I  have  given 

Your  Menaphon  a  welcome  home,  as  fits  me  ; 
For  his  sake  entertain'd  Parthenophil, 

26  not  kindly  wise.]  i.  e.  your  wisdom  has  not  the  natural  ten 
derness  of  a  brother  in  it. 

27  birth's;}  Gifford  printed  "birth."  D. 


26  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  i. 

The  handsome  stranger,  more  familiarly 

Than,  I  may  fear,  becomes  me;  yet,  for  his  part, 

I  not  repent  my  courtesies  :  but  you — 

Amet.  No  more,  no  more  !  be  affable  to  both  ; 
Time  may  reclaim  your  cruelty. 

Tha.  I  pity 

The  youth ;  and,  trust  me,  brother,  love  his  sadness  : 
He  talks  the  prettiest  stories  ;  he  delivers 
His  tales  so  gracefully,  that  I  could  sit 
And  listen,  nay,  forget  my  meals  and  sleep, 
To  hear  his  neat  discourses.     Menaphon 
Was  well  advis'd  in  choosing  such  a  friend 
For  pleading  his  true  love. 

Amet.  Now  I  commend  thee ; 

Thou'lt  change  at  last,  I  hope. 

Tha.  I  fear  I  shall.   [Aside. 

Enter  MENAPHON  and  PARTHENOPHIL. 

Amet.  Have  ye  survey'd  the  garden  ? 

Men.  'Tis  a  curious, 

A  pleasantly  contriv'd  delight. 

Tha.  Your  eye,  sir, 

Hath  in  your  travels  often  met  contents 
Of  more  variety  ? 

Par.  Not  any,  lady. 

Men.  It  were  impossible,  since  your  fair  presence 
Makes  every  place,  where  it  vouchsafes  to  shine, 
More  lovely  than  all  other  helps  of  art 
Can  equal. 

Tha.        What  you  mean  by  "helps  of  art," 
You  know  yourself  best :  be  they  as  they  are  ; 
You  need  none,  I  am  sure,  to  set  me  forth. 

Men.  'Twould  argue  want  of  manners,  more  than 

skill, 
Not  to  praise  praise  itself. 


SCENE  m.         THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  27 

Tha.  For  your  reward, 

Henceforth  I'll  call  you  servant.28 

Amet.  Excellent  sister  ! 

Men.  'Tis  my  first  step  to  honour.     May  I  fall 
Lower  than  shame,  when  I  neglect  all  service 
That  may  confirm  this  favour  ! 

Tha.  Are  you  well,  sir? 

Par.  Great  princess,  I  am  well.     To  see  a  league 
Between  an  humble  love,  such  as  my  friend's  is, 
And  a  commanding  virtue,  such  as  yours  is, 
Are  sure  restoratives. 

Tha.  You  speak  ingeniously. — 29 

Brother,  be  pleas'd  to  show  the  gallery 
To  this  young  stranger.     Use  the  time  a  while, 
And  we  will  all  together  to  the  court : 
I  will  present  ye,  sir,  unto  the  prince. 

Par.  You're  all   compos'd    of  fairness  and   true 
bounty. 

Amet.  Come,   come. — We'll    wait    thee,30   sister. 

This  beginning 
Doth  relish  happy  process. 

Men.  You  have  bless'd  me. 

{Exeunt  Men.,  Amet.,  and  Par. 

Tha.  Kala,  O,  Kala  ! 

Kal.  Lady? 

Tha.  We  are  private  ; 

Thou  art  my  closet. 

Kal.  Lock  your  secrets  close,  then  : 

I  am  not  to  be  forc'd. 

Tha.  Never  till  now 

Could  I  be  sensible  of  being  traitor 
To  honour  and  to  shame. 

28  Henceforth  /'//  call  you  servant.}  i.e.  acknowledge  you  as  a 
lover.     See  Mass.  vol.  i.  p.  185. 

29  ingeniously.}  i.e.  wittily. 

30  thee,}  Gifford  printed  "you."  D. 


28  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  II. 

KaL  You  are  in  love. 

Tha.  I  am  grown  base. — Parthenophil — 

KaL  He's  handsome, 

Richly  endow'd ;  he  hath  a  lovely  face, 
A.  winning  tongue. 

Tha.  If  ever  I  must  fall, 

In  him  my  greatness  sinks  :  Love  is  a  tyrant, 
Resisted.     Whisper  in  his  ear,  how  gladly 
I  would  steal  time  to  talk  with  him  one  hour  : 
But  do  it  honourably;  prithee,  Kala, 
Do  not  betray  me. 

KaL  Madam,  I  will  make  it 

Mine  own  case ;  he  shall  think  I  am  in  love  with  him. 

Tha.  I  hope  thou  art  not,  Kala. 

KaL  Tis  for  your  sake : 

I'll  tell  him  so ;  but,  'faith,  I  am  not,  lady. 

Tha.  Pray,  use  me  kindly ;  let  me  not  too  soon 
Be  lost  in  my  new  follies.     'Tis  a  fate 
That  overrules  our  wisdoms  ;  whilst  we  strive 
To  live  most  free,  we're  caught  in  our  own  toils. 
Diamonds  cut  diamonds ;  they  who  will  prove 
To  thrive  in  cunning  must  cure  love  with  love. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  An  apartment  in  the  palace. 

Enter  SOPHRONOS  and  ARETUS. 
Soph.  Our  commonwealth  is  sick  :  'tis  more  than 

time 

That  we  should  wake  the  head  thereof,  who  sleeps 
In  the  dull  lethargy  of  lost  security. 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  29 

The  commons  murmur,  and  the  nobles  grieve  ; 
The  court  is  now  turn'd  antic,  and  grows  wild, 
Whiles  all  the  neighbouring  nations  stand  at  gaze, 
And  watch  fit  opportunity  to  wreak 
Their  just-conceived  fury  on  such  injuries 
As  the  late  prince,  our  living  master's  father, 
Committed  against  laws  of  truth  or  honour. 
Intelligence  comes  flying  in  on  all  sides ; 
Whilst  the  unsteady  multitude  presume 
How  that  you,  Aretus,  and  I  engross, 
Out  of  particular  ambition, 
Th'  affairs  of  government ;  which  I,  for  my  part, 
Groan  under  and  am  weary  of. 

Are.  Sophronos, 

I  am  as  zealous  too  of  shaking  off 
My  gay  state-fetters,  that  I  have  bethought 
Of  speedy  remedy ;  and  to  that  end, 
As  I  have  told  ye,  have  concluded  with 
Corax,  the  prince's  chief  physician. 

Soph.  You  should  have  done  this  sooner,  Aretus ; 
You  were  his  tutor,  and  could  best  discern 
His  dispositions,  to  inform  them  rightly. 

Are.  Passions  of  violent  nature,  by  degrees 
Are  easiliest  reclaim'd.  There's  something  hid 
Of  his  distemper,  which  we'll  now  find  out. 

Enter  CORAX,  RHETIAS,  PELIAS,  CUCULUS,  and 
GRILLA. 

You  come  on  just  appointment.     Welcome,  gentle 
men  ! 
Have  you  won  Rhetias,  Corax  ? 

Cor.  Most  sincerely. 

Cue.  Save  ye,  nobilities !     Do  your  lordships  take 
notice  of  my  page  ?     Tis  a  fashion  of  the   newest 


30  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  n. 

edition,  spick  and  span  new,  without  example. — Do 
your  honour,  housewife. 

GriL  There's  a  curtsy  for  you, — and  a  curtsy  for 
you. 

Soph.  Tis  excellent :  we  must  all  follow  fashion, 
And  entertain  she-waiters. 

Are.  'Twill  be  courtly. 

Cue.  I  think  so;  I  hope  the  chronicles  will  rear 
me  one  day  for  a  headpiece — 

Rhe.  Of  woodcock,1  without  brains  in't !  Barbers 
shall  wear  thee  on  their  citterns,2  and  hucksters  set 
thee  out  in  gingerbread. 

Cue.  Devil  take  thee  !  I  say  nothing  to  thee  now ; 
canst  let  me  be  quiet  ? 

Gril.  You're  too  perstreperous,  saucebox. 

Cue.  Good  girl ! — If  we  begin  to  puff  once — 

Pel.  Prithee,  hold  thy  tongue ;  the  lords  are  in  the 
presence. 

Rhe.  Mum,  butterfly ! 

Pel.  The  prince  !3  stand  and  keep  silence. 

Cue.  O,  the  prince  ! —  Wench,  thou  shalt  see  the 
prince  now.  [Soft  music. 

Enter  PALADOR  with  a  book. 

Soph.  Sir! 

1  Of  woodcock,  &c.]  A  cant  term  for  a  simpleton.     See  Jonson, 
vol.  ii.  p.  127. 

2  Barbers  shall -wear  thee  on  their  citterns,  ]  For  an  explanation 
of  this  passage  the  reader  may  refer  to  Jonson,  vol.  iii.  p.  411,  where 
he  will  find  all  that  is  necessary  to  be  said  on  the  subject.    The  head 
of  the  cittern,  like  that  of  the  harp,  occasionally  terminated,  I  sup 
pose,  in  some  grotesque  kind  of  ornament.  [In  the  note  on  Jonson 
above  referred  to,  Gifford  observes;  "It  appears  from  innumerable 
passages  in  our  old  writers,  that  barbers'  shops  were  furnished  with 
some  musical  instrument  (commonly  a  cittern  or  guitar),   for  the 
amusement  of  such  customers  as  chose  to  strum  upon  it  while  wait 
ing  for  their  turn  to  be  shaved,  &c." — Here  Gifford  might  have 
omitted  "I  suppose:"  citterns  were  usually  ornamented  with  gro 
tesque  heads  carved  at  the  extremity  of  the  neck  and  finger-board.  D.j 

3  The  prince!^  I  have  omitted  "  O,"  which  was  probably  adopted 
from  the  next  speech. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  3 1 

Are.  Gracious  sir ! 

Pal.  Why  all  this  company  ? 

Cor.  A  book  !  is  this  the  early  exercise 
I  did  prescribe  ?  instead  of  following  health, 
Which  all  men  covet,  you  pursue  disease.4 
Where's  your  great  horse,  your  hounds,  your  set  at 

tennis, 

Your  balloon-ball,  the  practice  of  your  dancing, 
Your  casting  of  the  sledge,  or  learning  how 
To  toss  a  pike  ?  all  chang'd  into  a  sonnet ! 
Pray,  sir,  grant  me5  free  liberty  to  leave 
The  court ;  it  does  infect  me  with  the  sloth 
Of  sleep  and  surfeit :  in  the  university 
I  have  employments,  which  to  my  profession 
Add  profit  and  report ;  here  I  am  lost, 
And  in  your  wilful  dulness  held  a  man 
Of  neither  art  nor  honesty.     You  may 
Command  my  head : — pray,  take  it,  do  !  'twere  better 
For  me  to  lose  it  than  to  lose  my  wits, 
And  live  in  Bedlam  ;6  you  will  force  me  to't ; 
I'm  almost  mad  already. 

Pal.  I  belieye  it. 

Soph.  Letters  are  come  from  Crete,  which  do  re 
quire 

A  speedy  restitution  of  such  ships 
As  by  your  father  were  long  since  detain'd ; 
If  not,  defiance  threaten'd. 

Are.  These  near  parts 

Of  Syria  that  adjoin  muster  their  friends ; 
And  by  intelligence  we  learn  for  certain 

4  you  pursue  disease.]  The  old  copy  reads  "your  disease."    This 
word,  which  spoils  the  measure,  seems  to  have  crept  in  from  the 
passage  immediately  following  it. 

5  Pray,  sir,  grant  me]  Qy.    "Pray,  grant  me,  sir"?  D. 

6  And  live  in  Bedlam ;]  As  there  were  mad  folks  in  Famagosta, 
there  were  doubtless  receptacles  for  them.     Ford,  however,   was 
thinking  of  Moorfields. 


32  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  n. 

The  Syrian  will  pretend  an  ancient  interest 
Of  tribute  intermitted. 

Soph.  Through  your  land 

Your  subjects  mutter  strangely,  and  imagine 
More  than  they  dare  speak  publicly. 

Cor.  And  yet 

They  talk  but  oddly  of  you. 

Cue.  Hang  'em,  mongrels  ! 

Pal.  Of  me  !  my  subjects  talk  of  me  ! 

Cor.  Yes,  scurvily, 

And  think  worse,  prince. 

Pal.  I'll  borrow  patience 

A  little  time  to  listen  to  these  wrongs ; 
And  from  the  few  of  you  which  are  here  present 
Conceive  the  general  voice. 

Cor.  So  !  now  he's  nettled.  [Aside. 

Pal.  By  all  your  loves  I  charge  ye,  without  fear 
Or  flattery,  to  let  me  know  your  thoughts, 
And  how  I  am  interpreted :  speak  boldly. 

Soph.  For  my  part,  sir,  I  will  be  plain  and  brief. 
I  think  you  are  of  nature  mild  and  easy, 
Not  willingly  provok'd,  but  withal  headstrong 
In  any  passion  that  misleads  your  judgment : 
I  think  you  too  indulgent  to  such  motions 
As  spring  out  of  your  own  affections ; 
Too  old  to  be  reform'd,  and  yet  too  young 
To  take  fit  counsel  from  yourself  of  what 
Is  most  amiss. 

Pal.  So  ! — Tutor,  your  conceit  ? 

Are.  I  think  you  dote — with  pardon  let  me  speak 

it— 

Too  much  upon  your  pleasures ;  and  these  pleasures 
Are  so  wrapt  up  in  self-love,  that  you  covet 
No  other  change  of  fortune  ;  would  be  still 
What  your  birth  makes  you  ;  but  are  loth  to  toil 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 


33 


In  such  affairs  of  state  as  break  your  sleeps. 

Cor.  I  think  you  would  be  by  the  world  reputed 
A  man  in  every  point  complete  ;  but  are 
In  manners  and  effect7  indeed  a  child, 
A  boy,  a  very  boy. 

Pel.  May't  please  your  grace, 

I  think  you  do  contain  within  yourself 
The  great  elixir,  soul,  and  quintessence 
Of  all  divine  perfections  ;  are  the  glory 
Of  mankind,  and  the  only  strict  example 
For  earthly  monarchs8  to  square  out  their  lives  by ; 
Time's  miracle,  Fame's  pride ;  in  knowledge,  wit, 
Sweetness,  discourse,  arms,  arts — 

Pal.  You  are  a  courtier. 

Cue.  But  not  of  the  ancient  fashion,  an't  like  your 
highness.  'Tis  I ;  I  that  am  the  credit  of  the  court, 
noble  prince ;  and  if  thou  wouldst,  by  proclamation 
or  patent,  create  me  overseer  of  all  the  tailors  in  thy 
dominions,  then,  then  the  golden  days  should  appear 
again ;  bread  should  be  cheaper,  fools  should  have 
more  wit,  knaves  more  honesty,  and  beggars  more 
money. 

Gril.  I  think  now — 

Cue.  Peace,  you  squall ! 

Pal.  \to  Rhetias\  You  have  not  spoken  yet. 

Cue.  Hang  him  !  he'll  nothing  but  rail. 

Gril.  Most  abominable ; — out  upon  him  ! 

Cor.  Away,  Guculus  ;  follow  the  lords. 

Cue.  Close,  page,  close. 

[They  all  silently  withdraw  but  Pal.  and  Rhe. 

Pal.  You  are  somewhat  long  a'  thinking. 

Rhe.  I  do  not  think  at  all. 

Pal.  Am  I  not  worthy  of  your  thought  ? 

7  effect]  Qy.  "affect"?  D. 

8  monarchs]  The  410  has  "Monarchies."  D. 
VOL.  I.  D 


34  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  IT. 

Rhe.  My  pity  you  are,  but  not  my  reprehension. 

Pal.  Pity! 

Rhe.  Yes,  for  I  pity  such  to  whom  I  owe  service, 
who  exchange  their  happiness  for  a  misery. 

Pal.  Is  it  a  misery  to  be  a  prince  ? 

Rhe.  Princes  who  forget  their  sovereignty,  and 
yield  to  affected  passion,  are  weary  of  command. — • 
You  had  a  father,  sir. 

PaL  Your  sovereign,  whiles  he  liv'd  :  but  what  of 
him? 

Rhe.  Nothing.     I  only  dared  to  name  him ;  that's 
all. 

Pal.  I  charge  thee,  by  the  duty  that  thou  ow'st  us, 
Be  plain  in  what  thou  mean'st  to  speak  :  there's  some 
thing 
That  we  must  know :  be  free ;  our  ears  are  open. 

Rhe.  O,  sir,  I  had  rather  hold  a  wolf  by  the  ears 
than  stroke  a  lion ;  the  greatest  danger  is  the  last. 

Pal.  This  is   mere  trifling.  —  Ha  !    are  all  stol'n 

hence  ? 

We  are  alone  :  thou  hast  an  honest  look  ; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  I  hope,  that  is  not  oil'd 
With  flattery  :  be  open.     Though  'tis  true 
That  in  my  younger9  days  I  oft  have  heard 
Agenor's  name,  my  father,  more  traduc'd 
Than  I  could  then  observe ;  yet  I  protest 
I  never  had  a  friend,  a  certain  friend, 
That  would  inform  me  throughly  of  such  errors 
As  oftentimes  are  incident  to  princes. 

•Rhe.  All  this  may  be.     I  have  seen  a  man  so 
curious  in  feeling  of  the  edge  of  a  keen  knife,  that 

9  younger}  So  a  copy  of  the  410  in  the  King's  Library,  British 
Museum,  and  a  copy  in  my  possession.  Another  copy  in  my  posses 
sion  has  "young." — N.B.  Copies  of  old  plays  of  the  same  edition 
occasionally  differ  in  minute  particulars,  certain  alterations  having 
been  made  in  the  text  as  the  edition  was  passing  through  the  press.  D. 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  35 

he  has  cut  his  fingers.  My  flesh  is  not  of10  proof 
against  the  metal  I  am  to  handle ;  the  one  is  tenderer 
than  the  other. 

Pal.  I  see,  then,   I  must  court  thee.     Take  the 

word 

Of  a  just  prince ;  for  any  thing  thou  speakest 
I  have  more  than  a  pardon, — thanks  and  love. 

Rhe.  I  will  remember  you  of  an  old  tale  that  some 
thing  concerns  you.  Meleander,  the  great  but  unfor 
tunate  statesman,  was  by  your  father  treated  with  for 
a  match  between  you  and  his  eldest  daughter,  the 
Lady  Eroclea  :  you  were  both  near  of  an  age.  I  pre 
sume  you  remember  a  contract,  and  cannot  forget 
her. 

Pal.  She  was  a  lovely  beauty.     Prithee,  forward  ! 

Rhe.  To  court  was  Eroclea  brought ;  was  courted 
by  your  father,  not  for  Prince  Palador,  as  it  followed, 
but  to  be  made  a  prey  to  some  less  noble  design. 
With  your  favour,  I  have  forgot  the  rest. 

Pal.  Good,  call  it  back  again  into  thy  memory ; 
Else,  losing  the  remainder,  I  am  lost  too. 

Rhe.  You  charm  me.11  In  brief,  a  rape  by  some 
bad  agents  was  attempted;  by  the  Lord  Meleander 
her  father  rescued,  she  conveyed  away;  Meleander 
accused  of  treason,  his  land  seized,  he  himself  dis 
tracted  and  confined  to  the  castle,  where  he  yet  lives. 
What  had  ensued  was  doubtful;  but  your  father  shortly 
after  died. 

Pal.  But  what  became  of  fair  Eroclea  ? 

Rhe.  She  never  since  was  heard  of. 

Pal.  No  hope  lives,  then, 

Of  ever,  ever  seeing  her  again  ? 

10  of]  Omitted  by  Gilford.  D. 

11  You  charm  me.}  You  overpower  my  reluctance  to  speak  ;  and 
accordingly  Rhetias  feels  no  further  difficulty  in  disclosing  himself. 


3 6  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  II. 

Rhe.  Sir,  I  feared12  I  should  anger  ye.  This13  was, 
as  I  said,  an  old  tale : — I  have  now  a  new  one,  which 
may  perhaps  season  the  first  with  a  more  delightful 
relish. 

Pal  I  am  prepar'd  to  hear ;  say  what  you  please. 

Rhe.  My  Lord  Meleander  falling, — on  whose  fa 
vour  my  fortunes  relied, — I  furnished  myself  for  travel, 
and  bent  my  course  to  Athens ;  where  a  pretty  acci 
dent,  after  a  while,  came  to  my  knowledge. 

Pal.  My  ear  is  open  to  thee. 

Rhe.  A  young  lady  contracted  to  a  noble  gentle 
man,  as  the  lady  we14  last  mentioned  and  your  high 
ness  were,  being  hindered  by  their  jarring  parents, 
stole  from  her  home,  and  was  conveyed  like  a  ship- 
boy  in  a  merchant15  from  the  country  where  she  lived, 
into  Corinth  first,  afterwards  to  Athens ;  where  in 
much  solitariness  she  lived,  like  a  youth,  almost  two 
years,  courted  by  all  for16  acquaintance,  but  friend  to 
none  by  familiarity. 

Pal.  In  habit  of  a  man  ? 

Rhe.  A  handsome  young  man — till,  within  these 
three  months  or  less, — her  sweetheart's  father17  dying 
some  year  before  or  more, — she  had  notice  of  it,  and 
with  much  joy  returned  home,  and,  as  report  voiced 
it  at  Athens,  enjoyed  her  happiness  she  was  long  an 
exile  for.  Now,  noble  sir,  if  you  did  love  the  Lady 
Eroclea,  why  may  not  such  safety  and  fate  direct  her 
as  directed  the  other  ?  'tis  not  impossible. 

12  feared'}  The  4to  has  "feare."  D. 

13  This]  The  4to  has  "There;"  which  perhaps  Gifford  need  not 
have  altered.  D. 

"  we}  Omitted  by  Gifford.  D. 

15  in  a  merchant]  i.  e.  a  merchantship,  a  trader.    This  is  the  ex 
pression  which  so  greatly  perplexed  Steevens,  who  has  made  woful 
work  with  it  in  The  Tempest. 

16  for}  Gifford  printed  "her."  D. 

17  her  sweetheart's  father]   The  4to  has  ' '  her  sweet  hearty  Fa 
ther"  D. 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  37 

Pal.  If  I  did  love  her,  Rhetias !     Yes,  I  did. 
Give  me  thy  hand:  as  thou  didst  serve  Meleander, 
And  art  still  true  to  these,  henceforth  serve  me. 

Rhe.  My  duty  and  my  obedience  are  my  surety; 
but  I  have  been  too  bold. 

Pal.  Forget  the  sadder  story  of  my  father, 
And  only,  Rhetias,  learn  to  read  me  well  ;18 
For  I  must  ever  thank  thee  :  thou'st  unlock'd 
A  tongue  was  vow'd  to  silence  ;  for  requital, 
Open  my  bosom,  Rhetias. 

Rhe.  What's  your  meaning  ? 

Pal.  To  tie  thee  to  an  oath  of  secrecy. 
Unloose  the  buttons,  man  :  thou  dost  it  faintly. 
What  find'st  thou  there  ? 

Rhe.  A  picture  in  a  tablet. 

Pal.  Look  well  upon 't. 

Rhe.  I  do — yes — let  me  observe  it— 

Tis  hers,  the  lady's. 

Pal.  Whose? 

Rhe.  Eroclea's. 

Pal.  Hers  that  was  once  Eroclea.     For  her  sake 
Have  I  advanc'd  Sophronos  to  the  helm 
Of  government ;  for  her  sake  will  restore 
Meleander's  honours  to  him ;  will,  for  her  sake, 
Beg  friendship  from  thee,  Rhetias.     O,  be  faithful, 
And  let  no  politic  lord  work  from  thy  bosom 
My  griefs  :  I  know  thou  wert  put  on  to  sift  me ; 
But  be  not  too  secure. 

Rhe.  I  am  your  creature. 

Pal.  Continue  still  thy  discontented  fashion, 
Humour  the  lords,  as  they  would  humour  me ; 
I'll  not  live  in  thy  debt. — We  are  disco ver'd. 

18  to  read  me  well-]  To  understand,  to  comprehend  me. 


38  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  n. 

Enter  AMETHUS,  MENAPHON,  THAMASTA,  KALA,  and 
PARTHENOPHIL. 

Amct.  Honour   and   health  still   wait   upon   the 

prince  ! 

Sir,  I  am  bold  with  favour  to  present 
Unto  your  highness  Menaphon  my  friend, 
Return'd  from  travel. 

Men.  Humbly  on  my  knees 

I  kiss  your  gracious  hand. 

Pal.  It  is  our  duty 

To  love  the  virtuous. 

Men.  If  my  prayers  or  service 

Hold  any  value,  they  are  vow'd  yours  ever. 

Rhe.  I  have  a  fist  for  thee  too,  stripling;  thou'rt 
started  up  prettily  since  I  saw  thee.  Hast  learned  any 
wit  abroad?  Canst  tell  news  and  swear  lies  with  a 
grace,  like  a  true  traveller? — What  new  ouzle's  this?19 

Tha.  Your  highness  shall  do  right  to  your  own 

judgment 

In  taking  more  than  common  notice  of 
This  stranger,  an  Athenian,  nam'd  Parthenophil ; 
One  who,20  if  mine  opinion  do  not  soothe  me 
Too  grossly,  for  the  fashion  of  his  mind 
Deserves  a  dear  respect. 

Pal.  Your  commendations, 

Sweet  cousin,  speak  him  nobly. 

Par.  All  the  powers 

That  sentinel  just  thrones  double  their  guards21 
About  your  sacred  excellence ! 

19  What  new  ouzle'j  this  ?~\  Parthenophil,  whom  he  pretends  not 
to  know.    If  anything  be  necessary  on  so  common  a  word,  it  may  be 
briefly  observed  that  ' '  ouzle  is  a  generic  term,  in  which  the  species 
blackbird  (one  among  many)  is  contained." 

20  who,]  The  4to  has  "whom."  D. 

21  double  their  guards]  The  old  copy  reads  "double  these  guards  ;" 
which  seems  hardly  intelligible. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  39 

Pal.  What  fortune 

Led  him  to  Cyprus  ? 

Men.  My  persuasions  won  him. 

Amet.  And  if  your  highness  please  to  hear  the  en 
trance 
Into  their  first  acquaintance,  you  will  say — 

Tha.  It  was  the  newest,  sweetest,  prettiest  accident 
That  e'er  delighted  your  attention  : 
I  can  discourse  it,  sir. 

Pal.  Some  other  time. 

How  is  he  call'd? 

Tha.  Parthenophil. 

Pal.  Parthenophil ! 

We  shall  sort  time  to  take  more  notice  of  him.    [Exit. 

Men.  His  wonted  melancholy  still  pursues  him. 

Amet.  I  told  you  so. 

Tha.  You  must  not  wonder  at  it. 

Par.  I  do  not,  lady. 

Amet.  Shall  we  to  the  castle? 

Men.  We  will  attend  ye  both. 

Rhe.  All  three, — I'll  go  too.  Hark  in  thine  ear, 
gallant ;  I'll  keep  the  old  madman22  in  chat,  whilst 
thou  gabbiest  to  the  girl :  my  thumb's  upon  my  lips  ; 
not  a  word. 

Amet.  I  need  not  fear  thee,  Rhetias. — Sister,  soon 
Expect  us :  this  day  we  will  range  the  city. 

Tha.  Well,  soon  I  shall  expect  ye.— Kala  !23 

[Aside  to  Kala. 

Kal.  Trust  me. 

Rhe.  Troop  on  ! — Love,  love,  what  a  wonder  thou 
art !  [Exeunt  all  but  Par.  and  Kala. 

22  madman]  Gifford  printed  "man."  D. 

23  Kala/}  This  is  a  hint  to  her  attendant  to  take  the  present  op 
portunity  of  conveying  her  message  "honourably"  to  Parthenophil. 
See  p.  28. 


40  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  11. 

Kal.  May  I  not  be  offensive,  sir? 

Par.  Your  pleasure? 

Yet,  pray,  be  brief. 

Kal.  Then,  briefly ;  good,  resolve  me  \ 

Have  you  a  mistress  or  a  wife  ? 

Par.  I've  neither. 

KaL  Nor  did  you  ever  love  in  earnest  any 
Fair  lady,  whom  you  wish'd  to  make  your  own  ? 

Par.  Not  any,  truly. 

Kal.  What  your  friends  or  means  are 

I  will  not  be  inquisitive  to  know, 
Nor  do  I  care  to  hope  for.     But  admit 
A  dowry  were  thrown  down  before  your  choice, 
Of  beauty,  noble  birth,  sincere24  affection, 
How  gladly  would  you  entertain  it !     Young  man, 
I  do  not  tempt  you  idly. 

Par.  I  shall  thank  you, 

When  my  unsettled  thoughts  can  make  me  sensible 
Of  what  'tis  to  be  happy;  for  the  present 
I  am  your  debtor ;  and,  fair  gentlewoman, 
Pray  give  me  leave  as  yet  to  study  ignorance, 
For  my  weak  brains  conceive  not  what  concerns  me. 
Another  time —  [Going. 

Re-enter  THAMASTA. 

Tha.  Do  I  break  off  your  parley, 

That  you  are  parting  ?     Sure,  my  woman  loves  you  : 
Can  she  speak  well,  Parthenophil  ? 

Par.  Yes,  madam, 

Discreetly  chaste  she  can ;  she  hath  much  won 
On  my  belief,  and  in  few  words,  but  pithy, 
Much  mov'd  my  thankfulness.     You  are  her  lady ; 
Your  goodness  aims,  I  know,  at  her  preferment ; 

24  sincere]  The  4to  has  "  and  sincere."  D. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  41 

Therefore  I  may  be  bold  to  make  confession 
Of  truth  :  if  ever  I  desire  to  thrive 
In  woman's  favour,  Kala  is  the  first 
Whom  my  ambition  shall  bend  to. 

7ha.  Indeed ! 

But  say  a  nobler  love  should  interpose. 

Par.  Where  real  worth  and  constancy  first  settle 
A  hearty  truth,  there  greatness  cannot  shake  it ; 
Nor  shall  it  mine  :  yet  I  am  but  an  infant 
In  that  construction,  which  must  give  clear  light 
To  Kala's  merit ;  riper  hours  hereafter 
Must  learn  me  how  to  grow  rich  in  deserts. 
Madam,  my  duty  waits  on  you.  [Exit. 

Tha.  Come  hither : — 

"  If  ever  henceforth  I  desire  to  thrive 
In  woman's  favour,25  Kala  is  the  first 
Whom  my  ambition  shall  bend  to."  'Twas  so  ! 

Kal.  These  very  words  he  spake. 

Tha.  These  very  words 

Curse  thee,  unfaithful  creature,  to  thy  grave. 
Thou  woo'dst  him  for  thyself? 

Kal.  You  said  I  should. 

Tha.  My  name  was  never  mention'd  ? 

Kal.  Madam,  no; 

We  were  not  come  to  that. 

Tha.  Not  come  to  that ! 

Art  thou  a  rival  fit  to  cross  my  fate? 
Now  poverty  and  a  dishonest  fame, 
The  waiting-woman's  wages,  be  thy  payment, 
False,  faithless,  wanton  beast!     I'll  spoil  your  car 
riage;26 

25  favour, (]  The  4to  has  "fauours;"  but  see  above.  D. 

26  /'//  spoil  your  carriage  ;]  So  the  4to  reads.     From  the  sequel 
of  the  speech  it  appears  not  improbable  that  the  poet's  word  was 
"  marriage." 


42 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  n. 


There's  not  a  page,  a  groom,  nay,  not  a  citizen 
That  shall  be  cast  [away]  upon  ye,  Kala; 
I'll  keep  thee  in  my  service  all  thy  lifetime, 
Without  hope  of  a  husband  or  a  suitor. 

Kal.  I  have  not  verily  deserv'd  this  cruelty. 

Tha.  Parthenophil  shall  know,  if  he  respect 
My  birth,  the  danger  of  a  fond  neglect.27  [Exit. 

Kal.  Are  you  so  quick?    Well,  I  may  chance  to 

cross 

Your  peevishness.     Now,  though  I  never  meant 
The  young  man  for  myself,  yet,  if  he  love  me, 
I'll  have  him,  or  I'll  run  away  with  him; 
And  let  her  do  her  worst  then !    What !  we're  all 
But  flesh  and  blood;  the  same  thing  that  will  do 
My  lady  good  will  please  her  woman Joo.28         [Exit. 


SCENE  II.  An  apartment  at  the  castle. 
Enter  CLEOPHILA  and  TROLLIO. 

Cleo.  Tread  softly,  Trollio;  my  father  sleeps  still. 

Trol.  Ay,  forsooth ;  but  he  sleeps  like  a  hare,  with 
his  eyes  open,  and  that's  no  good  sign. 

Cleo.  Sure,  thou  art  weary  of  this  sullen  living; 
But  I  am  not;  for  I  take  more  content 
In  my  obedience  here  than  all  delights 
The  time  presents  elsewhere. 

Mel.  [within}  O! 

Cleo.  Dost  hear  that  groan? 

Trol.  Hear  it!  I  shudder:  it  was  a  strong  blast, 
young  mistress,  able  to  root  up  heart,  liver,  lungs,  and 
all. 

27  of  a  fond  neglect.}  i.e.  the  danger  of  slighting  the  love  of  a 
lady  of  my  rank. 

28  Kala  bears  some  resemblance  to  Valeria  in  Shirley's  tragedy 
of  The  Cardinal. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  43 

Cleo.  My  much-wrong'd  father!  let  me  view  his 
face. 

[Draws  the  arras:®  Meleander  discovered 
in  a  chair,  sleeping. 

Trol.  Lady  mistress,  shall  I  fetch  a  barber  to  steal 
away  his  rough  beard  whiles  he  sleeps?  In's  naps30 
he  never  looks  in  a  glass — and  'tis  high  time,  on  con 
science,31  for  him  to  be  trimmed;  'has  not  been  under 
the  shaver's  hand  almost  these  four  years. 

Cleo.  Peace,  fool ! 

Trol.  \aside\  I  could  clip  the  old  ruffian;  there's 
hair  enough  to  stuff  all  the  great  codpieces  in  Swit 
zerland.  'A  begins  to  stir;  'a  stirs.  Bless  us,  how 
his  eyes  roll! — A  good  year  keep  your  lordship  in 
your  right  wits,  I  beseech  ye ! 

Mel.  Cleophila! 

Cleo.  Sir,  I  am  here;  how  d'ye,  sir? 

Trol.  Sir,  is  your  stomach  up  yet?  get  some  warm 
porridge  in  your  belly;  'tis  a  very  good  settle-brain. 

Mel.  The  raven  croak'd,  and  hollow  shrieks   of 

owls 

Sung  dirges  at  her  funeral;  I  laugh'd 
The  whiles,  for  'twas  no  boot  to  weep.     The  girl 
Was  fresh  and  full  of  youth :  but,  O,  the  cunning 
Of  tyrants,  that  look  big !  their  very  frowns 
Doom  poor  souls  guilty  ere  their  cause  be  heard. — 
Good,  what  art  thou? — and  thou? 

Cleo.  I  am  Cleophila, 

Your  woful  daughter. 

29  the  arras:]  Arras  was  used  precisely  as  a  curtain:  it  hung  (on 
tenters  or  lines)  from  the  rafters,  or  from  some  temporary  stay,  and 
was  opened,  held  up,  or  drawn  aside,  as  occasion  required. 

30  whiles  he  sleeps'?    Ins  naps,  &c.]  The  4to  reads  "whiles  he 
sleeps  in's  naps?"  which  is  not  easily  understood ;  unless  by  naps  the 
facetious  Trollio  means  in  his  rough  state.     I  believe,  however,  that 
the  error  lies  in  the  pointing. 

31  on  conscience,}  Gifford  printed  "o'  my  conscience."  D. 


44  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  11. 

Trol.  I  am  Trollio, 

Your  honest  implement. 

Mel.  I  know  ye  both.     'Las,  why  d'ye  use  me 

thus? 

Thy  sister,  my  Eroclea,  was  so  gentle, 
That  turtles  in  their  down  do  feed  more  gall 
Than  her  spleen  mix'd  with:  yet,  when  winds  and 

storm 

Drive  dirt  and  dust  on  banks  of  spotless  snow, 
The  purest  whiteness  is  no  such  defence 
Against  the  sullying  foulness  of  that  fury. 
So  rav'd  Agenor,  that  great  man,  mischief 
Against  the  girl :  'twas  a  politic  trick ! 
We  were  too  old  in  honour.     I  am  lean, 
And  falPn  away  extremely;  most  assuredly 
I  have  not  din'd  these  three  days. 

Cleo.  Will  you  now,  sir? 

Trol.  I  beseech  ye  heartily,  sir:  I  feel  a  horrible 
puking  myself. 

Mel.  Am  I  stark  mad? 

Trol.  [aside]  No,  no,  you  are  but  a  little  staring; 
there's  difference  between  staring  and  stark  mad.  You 
are  but  whimsied  yet;  crotcheted,  conundrumed,  or 
so. 

Mel.  Here's  all  my  care;  and  I  do  often  sigh 
For  thee,  Cleophila;  we  are  secluded 
From  all  good  people.     But  take  heed;  Amethus 
Was  son  to  Doryla,  Agenor's  sister; 
There's  some  ill  blood  about  him,  if  the  surgeon 
Have  not  been  very  skilful  to  let  all  out. 

Cleo.  I  am,  alas,  too  griev'd  to  think  of  love; 
That  must  concern  me  least. 

Mel.  Sirrah,  be  wise !  be  wise ! 

Trol.  Who,  I?  I  will  be  monstrous  and  wise  im 
mediately. 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 


45 


Enter  AMETHUS,  MENAPHON,  PARTHENOPHIL,  and 

RHETIAS. 

Welcome,  gentlemen;  the  more  the  merrier.  I'll  lay 
the  cloth,  and  set  the  stools  in  a  readiness,  for  I  see 
here  is  some  hope  of  dinner  now.  \Exit. 

Amet.  My  Lord  Meleander,  Menaphon,  your  kins 
man, 

Newly  return'd  from  travel,  comes  to  tender 
His  duty  t'ye; — to  you  his  love,  fair  mistress. 

Men.  I  would  I  could  as  easily  remove 
Sadness  from  your  remembrance,  sir,  as  study 
To  do  you  faithful  service. — My  dear  cousin, 
All  best  of  comforts  bless  your  sweet  obedience ! 

Cleo.  One  chief  of  'em,  [my]  worthy  cousin,  lives 
In  you  and  your  well-doing. 

Men.  This  young  stranger 

Will  well  deserve  your  knowledge. 

Amet.  For  my  friend's  sake, 

Lady,  pray  give  him  welcome. 

Cleo.  He  has  met  it, 

If  sorrows  can  look  kindly. 

Par.  You  much  honour  me. 

Rhe.  \aside\  How  he  eyes  the  company !  sure  my 
passion  will  betray  my  weakness. — O  my  master,  my 
noble  master,  do  not  forget  me;  I  am  still  the  hum 
blest  and  the  most  faithful  in  heart  of  those  that  serve 
you. 

Mel.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Rhe.  \_aside\  There's  wormwood  in  that  laughter; 
'tis  the  usher  to  a  violent  extremity. 

Mel.  I  am  a  weak  old  man.     All  these  are  come 
To  jeer  my  ripe  calamities. 

Men.  Good  uncle ! 

Mel.  But  I'll  outstare  ye  all :  fools,  desperate  fools  ! 


46  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  n. 

You're  cheated,  grossly  cheated;  range,  range  on, 

And  roll  about  the  world  to  gather  moss, 

The  moss  of  honour,  gay  reports,  gay  clothes, 

Gay  wives,  huge  empty  buildings,  whose  proud  roofs 

Shall  with  their  pinnacles  even  reach  the  stars. 

Ye  work  and  work  like  blind  moles,32  in  the  paths 

That  are  bor'd  through  the  crannies  of  the  earth, 

To  charge  your  hungry  souls  with  such  full  surfeits 

As,  being  gorg'd  once,  make  ye  lean  with  plenty; 

And  when  ye've  skimm'd  the  vomit  of  your  riots, 

Ye're  fat  in  no  felicity  but  folly : 

Then  your  last  sleeps  seize  on  ye;  then  the  troops 

Of  worms  crawl  round  and  feast;  good  cheer,  rich 

fare, 

Dainty,  delicious! — Here's  Cleophila; 
All  the  poor  stock  of  my  remaining  thrift : 
You,  you,  the  prince's  cousin,  how  d'ye  like  her? 
Amethus,  how  d'ye  like  her? 

Amef.  My  intents 

Are  just  and  honourable. 

Men.  Sir,  believe  him. 

Mel.  Take  her. — We  two  must  part;  go  to  him, 
do. 

Par.  This  sight  is  full  of  horror. 

Rhe.  There  is  sense  yet 

In  this  distraction. 

Mel.  In  this  jewel  I  have  given  away 
All  what  I  can  call  mine.    When  I  am  dead, 
Save  charge;  let  me  be  buried  in  a  nook: 
No  guns,  no  pompous  whining;  these  are  fooleries. 
If,  whiles  we  live,  we  stalk  about  the  streets 
Jostled  by  carmen,  footposts,  and  fine  apes 
In  silken  coats,  unminded  and  scarce  thought  on, 

32  like  blind  moles,']  The  4to  has  "  like  Moles,  blind."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  47 

It  is  not  comely  to  be  hal'd  to  th'  earth,33 

Like  high-fed  jades  upon  a  tilting-day, 

In  antic  trappings.     Scorn  to  useless  tears ! 

Eroclea  was  not  coffin'd  so ;  she  perish'd, 

And  no  eye  dropp'd  save  mine — and  I  am  childish ; 

I  talk  like  one  that  dotes :  laugh  at  me,  Rhetias, 

Or  rail  at  me.     They  will  not  give  me  meat, 

They've  starv'd  me;  but  I'll  henceforth  be  mine  own 

cook. 

Good  morrow !  'tis  too  early  for  my  cares 
To  revel;  I  will  break  my  heart  a  little, 
And  tell  ye  more  hereafter.     Pray  be  merry.       {Exit. 

Rhe.  I'll  follow  him.  —  My  Lord  Amethus,  use 
your  time  respectively;  few  words  to  purpose  soonest 
prevail:  study  no  long  orations;  be  plain  and  short. — 
I'll  follow  him.  [Exit. 

Amet.  Cleophila,  although  these  blacker  clouds 
Of  sadness  thicken  and  make  dark  the  sky 
Of  thy  fair  eyes,  yet  give  me  leave  to  follow 
The  stream  of  my  affections :  they  are  pure, 
Without  all  mixture  of  unnoble  thoughts. 
Can  you  be  ever  mine? 

Cleo.  I  am  so  low 

In  mine  own  fortunes  and  my  father's  woes, 
That  I  want  words  to  tell  ye  you  deserve 
A  worthier  choice. 

Amet.  But  give  me  leave  to  hope. 

Men.  My  friend  is  serious. 

Cleo.  Sir,  this  for  answer.     If  I  ever  thrive 
In  any34  earthly  happiness,  the  next 
To  my  good  father's  wish'd  recovery 

33  hal'd  to  th'  earth,~\  i.  e.  drawn  to  the  grave.    The  allusion  is  to 
the  pomp  and  parade  of  a  funeral  procession,  and  to  the  rich  heraldic 
trophies  with  which  the  hearse  was  covered. 

34  any]  The  410  has  "an."  D. 


48  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Must  be  my  thankfulness  to  your  great  merit, 
Which  I  dare  promise :  for  the  present  time 
You  cannot  urge  more  from  me. 

Mel.  [within]  Ho,  Cleophila! 

Cleo.  This  gentleman  is  mov'd. 

Amet.  Your  eyes,  Parthenophil, 

Are  guilty  of  some  passion. 

Men.  Friend,  what  ails  thee? 

Par.  All  is  not  well  within  me,  sir. 

Mel.  [within]  Cleophila! 

Amet.  Sweet  maid,  forget  me  not;  we  now  must 
part. 

Cleo.  Still  you  shall  have  my  prayer. 

Amet.  Still  you  my  truth. 

,  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  the  palace. 

Enter  CUCULUS  and  GRILLA  ;  the  former  in  a  black  velvet  cap 
and  a  white  feather,  with  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

Cue.  Do  not  I  look  freshly,  and  like  a  youth  of 
the  trim? 

Gril.  As  rare  an  old  youth  as  ever  walked  cross- 
gartered. 

Cue.  Here  are  my  mistresses  mustered  in  white 
and  black.  [Reads]  "Kala,  the  waiting-woman" — I  will 
first  begin  at  the  foot :  stand  thou  for  Kala. 

Gril.  I  stand  for  Kala;  do  your  best  and  your 
worst. 

Cue.  I  must  look  big,  and  care  little  or  nothing 
for  her,  because  she  is  a  creature  that  stands  at  livery. 
Thus  I  talk  wisely,  and  to  no  purpose : — Wench,  as  it 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  49 

is  not  fit  that  thou  shouldst  be  either  fair  or  honest, 
so,  considering  thy  service,  thou  art  as  thou  art,  and 
so  are  thy  betters,  let  them  be  what  they  can  be. 
Thus,  in  despite  and  defiance  of  all  thy  good  parts,  if 
I  cannot  endure  thy  baseness,  'tis  more  out  of  thy 
courtesy  than  my  deserving ;  and  so  I  expect  thy 
answer. 

Gril.  I  must  confess — 

Cue.  Well  said. 

Gril.  You  are — 

Cue.  That's  true  too. 

Gril.  To  speak  you  right,  a  very  scurvy  fellow. 

Cue.  Away,  away! — dost  think  so? 

Gril.  A  very  foul-mouth'd   and   misshapen   cox 
comb. 

Cue.  I'll  never  believe  it,  by  this  hand. 

Gril.  A  maggot,  most  unworthy  to  creep  in 
To  the  least  wrinkle  of  a  gentlewoman's — 
What  d'ye  call — good  conceit,  or  so,  or  what 
You  will  else, — were  you  not  refin'd  by  courtship 
And  education,  which  in  my  blear  eyes 
Makes  you  appear  as  sweet  as  any  nosegay, 
Or  savoury  cod  of  musk  new  fall'n  from  the  cat. 

Cue.  This  shall  serve  well  enough  for  the  waiting- 
woman.  My  next  mistress  is  Cleophila,  the  old  mad 
man's  daughter.  I  must  come  to  her  in  whining  tune; 
sigh,  wipe  mine  eyes,  fold  my  arms,  and  blubber  out 
my  speech  as  thus : — Even  as  a  kennel  of  hounds, 
sweet  lady,  cannot  catch  a  hare  when  they  are  full- 
paunched  on  the  carrion  of  a  dead  horse;  so,  even 
so,  the  gorge  of  my  affections  being  full -crammed 
with  the  garboils  of  your  condolements  doth  tickle 
me  with  the  prick,  as  it  were,  about  me,  and  fellow- 
feeling  of  howling  outright. 

Gril.  This  will  do't,  if  we  will  hear.1 

VOL.   I.  E 


50  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Cue.  Thou  seest  I  am  crying  ripe,  I  am  such  an 
other  tender-hearted  fool. 

Gril.  Even  as  the  snuff  of  a  candle  that  is  burnt 
in  the  socket  goes  out,  and  leaves  a  strong  perfume 
behind  it;  or  as  a  piece  of  toasted  cheese  next  the 
heart  in  a  morning  is  a  restorative  for  a  sweet 
breath;  so,  even  so,  the  odoriferous  savour  of  your 
love  doth  perfume  my  heart — heigh-ho! — with  the 
pure  scent  of  an  intolerable  content,  and  not  to  be 
endured. 

Cue.  By  this  hand,  'tis  excellent!  Have  at  thee, 
last  of  all,  for  the  Princess  Thamasta,  she  that  is  my 
mistress  indeed.  She  is  abominably  proud,  a  lady 
of  a  damnable  high,  turbulent,  and  generous  spirit: 
but  I  have  a  loud-mouthed  cannon  of  mine  own  to 
batter  her,  and  a  penned  speech  of  purpose :  observe 
it. 

GriL  Thus  I  walk  by,  hear,  and  mind  you  not. 
Cue.  \reads\ 

"  Though  haughty  as  the  devil  or  his  dam 
Thou  dost  appear,  great  mistress,  yet  I  am 
Like  to  an  ugly  firework,  and  can  mount 
Above  the  region  of  thy  sweet  ac — count. 
Wert  thou  the  moon  herself,  yet  having  seen 

thee, 

Behold  the  man  ordain'd  to  move  within  thee." 
Look  to  yourself,  housewife  !  answer   me   in   strong 
lines,  you're  best. 

Gril.  Keep  off,  poor  fool,  my  beams  will  strike 

thee  blind; 

Else,  if  thou  touch  me,  touch  me  but  behind. 
In  palaces,  such  as  pass  in  before 
Must  be  great  princes;  for  at  the  back-door 

1  if  vie.  will  hear  J\  Probably  a  misprint  for  "  she. "  I  fGrilla  ans 
wered  in  the  name  of  Cleophila,  we  had  already  heard. 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  5 1 

Tatterdemalions  wait,  who  know  not  how 
To  get2  admittance ;  such  a  one — art  thou. 

Cue.  'Sfoot,  this  is  downright  roaring.3 

GriL  I  know  how  to  present  a  big  lady  in  her  own 
cue.  But,  pray,  in  earnest,  are  you  in  love  with  all 
these? 

Cue.  Pish !  I  have  not  a  rag  of  love  about  me ;  'tis 
only  a  foolish  humour  I  am  possessed  with,  to  be  sur- 
named  the  Conqueror.  I  will  court  anything;  be  in 
love  with  nothing,  nor  no — thing. 

GriL  A  rare  man  you  are,  I  protest. 

Cue.  Yes,  I  know  I  am  a  rare  man,  and  I  ever 
held  myself  so. 

Enter  PELIAS  and  CORAX. 

Pel.  In  amorous  contemplation,  on  my  life; 
Courting  his  page,  by  Helicon ! 

Cue.  Tis  false. 

GriL  A  gross  untruth;  I'll  justify  it,  sir, 
At  any  time,  place,  weapon. 

Cue.  Marry,  shall  she. 

Cor.  No  quarrels,  Goody  Whisk  !  lay-by  your 
trumperies,  and  fall -to  your  practice.  Instructions 
are  ready  for  you  all.  Pelias  is  your  leader;  follow 
him :  get  credit  now  or  never.  Vanish,  doodles,  van 
ish  ! 

Cue.  For  the  device? 

Cor.  The  same;  get  ye  gone,  and  make  no  bawl 
ing.  \Exeunt  all  but  Corax. 
To  waste  my  time  thus,  drone-like,  in  the  court, 
And  lose  so  many  hours  as  my  studies 
Have  hoarded  up,  is  to  be  like  a  man 

2  get}  Gifford  printed  "gain."  D. 

3  this  is  downright  roaring.]  i.  e.  the  language  of  bullies,  affecting; 
a  quarrel.     See  Jonson,  vol.  iv.  p.  483. 


52  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

That  creeps  both  on  his  hands  and  knees  to  climb 

A  mountain's  top ;  where,  when  he  is  ascended, 

One  careless  slip  down-tumbles  him  again 

Into'  the  bottom,  whence  he  first  began. 

I  need  no  prince's  favour;  princes  need 

My  art:  then,  Corax,  be  no  more  a  gull; 

The  best  of  'em  cannot  fool  thee,  nay,  they  shall  not. 

Enter  SOPHRONOS  and  ARETUS. 

Soph.  We  find  him  timely  now;  let's  learn   the 
cause. 

Are.  'Tis   fit  we   should. — Sir,  we  approve   you 

learn'd, 

And,  since  your  skill  can  best  discern  the  humours 
That  are  predominant  in  bodies  subject 
To  alteration,  tell  us,  pray,  what  devil 
This  Melancholy  is,  which  can  transform 
Men  into  monsters. 

Cor.  You're  yourself  a  scholar, 

And  quick  of  apprehension.     Melancholy 
Is  not,  as  you  conceive,  indisposition 
Of  body,  but  the  mind's  disease.     So  Ecstasy, 
Fantastic  Dotage,  Madness,  Frenzy,  Rapture4 
Of  mere  imagination,  differ  partly 
From  Melancholy;5  which  is  briefly  this, 
A  mere  commotion  of  the  mind,  o'ercharg'd 

4  Rapture}  The  4to  has  "Rupture,"  which  Gifford  retained.  D. 

6  "Vide,"  Ford  says,  " Democritus  Junior."  He  alludes  to  the 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  by  Robert  Burton;  from  which  not  only 
what  is  here  said,  but  the  descriptions  and  personifications  of  the 
various  affections  of  the  mind  in  the  Interlude  (scene  iii.)  are  imi 
tated,  or  rather  copied ;  for  the  poet  has  added  little  or  nothing  of 
his  own  to  what  he  found  in  that  popular  volume.  To  say  the  truth, 
the  stupendous  and  undistinguishing  diligence  of  our  ' '  Democritus 
the  Younger"  almost  precluded  the  possibility  of  adding  to  any  topic 
which  he  had  previously  made  the  object  of  his  researches.  I  omitted 
to  observe  that  the  anecdote  of  the  "  sow-pig  that  sucked  a  brach," 
p.  21,  is  taken  from  that  writer,  who  found  it  in  Giraldus  Cambrensis. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  53 

With  fear  and  sorrow;  first  begot  i'  th'  brain, 
The  seat  of  reason,  and  from  thence  deriVd 
As  suddenly  into  the  heart,  the  seat 
Of  our  affection. 

Are.  There  are  sundry  kinds 

Of  this  disturbance  ? 

Cor.  Infinite  :  it  were 

More  easy  to  conjecture  every  hour 
We  have  to  live  than  reckon  up  the  kinds 
Or  causes  of  this  anguish  of  the  mind. 

Soph.  Thus   you  conclude  that,   as  the  cause  is 

doubtful, 

The  cure  must  be  impossible  ;  and  then 
Our  prince,  poor  gentleman,  is  lost  for  ever 
As  well  unto  himself  as  to  his  subjects. 

Cor.  My  lord,  you  are  too  quick :  thus  much  I  dare 
Promise  and  do ;  ere  many  minutes  pass 
I  will  discover  whence  his  sadness  is, 
Or  undergo  the  censure  of  my  ignorance. 

Are.  You  are  a  noble  scholar. 

Soph.  For  reward 

You  shall  make  your  own  demand. 

Cor.  May  I  be  sure  ? 

Are.  We  both  will  pledge  our  truth. 

Cor.  'Tis  soon  perform'd  : 

That  I  may  be  discharg'd  from  my  attendance 
At  court,  and  never  more  be  sent  for  after ; 
Or — if  I  be,  may  rats  gnaw  all  my  books, 
If  I  get  home  once,  and  come  here  again  ! 
Though  my  neck  stretch  a  halter  for't,  I  care  not. 

Soph.  Come,  come,  you  shall  not  fear  it. 

Cor.  I'll  acquaint  ye 

With  what  is  to  be  done;  and  you  shall  fashion  it. 

\Exeunt. 


54  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 


SCENE  II.  A  room  in  THAMASTA'S  house. 
Enter  KALA  and  PARTHENOPHIL. 

Kal.  My  lady  does  expect  ye,  thinks  all  time 
Too  slow  till  you  come  to  her :  wherefore,  young  man, 
If  you  intend  to  love  me,  and  me  only, 
Before  we  part,  without  more  circumstance, 
Let  us  betroth  ourselves. 

Par.  I  dare  not  wrong  ye  ; — 

You  are  too  violent. 

Kal.  Wrong  me  no  more 

Than  I  wrong  you ;  be  mine,  and  I  am  yours  : 
I  cannot  stand  on  points. 

Par.  Then,  to  resolve 

All  further  hopes,  you  never  can  be  mine, 
Must  not,  and — pardon  though  I  say — you  shall  not. 

Kal.  \aside\  The  thing  is  sure  a  gelding. — Shall 

not !     Well, 

You're  best  to  prate  unto  my  lady  now, 
What  proffer  I  have  made. 

Par.  Never,  I  vow. 

Kal.  Do,  do  !  'tis  but  a  kind  heart  of  mine  own, 
And  ill  luck  can  undo  me. — Be  refus'd  ! 
O  scurvy ! — Pray  walk  on,  I'll  overtake  ye.  [Exit  Par. 
What  a  green-sickness-liver' d  boy  is  this  ! 
My  maidenhead  will  shortly  grow  so  stale 
That  'twill  be  mouldy  : — but  I'll  mar  her  market.6 

Enter  MENAPHON. 

Men.  Parthenophil  pass'd  this7  way  :  prithee,  Kala, 
Direct  me  to  him. 

Kal.  Yes,  I  can  direct  ye  ; 

6  but  I'll  mar  her  market.}  Her  mistress's,  whom  she  accordingly 
betrays  to  Menaphon. 

7  this]  The  4to  has  "the."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  55 

But  you,  sir,  must  forbear. 

Men.  Forbear ! 

Kal.  I  said  so. 

Your  bounty  has  engag'd  my  truth  :  receive 
A  secret,  that  will,  as  you  are  a  man, 
Startle  your  reason ;  'tis  but  mere  respect 
Of  what  I  owe  to  thankfulness.     Dear  sir, 
The  stranger  whom  your  courtesy  receiv'd 
For  friend  is  made  your  rival. 

Men.  Rival,  Kala! 

Take  heed ;  thou  art  too  credulous. 

Kal.  My  lady 

Dotes  on  him.    I  will  place  you  in  a  room 
Where,  though  you  cannot  hear,  yet  you  shall  see 
Such  passages  as  will  confirm  the  truth 
Of  my  intelligence. 

Men.  'Twill  make  me  mad. 

Kal.  Yes,  yes. 

It  makes  me  mad  too,  that  a  gentleman 
So  excellently  sweet,  so  liberal, 
So  kind,  so  proper,  should  be  so  betray'd 
By  a  young  smooth-chinn'd  straggler :  but,  for  love's 

sake, 

Bear  all  with  manly  courage.     Not  a  word  ; 
I  am  undone  then. 

Men.  That  were  too  much  pity  : 

Honest,  most  honest  Kala,  'tis  thy  care, 
Thy  serviceable  care. 

Kal.  You  have  even  spoken 

All  can  be  said  or  thought. 

Men.  I  will  reward  thee  : 

But  as  for  him,  ungentle  boy,  I'll  whip 
His  falsehood  with  a  vengeance. 

Kal.  O,  speak  little. 

Walk  up  these  stairs  •  and  take  this  key;  it  opens 


56  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

A  chamber-door,  where,  at  that  window  yonder, 
You  may  see  all  their  courtship. 

Men,  I  am  silent. 

Kal.  As  little  noise  as  may  be,  I  beseech  ye : 
There  is  a  back-stair  to  convey  ye  forth 
Unseen  or  unsuspected.  [Exit  Menaphon. 

He  that  cheats 

A  waiting-woman  of  a  free  good  turn 
She  longs  for  must  expect  a  shrewd  revenge. 
Sheep-spirited  boy !  although  he  had  not  married  me, 
He  might  have  proffer'd  kindness  in  a  corner, 
And  ne'er  have  been  the  worse  for't. — They  are  come : 
On  goes  my  set  of  faces  most  demurely. 

Enter  THAMASTA  and  PARTHENOPHIL. 

Tha.  Forbear  the  room. 

Kal.  Yes,  madam. 

Tha.  Whosoever 

Requires  access  to  me,  deny  him  entrance 
Till  I  call  thee ;  and  wait  without. 

Kal.  I  shall.— 

Sweet  Venus,  turn  his  courage  to  a  snow-ball; 
I  heartily  beseech  it !  [Aside,  and  exit. 

Tha.  I  expose 

The  honour  of  my  birth,  my  fame,  my  youth, 
To  hazard  of  much  hard  construction, 
In  seeking  an  adventure  of  a  parley, 
So  private,  with  a  stranger :  if  your  thoughts 
Censure  me  not  with  mercy,  you  may  soon 
Conceive  I  have  laid  by  that  modesty 
Which  should  preserve  a  virtuous  name  unstain'd. 

Par.  Lady, — to  shorten  long  excuses, — time 
And  safe  experience  have  so  throughly  arm'd 
My  apprehension  with  a  real  taste 
Of  your  most  noble  nature,  that  to  question 


SCENE  II.     '      THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  57 

The  least  part  of  your  bounties,  or  that  freedom 
Which  heaven  hath  with  a  plenty  made  you  rich  in, 
Would  argue  me  uncivil;8  which  is  more, 
Base-bred;  and,  which  is  most  of  all,  unthankful. 

Tha.  The  constant  loadstone  and   the   steel  are 

found 

In  several  mines ;  yet  is  there  such  a  league 
Between  these  minerals  as  if  one  vein 
Of  earth  had  nourish'd  both.     The  gentle  myrtle 
Is  not  engraft  upon  an  olive's  stock, 
Yet  nature  hath  between  them  lock'd  a  secret 
Of  sympathy,  that,  being  planted  near, 
They  will,  both  in  their  branches  and  their  roots, 
Embrace  each  other :  twines  of  ivy  round 
The  well-grown  oak;  the  vine  doth  court  the  elm; 
Yet  these  are  different  plants.     Parthenophil, 
Consider  this  aright;  then  these  slight  creatures 
Will  fortify  the  reasons  I  should  frame 
For  that  ungrounded? — as  thou  think'st — affection 
Which  is  submitted  to  a  stranger's  pity. 
True  love  may  blush,  when  shame  repents  too  late ; 
But  in  all  actions  nature  yields  to  fate. 

Par.  Great  lady,  'twere  a  dulness  must  exceed 
The  grossest  and  most  sottish  kind  of  ignorance 
Not  to  be  sensible  of  your  intents ; 
I  clearly  understand  them.     Yet  so  much 
The  difference  between  that  height  and  lowness 
Which  doth  distinguish  pur  unequal  fortunes 
Dissuades  me  from  ambition,  that  I  am 
Humbler  in  my  desires  than  love's  own  power 
Can  any  way  raise  up. 

8  Would  argue  me  uncivil ;]  i.  e.  unacquainted  with  the  language 
and  manners  of  good  society.     In  this  sense,  the  word  frequently 
occurs  in  our  old  dramas. 

9  ungrounded}  Gifford  printed  "unguarded."  D. 


58  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Tha.  I  am  a  princess, 

And  know  no  law  of  slavery ;  to  sue, 
Yet  be  denied ! 

Par.  I  am  so  much  a  subject 

To  every  law  of  noble  honesty, 
That  to  transgress  the  vows  of  perfect  friendship 
I  hold  a  sacrilege  as  foul  and  curs'd 
As  if  some  holy  temple  had  been  robb'd, 
And  I  the  thief. 

Tha.  Thou  art  unwise,  young  man, 

T'  enrage  a  lioness. 

Par.  It  were  unjust 

To  falsify  a  faith,  and  ever  after, 
Disrob'd  of  that  fair  ornament,  live  naked, 
A  scorn  to  time  and  truth. 

Tha.  Remember  well 

Who  I  am,  and  what  thou  art. 

Par.  That  remembrance 

Prompts  me  to  worthy  duty.     O,  great  lady, 
If  some  few  days  have  tempted  your  free  heart 
To  cast  away  affection  on  a  stranger ; 
If  that  affection  have  so  oversway'd 
Your  judgment,  that  it,  in  a  manner,  hath 
Declin'd  your  sovereignty  of  birth  and  spirit ; 
How  can  ye  turn  your  eyes  off  from  that  glass 
Wherein  you  may  new-trim  and  settle  right 
A  memorable  name  ? 

Tha.  The  youth  is  idle.10 

Par.  Days,  months,  and  years  are  past  since  Men- 

aphon 

Hath  lov'd  and  serv'd  you  truly ;  Menaphon, 
A  man  of  no  large  distance  in  his  blood 
From  yours ;  in  qualities  desertful,  grac'd 

10  The  youth  is  idle.]  i.e.  talks  from  the  purpose. 


SCENE  n.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  59 

With  youth,  experience,  every  happy  gift 
That  can  by  nature  or  by  education 
Improve  a  gentleman  :  for  him,  great  lady, 
Let  me  prevail,  that  you  will  yet  at  last 
Unlock  the  bounty  which  your  love  and  care 
Have  wisely  treasur'd  up,  t'enrich  his  life. 

Iha.  Thou  hast  a  moving  eloquence,  Partheno- 

phil!— 

Parthenophil,  in  vain  we  strive  to  cross 
The  destiny  that  guides  us.     My  great  heart 
Is  stoop'd  so  much  beneath  that  wonted  pride 
That  first  disguis'd  it,  that  I  now  prefer 
A  miserable  life  with  thee  before 
All  other  earthly  comforts. 

Par.  Menaphon, 

By  me,  repeats  the  self-same  words  to  you  : 
You  are  too  cruel,  if  you  can  distrust 
His  truth  or  my  report. 

Tha.  Go  where  thou  wilt, 

I'll  be  an  exile  with  thee ;  I  will  learn 
To  bear  all  change  of  fortunes. 

Par.  For  my  friend 

I  plead  with  grounds  of  reason. 

Tha.  For  thy  love, 

Hard-hearted  youth,  I  here  renounce  all  thoughts 
Of  other  hopes,  of  other  entertainments, — 

Par.  Stay,  as  you  honour  virtue. 

Tha.  When  the  proffers 

Of  other  greatness, — 

Par.  Lady ! 

Tha.  When  entreats 

Of  friends, — 

Par.  I'll  ease  your  grief. 

Tha.  Respect  of  kindred, — 

Par.  Pray,  give  me  hearing. 


60  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Tha.  Loss  of  fame, — 

Par.  I  crave 

But  some  few  minutes. 

Tha.  Shall  infringe  my  vows, 

Let  Heaven, — 

Par.          My  love  speaks11  t'ye  :  hear,  then  go  on. 

Tha.  Thy  love !  why,  'tis  a  charm  to  stop  a  vow 
In  its  most  violent  course. 

Par.  Cupid  has  broke 

His  arrows  here  ;  and,  like  a  child  unarm'd, 
Comes  to  make  sport  between  us  with  no  weapon 
But  feathers  stolen  from  his  mother's  doves. 

Tha.  This  is  mere  trifling. 

Par.  Lady,  take  a  secret. 

I  am  as  you  are — in  a  lower  rank, 
Else  of  the  self-same  sex — a  maid,  a  virgin. 
And  now,  to  use  your  own  words,  "  if  your  thoughts 
Censure  me  not  with  mercy,  you  may  soon 
Conceive  I  have  laid  by  that  modesty 
Which  should  preserve  a  virtuous  name  unstain'd. 

Tha.  Are  you  not  mankind,  then  ? 

Par.  When  you  shall  read 

The  story  of  my  sorrows,  with  the  change 
Of  my  misfortunes,  in  a  letter  printed12 
From  my  unforg'd  relation,  I  believe 
You  will  not  think  the  shedding  of  one  tear 
A  prodigality  that  misbecomes 
Your  pity  and  my  fortune. 

Tha.  Pray,  conceal 

The  errors  of  my  passion.13 

Par.  Would  I  had 

11  speaks]  The4tohas  "speake."  D. 

12  printed}   By  printed  no  more  is  meant  than  set  down,  re 
counted,  &c.     It  was  the  language  of  the  times. 

13  passion.}  The  410  has  "passions  :"  and  so  Gifford.  D. 


SCENE  II.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  6 1 

Much  more  of  honour — as  for  life,  I  value't  not — 
To  venture  on  your  secrecy  ! 

Tha.  It  will  be 

A  hard  task  for  my  reason  to  relinquish 
Th'  affection  which  was  once  devoted  thine ; 
I  shall  awhile  repute  thee  still  the  youth 
I  lov'd  so  dearly. 

Par.  You  shall  find  me  ever 

Your  ready  faithful  servant. 

Tha.  O,  the  powers 

Who  do  direct  our  hearts  laugh  at  our  follies ! 
We  must  not  part  yet. 

Par.  Let  not  my  unworthiness 

Alter  your  good  opinion." 

Tha.  I  shall  henceforth 

Be  jealous  of  thy  company  with  any  : 
My  fears  are  strong  and  many.14 

Re-enter  KALA. 

Kal.  Did  your  ladyship 

Call  me  ? 

Tha.       For  what? 

Kal.  Your  servant  Menaphon 

Desires  admittance. 

Enter  MENAPHON. 

Men.  With  your  leave,  great  mistress, 

I  come, — So  private !  is  this  well,  Parthenophil  ? 

Par.  Sir,  noble  sir, — 

Men.  You  are  unkind  and  treacherous ; 

This  'tis  to  trust  a  straggler  ! 

Tha.  Prithee,  servant, — 

i*  This  scene,  at  once  dignified  and  pathetic,  is  happily  con 
ceived,  delicately  conducted,  and  beautifully  written.  It  places 
Ford's  powers  of  language  and  command  of  feeling  in  a  very  emi 
nent  rank. 


62  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Men.  I  dare  not  question  you  ;  you  are  my  mis 
tress, 
My  prince's  nearest  kinswoman :  but  he — 

Tha.  Come,  you  are  angry. 

Men.  Henceforth  I  will  bury 

Unmanly  passion  in  perpetual  silence  : 
I'll  court  mine  own  distraction,  dote  on  folly, 
Creep  to  the  mirth  and  madness  of  the  age, 
Rather  than  be  so  slav'd  again  to  woman, 
Which  in  her  best  of  constancy  is  steadiest 
In  change  and  scorn. 

Tha.  How  dare  ye  talk  to  me  thus? 

Men.  Dare !     Were   you   not   own   sister   to  my 

friend, 

Sister  to  my  Amethus,  I  would  hurl  ye 
As  far  off  from  mine  eyes  as  from  my  heart ; 
For  I  would  never  more  look  on  ye.     Take 
Your  jewel  t'ye  ! — And,  youth,  keep  under  wing, 
Or — boy  ! — boy  ! — 

Tha.  If  commands  be  of  no  force, 

Let  me  entreat  thee,  Menaphon. 

Men.  'Tis  naught. 

Fie,  fie,  Parthenophil !  have  I  deserv'd 
To  be  thus  us'd  ? 

Par.  I  do  protest — 

Men.  You  shall  not: 

Henceforth  I  will  be  free,  and  hate  my  bondage. 

Enter  AMETHUS. 

Amet.  Away,  away  to  court !  The  prince  is  pleas'd 
To  see  a  masque  to-night ;  we  must  attend  him  : 
'Tis  near  upon  the  time. — How  thrives  your  suit? 
Men.  The  judge,  your  sister,  will  decide  it  shortly. 
Tha.  Parthenophil,  I  will  not  trust  you  from  me. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  63 


SCENE  III.  A  room  in  the  palace. 

Enter  PALADOR,  SOPHRONOS,  ARETUS,  and  CORAX  ;  Servants 
with  torches. 

Cor.  Lights   and   attendance  !  —  I   will  show  your 

highness 

A  trifle  of  mine  own  brain.     If  you  can, 
Imagine  you  were  now  in  the  university, 
You'll  take  it  well  enough  ;  a  scholar's  fancy, 
A  quab — 'tis  nothing  else — a  very  quab.15 

Pal.  We  will  observe  it. 

Soph.  Yes,  and  grace  it  too,  sir, 

For  Corax  else  is  humorous  and  testy. 

Are.  By  any  means  ;  men  singular  in  art 
Have  always  some  odd  whimsey  more  than  usual. 

Pal.  The  name  of  this  conceit  ? 

Cor.  Sir,  it  is  call'd 

The  Masque  of  Melancholy. 

Are.  We  must  look  for 

Nothing  but  sadness  here,  then. 

Cor.  Madness  rather 

In  several  changes.16     Melancholy  is 
The  root  as  well  of  every  apish  frenzy, 

15  A  quab — a  very  quab. ~\  An  unfledged  bird,  a  nestling:  meta 
phorically,  anything  in  an  imperfect,  unfinished  state.     In  the  first 
sense  the  word  is  still  used  in  that  part  of  Devonshire  where  Ford 
was  born,  and  perhaps  in  many  other  places.  —  It  is  undoubtedly 
(among  other  things)  a  small  fish  of  some  kind ;  but  I  have  given  it 
a  meaning  more  familiar  to  me,  as  I  am  persuaded  it  was  to  Ford. 

16  Ford  has  here  introduced  one  of  those  interludes  in  which  the 
old  stage  so  much  delighted.    The  various  characters  of  these  ' '  apish 
frenzies,"  as  he  calls  them,  he  has  taken  from  Burton's  Melancholy ; 
the  book  to  which  he  refers  in  a  former  scene.     He  cannot  be  said 
to  have  improved  what  he  has  borrowed,  which,  on  the  contrary, 
reads  better  in  Burton's  pages  than  his  own.    What  delight  the  audi 
ence  may  have  gathered  from  the  fantastic  garb  and  action  of  his 
crazy  monologists,  I  know  not ;  but  even  here  they  must  have  missed 
the  wild  and  tumultuous  extravagance  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
Love's  Pilgrimage,    and  even   the   more  impressive  moodiness  of 
Brome's  Northern  Lass. 


64  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Laughter,  and  mirth,  as  dulness.     Pray,  my  lord, 
Hold,  and  observe  the  plot  \gives  Pal.  a  paper\ :  'tis 

there  express'd 
In  kind,  what  shall  be  now  express'd  in  action. 

Enter  AMETHUS,  MENAPHON,  THAMASTA,  and  PAR- 

THENOPHIL. 

No  interruption ;  take  your  places  quickly  ; 

Nay,  nay,  leave  ceremony. — Sound  to  th'  entrance ! 

[Flourish. 

Enter  RHETIAS,  his  face  whited,  with  black  shag  hair 
and  long  nails,  and  with  a  piece  of  raw  meat. 

Rhe.  Bow,  bow  !  wow,  wow  !  the  moon's  eclipsed ; 
Pll  to  the  churchyard  and  sup.  Since  I  turned  wolf,  I 
bark,  and  howl,  and  dig  up  graves  ;  I  will  never  have 
the  sun  shine  again :  'tis  midnight,  deep  dark  midnight, 
— get  a  prey,  and  fall  to — /  have  catched  thee  now — 
Arre  ! — 

Cor.  This  kind  is  called  Lycanthropia,  sir ;  when 
men  conceive  themselves  wolves.17 

Pal.  Here  I  find  it.  [Looking  at  the  paper. 

Enter  PELIAS,  with  a  crown  of  feathers  and  anticly  rich. 

Pel.  /  will  hang  'em  all,  and  burn  my  wife.  Was 
I  not  an  emperor  ?  my  hand  was  kissed,  and  ladies  lay 
down  before  me;  in  triumph  did  I  ride  with  my  nobles 
about  me  till  the  mad  dog  bit  me:  I  fell,  and  I  fell, 

17  "Lycanthropia,  which  Avicenna  calls  Cucubutk,  others  Lupi- 
nam  insatiiam,  or  Wolf-madness,  when  men  run  howling  about 
graves  and  fields  in  the  night,  and  will  not  be  perswaded  but  that 
they  are  Wolves,  or  some  such  beasts,"  &c.  Anatomy  of  Melancholy, 
p.  6,  ed.  1676.  This  and  the  extracts  which  follow  are  all  taken 
from  what  Burton  calls  "the  fourth  subsection  of  the  first  partition 
of  his  Synopsis."  Here  is  more  than  enough,  I  suspect,  to  satisfy 
the  most  curious  reader ;  if  not,  he  may  turn  to  the  pages  which  I 
have  marked. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  65 

and  I  fell.  It  shall  be  treason  by  statute  for  any  man 
to  name  water,  or  wash  his  hands,  throughout  all  my 
dominions.  Break  all  the  looking-glasses ;  I  will  not 
see  my  horns :  my  wife  cuckolds  me;  she  is  a  whore,  a 
whore,  a  whore,  a  whore  ! 

Pal.  Hydrophobia18  term  you  this  ? 

Cor.  And  men  possess'd  so  shun  all  sight  of  water : 
Sometimes,  if  mix'd  with  jealousy,  it  renders  them 
Incurable,  and  oftentimes  brings  death. 

Enter  a  Philosopher  in  black  rags,  with  a  copper  chain, 
an  old  gown  half  off,  and  a  book. 

Phi.  Philosophers  dwell  in  the  moon.  Speculation 
and  theory  girdle  the  world  about  like  a  wall.  Ignorance, 
like  an  atheist,  must  be  damned  in  the  pit.  I  am  very, 
very  poor,  and  poverty  is  the  physic  for  the  soul :  my 
opinions  are  pure  and  perfect.  Envy  is  a  monster,  and 
I  defy  the  beast. 

Cor.  Delirium  this  is  call'd,  which  is  mere  dotage,19 
Sprung  from  ambition  first  and  singularity, 
Self-love,  and  blind  opinion  of  true  merit. 

Pal.  I  not  dislike  the  course. 

18  "Hydrophobia  is  a  kind  of  madness,  well  known  in  every  vil 
lage,  which  comes  by  the  biting  of  a  mad  dog,  or  scratching,  saith 
Aurelianus;   touching,  or  smelling  alone  sometimes,  as  Sckenkius 
proves  ...  so  called,   because  the  parties  affected  cannot  endure 
the  sight  of  water,  or  any  liquor,  supposing  still  they  see  a  mad  dog 
in  it.     And  which  is  more  wonderful,  though  they  be  very  dry  (as  in 
this  malady  they  are),  they  will  rather  dye  than  drink."   Burton's 
Anat.  of  Mel.  p.  6,  ed.  1676. 

19  "Dotage,  Fatuity,  or  Folly,  is  a  common  name  to  all  the  fol 
lowing  species,   as  some  will  have  it.     Laurentius  and  Altomarus 
comprehended   [comprehend]  Madness,   Melancholy,   and  the  rest 
under  this  name,  and  call  it  the  summum  genus  of  them  all.    If  it  be 
distinguished  from  them,  it  is  natural  or  ingenite,  which  comes  by 
some  defect  of  the  organs,  and  over-much  brain,  as  we  see  in  our 
common  fools ;  and  is  for  the  most  part  intended  or  remitted  in  par 
ticular  men,  and  thereupon  some  are  wiser  than  other ;  or  else  it  is 
acquisite,  an  appendix  or  symptome  of  some  other  disease,  which 
comes  or  goes;  or  if  it  continue,  a  sign  of  Melancholy  itself."  Burton's 
Anat.  of  Mel.  p.  5,  ed.  1676. 

VOL.   I.  F 


66  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

Enter  GRILLA,  in  a  rich  gown,  a  great  fardingale,  a 
great  ruff,  a  muff,  a  fan,  and  a  coxcomb^  on  her 
head. 

Gril.  Yes  forsooth,  and  no  forsooth;  is  not  this  finel 
I  pray  your  blessing,  gaffer.  Here,  here,  here — did  he 
give  me  a  shough^  and  cut  off's  tail !  Buss,  buss, 
mmcle,  and  there's  a  pumfor  daddy. 

Cor.  You  find  this  noted  there  phrenitis.22 

Pal.  True. 

Cor.  Pride  is  the  ground  on't;  it  reigns  most  in 
women. 

Enter  CUCULUS  like  a  Bedlam,  singing. 

Cue.   They  that  will  learn  to  drink  a  health  in  hell 
Must  learn  on  earth  to  take  tobacco  well, 
To  take  tobacco  well,  to  take  tobacco  well; 
For  in  hell  they  drink  nor  wine  nor  ale  nor 

beer, 

But  fire  and  smoke  and  stench,  as  we  do 
here.™ 

Rhe.  /'//  swoop  thee  up. 

Pel.  Thotfst  straight  to  execution. 

Gril.  Fool,  fool,  fool !  catch  me  an  thou  canst. 

20  coxcomb'}  i.  e.  a  fool's  cap. 

21  did  he  give  me  a  shough,]  A  shock-dog,  a  water-spaniel.     It 
is  mentioned  in  Macbeth 's  catalogue  of  dogs,  and  in  Nashe's  Lenten 
Stuffe — "  a  brindle-tail  tike,  or  shough,  or  two." 

22  "Phrenitis,  which  the  Greeks  derive  from  the  word  ^r,v,  is  a 
disease  of  the  mind,  with  a  continual  madness  or  dotage,  which  hath 
an  acute  feaver  annexed,  or  else  an  inflammation  of  the  brain,  or  the 
membranes  or  kells  of  it,  with  an  acute  feaver,  which  causeth  mad 
ness  and  dotage.     It  differs  from  Melancholy  and  Madness,  because 
their  dotage  is  without  an  ague:   this  continual,  with  waking,  or 
memory  decayed,  &c.     Melancholy  is  most  part  silent,  this  clamor 
ous;   and  many  such  like  differences  are  assigned  by  physitians." 
Burton's  Anat.  of  Mel.  p.  5,  ed.  1676. 

23  This  is  a  sarcastic  description  of  drinking  tobacco,  as  the 
phrase  was.    The  ingredients  (stench,  smoke,  and  fire)  are  thus  enu 
merated  in  the  Counterblast. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  67 

Phi.  Expel  him  the  house  ;  'tis  a  dunce. 
Cue.  [sings]  Hark  !  did  ye  not  hear  a  rumbling? 
The  goblins  are  now  a  tumbling : 
ril  tear  'em,  Pll  sear  'em, 
P II  roar  'em,  P II gore  'em! 
Now,  now,  now !   my  brains  are  a 

jumbling, — 
Bounce!  the  guffs  off. 

Pal.  You  name  this  here24  hypochondriacal? 
Cor.  Which  is  a  windy  flatuous  humour,  stuffing 
The  head,  and  thence  deriv'd  to  th'  animal  parts. 
To  be  too  over-curious,  loss  of  goods 
Or  friends,  excess  of  fear,  or  sorrows  cause  it. 

Enter  a  Sea-Nymph  big-bellied,  singing  and  dancing. 
Nymph.   Good  your  honours, 
Pray  your  worships, 
Dear  your  beauties, — 
Cue.         Hang  thee  / 

To  lash  your  sides, 
To  tame  your  hides, 
To  scourge  your  prides ; 
And  bang  thee. 

Nymph.    We're  pretty  and  dainty,  and  I  will  be 
gin: 
See,  how  they  do  jeer  me,  deride  me,  and 

grin  / 

Come  sport  me,  come  court  me,  your  topsail 
advance, 


24  You  name  this  here]  i.e.  in  the  paper  which  Palador  still 
holds  in  his  hand,  and  which  may  be  supposed  to  contain  the  ex 
tracts  from  Burton  ;  that  of  the  Bedlamite,  to  which  the  prince  alludes, 
follows.  "The  third  [species  of  melancholy]  ariseth  from  the  bowels, 
liver,  spleen,  or  membrane  called  mesenterium,  named  Hypochon 
driacal  or  windy  Melancholy"  &c.  Burton's  Anat.  of  Mel.  p.  21,  ed. 
1676. 


68  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  in. 

And    let    us   conclude  our  delights  in    a 

dance  ! 
All.  A  dance,  a  dance,  a  dance  ! 

Cor.  This  is  the  Wanton  Melancholy.    Women 
With  child,  possess'd  with  this  strange  fury,  often 
Have  danc'd  three  days  together  without  ceasing.25 
Pal.  'Tis  very  strange  :  but  heaven  is  full  of  mira 
cles. 

THE  DANCE. 
[After  which  the  masquers  run  out  in  couples. 

We  are  thy  debtor,  Corax,26  for  the  gift 
Of  this  invention;  but  the  plot27  deceives  us: 
What  means  this  empty  space?    [Pointing  to  the  paper. 
Cor.  One  kind  of  Melancholy 

Is  only  left  untouch'd:  'twas  not  in  art 
To  personate  the  shadow  of  that  fancy; 
'Tis  nam'd  Love-Melancholy.     As,  for  instance, 
Admit  this  stranger  here, — young  man,  stand  forth — 

[To  Par. 

Entangl'd  by  the  beauty  of  this  lady, 
The  great  Thamasta,  cherish'd  in  his  heart 


25  "Chorus  Sancti  Viti,  or  S.  Vitus'  dance;  the  lascivious  dance 
Paracelsus  cals  it,  because  they  that  are  taken  with  it  can  do  nothing 
but  dance  till  they  be  dead  or  cured.     It  is  so  called,  for  that  the 
parties  so  troubled  were  wont  to  go  to  S.  Vitus  for  help,  and  after 
they  had   danced   there  a  while,  they  were   certainly  freed.     'Tis 
strange  to  hear  how  long  they  will  dance,  and,  in  what  manner,  over 
stools,  forms,  tables ;  even  great-bellied  women  sometimes  (and  yet 
never  hurt  their  children)  will  dance  so  long  that  they  can  stir  neither 
hand  nor  foot,  but  seem  to  be  quite  dead."  Burton's  A  nat.  of  Mel. 
p.  6,  ed.  1676. 

26  We  are  thy  debtor,   Corax,  &c.]   This  good  prince  is  easily 
pleased ;   for,  to  speak  truth,  a  masque  more  void  of  invention  or 
merit  of  any  kind  never  shamed  the  stage.     It  is  singular  that  Ford 
did  not  recollect  how  absolutely  he  had  anticipated  the  boasted  ex- 
per  jment  of  this  trifler,  and  laid  open  the  whole  secret  of  the  prince's 
mel  ancholy  in  the  admirable  scene  with  Rhetias  in  the  second  act : 
but  he  was  determined  to  have  a  show,  and,  in  evil  hour,  he  had  it. 

27  the  plot]  i.  e.  the  paper  which,  as  Gifford  has  observed,  p.  67, 
note  24,  "  maybe  supposed  to  contain  the  extracts  from  Burton."  D. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  69 

The  weight  of  hopes  and  fears;  it  were  impossible 
To  limn  his  passions  in  such  lively  colours 
As  his  own  proper  sufferance  could  express. 

Par.  You  are  not  modest,  sir. 

Tha.  Am  I  your  mirth? 

Cor.  Love  is  the  tyrant  of  the  heart;  it  darkens 
Reason,  confounds  discretion;  deaf  to  counsel, 
It  runs  a  headlong  course  to  desperate  madness. 
O,  were  your  highness  but  touch'd  home  and  throughly 
With  this— what  shall  I  call  it  ?— devil— 

Pal.  Hold! 

Let  no  man  henceforth  name  the  word  again. — 
Wait  you  my  pleasure,  youth. — 'Tis  late ;  to  rest ! 

{Exit. 

Cor.  My  lords, — 

Soph.  Enough;  thou  art  a  perfect  arts-man. 

Cor.  Panthers  may  hide  their  heads,  not  change 

the  skin ; 
And  love  pent  ne'er  so  close,  yet  will  be  seen. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  THAMASTA'S  house. 

Enter  AMETHUS  and  MENAPHON. 
Amet.  Dote  on  a  stranger? 

Men.  Court  him;  plead,  and  sue  to  him. 

Amet.  Affectionately? 

Men.  Servilely;  and,  pardon  me 

If  I  say,  basely. 

Amet.  Women,  in  their  passions, 

Like  false  fires,  flash,  to  fright  our  trembling  senses, 


yo  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

Yet  in  themselves  contain  nor  light  nor  heat. 
My  sister  do  this !  she,  whose  pride  did  scorn 
All  thoughts  that  were  not  busied  on  a  crown, 
To  fall  so  far  beneath  her  fortunes  now ! — 
You  are  my  friend. 

Men.  What  I  confirm  is  truth. 

Amet.  Truth,  Menaphon? 

Men.  If  I  conceiv'd  you  were 

Jealous  of  my  sincerity  and  plainness, 
Then,  sir, — 

Amet.          What  then,  sir? 

Men.  I  would  then  resolve 

You  were  as  changeable  in  vows  of  friendship 
As  is  Thamasta  in  her  choice  of  love : 
That  sin  is  double,  running  in  a  blood, 
Which  justifies  another  being  worse. 

Amet.  My  Menaphon,  excuse  me ;  I  grow  wild, 
And  would  not  willingly  believe  the  truth 
Of  my  dishonour :  she  shall  know  how  much 
I  am  a  debtor  to  thy  noble  goodness 
By  checking  the  contempt  her  poor  desires 
Have  sunk  her  fame  in.     Prithee  tell  me,  friend, 
How  did  the  youth  receive  her? 

Men.  With  a  coldness 

As  modest  and  as  hopeless  as  the  trust 
I  did  repose  in  him  could  wish  or  merit. 

Amet.  I  will  esteem  him  dearly. 

Enter  THAMASTA  and  KALA. 

Men.  Sir,  your  sister. 

Tha.  Servant,  I  have  employment  for  ye. 

Amet.  Hark  ye ! 

The  mask  of  your  ambition  is  fall'n  off ; 
Your  pride  hath  stoop'd  to  such  an  abject  lowness, 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  71 

That  you  have  now  discover'd  to  report 
Your  nakedness  in  virtue,  honours,  shame, — 

Tha.  You  are  turn'd  satire.1 

Amet.  All  the  flatteries 

Of  greatness  have  expos'd  ye  to  contempt. 

Tha.  This  is  mere  railing. 

Amet.  You  have  sold  your  birth 

For  lust. 

Tha.     Lust ! 

Amet.  Yes;  and  at  a  dear  expense 

Purchas'd  the  only  glories  of  a  wanton. 

Tha.  A  wanton  ! 

Amet.  Let  repentance  stop  your  mouth  ; 

Learn  to  redeem  your  fault.2 

Kal.  [aside  to  Men.]  I  hope  your  tongue 

Has  not  betra/d  my  honesty. 

Men.  \aside  to  KalJ]  Fear  nothing. 

Tha.  If,  Menaphon,  I  hitherto  have  strove 
To  keep  a  wary  guard  about  my  fame  ; 
If  I  have  us'd  a  woman's  skill  to  sift 
The  constancy  of  your  protested  love ; 
You  cannot,  in  the  justice  of  your  judgment, 
Impute  that  to  a  coyness  or  neglect, 
Which  my  discretion  and  your  service  aim'd 
For  noble  purposes. 

Men.  Great  mistress,  no. 

I  rather  quarrel  with  mine  own  ambition, 
That  durst  to  soar  so  high  as  to  feed  hope 
Of  any  least  desert  that  might  entitle 
My  duty  to  a  pension  from  your  favours. 

1  satire.~\  i.e.  satirist:  see  my  Gloss,  to  Shakespeare.  D. 

2  It  is  evident,  from  what  follows  in  a  subsequent  scene,  that  this 
warmth  of  language  is  merely  affected  by  Amethus  for  the  purpose 
of  intimidating  his  sister,  and,  by  dint  of  overpowering  her  supposed 
coquetry,  surprising  her  into  an  avowal  of  her  attachment  to  his 
friend. 


7  2  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  IV. 

Amet.  And  therefore,   lady, — pray,  observe   him 

well,— 

He  henceforth  covets  plain  equality  ; 
Endeavouring  to  rank  his  fortunes  low, 
With  some  fit  partner,  whom,  without  presumption 
Without  offence  or  danger,  he  may  cherish, 
Yes,  and  command  too,  as  a  wife, — a  wife, 
A  wife,  my  most  great  lady  ! 

Kal.  [aside}  All  will  out. 

Tha.  Now  I  perceive  the  league  of  amity, 
Which  you  have  long  between  ye  vow'd  and  kept, 
Is  sacred  and  inviolable ;  secrets 
Of  every  nature  are  in  common  to  you. 
I  have  trespass'd,  and  I  have  been  faulty ; 
Let  not  too  rude  a  censure  doom  me  guilty, 
Or  judge  my  error  wilful  without  pardon. 

Men.  Gracious  and  virtuous  mistress  ! 

Amet.  'Tis  a  trick ; 

There  is  no  trust  in  female  cunning,  friend. 
Let  her  first  purge  her  follies  past,  and  clear 
The  wrong  done  to  her  honour,  by  some  sure 
Apparent  testimony  of  her  constancy ; 
Or  we  will  not  believe  these  childish  plots  : 
As  you  respect  my  friendship,  lend  no  ear 
To  a  reply.— Think  on't ! 

Men.  Pray,  love  your  fame. 

[Exeunt  Men.  and  Amet. 

Tha.  Gone !  I  am  sure  awake.3     Kala,  I  find 
You  have  not  been  so  trusty  as  the  duty 
You  ow'd  requir'd. 

Kal.  Not  I  ?  I  do  protest 

I  have  been,  madam.* 

Tha.  Be — no  matter  what. 

3  awake.']  The  4to  has  "awakt." — Gifford  printed  "awak'd."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  73 

I'm  paid  in  mine  own  coin ;  something  I  must, 
And  speedily. — So  ! — Seek  out  Cuculus ; 
Bid  him  attend  me  instantly. 

Kal.  That  antic ! 

The  trim  old  youth  shall  wait  ye. 

Tha.  Wounds  may  be  mortal,  which  are  wounds 

indeed ; 
But  no  wound's  deadly  till  our  honours  bleed. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  A  room  in  the  castle. 
Enter  RHETIAS  and  CORAX. 

Rhe.  Thou'rt  an  excellent  fellow.  Diabolo  !  O 
these4  lousy  close-stool  empirics,  that  will  undertake 
all  cures,  yet  know  not  the  causes  of  any  disease ! 
Dog-leeches  !5  By  the  four  elements,  I  honour  thee ; 
could  find  in  my  heart  to  turn  knave,  and  be  thy 
flatterer. 

Cor.  Sirrah,  'tis  pity  thou'st  not  been  a  scholar ; 
Thou'rt  honest,  blunt,  and  rude  enough,  o'  conscience. 
But  for  thy  lord  now,  I  have  put  him  to't. 

Rhe.  He  chafes  hugely,  fumes  like  a  stew-pot :  is 
he  not  monstrously  overgone  in  frenzy  ? 

Cor.  Rhetias,  'tis   not   a  madness,   but   his   sor 
rows — 

Close-griping  grief  and  anguish  of  the  soul — 
That  torture  him  ;  he  carries  hell  on  earth 
Within  his  bosom :  'twas  a  prince's  tyranny 
Caus'd  his  distraction  ;6  and  a  prince's  sweetness 

4  these}  The  4to  has  "  this."  D. 

5  Dog-leeches!']  i.e.  Dog-doctors.  D. 

*>  'twas  a  prince's  tyranny 

Caus'd  his  distraction;  &c.~|  Here  again  poor  Corax  has  just 
stumbled  on  what  the  prince  had  discovered  long  before.  Never, 
surely,  was  reputation  so  cheaply  obtained  as  by  this  compound  of 
fool  and  physician. 


74  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

Must  qualify  that  tempest  of  his  mind. 

Rhe.  Corax,  to  praise  thy  art  were  to  assure 
The  misbelieving  world  that  the  sun  shines 
When  'tis  i'  th'  full  meridian  of  his  beauty : 
No  cloud  of  black  detraction  can  eclipse 
The  light  of  thy  rare  knowledge.     Henceforth,  casting 
All  poor  disguises  off,  that  play  in  rudeness, 
Call  me  your  servant ;  only,  for  the  present, 
I  wish  a  happy  blessing  to  your  labours. 
Heaven  crown  your  undertakings  !  and  believe  me, 
Ere  many  hours  can  pass,  at  our  next  meeting, 
The  bonds  my  duty  owes  shall  be  full  cancell'd. 

Cor.  Farewell.  \ExitRhe. 

A  shrewd-brain'd  whoreson  ;  there  is  pith 
In  his  untoward  plainness. 

Enter  TROLLIO,  with  a  morion*  on. 
Now,  the  news  ? 

Trol.  Worshipful  Master  Doctor,  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  I  cannot  tell  what  to  say  t'ye.  My  lord 
thunders ;  every  word  that  comes  out  of  his  mouth 
roars  like  a  cannon;  the  house  shook  once: — my 
young  lady  dares  not  be  seen. 

Cor.  We  will  roar  with  him,  Trollio,  if  he  roar. 

Trol.  He  has  got  a  great  poleaxe  in  his  hand,  and 
fences  it  up  and  down  the  house,  as  if  he  were  to 
make  room  for  the  pageants.8  I  have  provided  me 
a  morion  for  fear  of  a  clap  on  the  coxcomb. 

Cor.  No  matter  for  the  morion  ;  here's  my  cap  : 
Thus  I  will  pull  it  down,  and  thus  outstare  him. 

[He  produces  a  frightful  mask  and  headpiece. 

7  morion]  A  headpiece,  a  helmet. 

8  to  make  room  for  the  pageants.]  An  allusion  to  the  city-officers, 
who  headed  the  shows  on  the  Lord-Mayor's  day,  and  opened  the 
passage  for  the  masquers.     They  must  have  found  occasion  for  all 
their  fencing,  if  the  fierce  curiosity  of  the  citizens  be  considered,  and 
the  state  of  the  public  streets. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  75 

Trol.  \aside\  The  physician  is  got  as  mad  as  my 
lord. — O  brave  !  a  man  of  worship. 

Cor.  Let  him  come,  Trollio.  I  will  firk  his  trang- 
dido,  and  bounce  and  bounce  in  metal,  honest  Trollio. 

Trol.  \aside\  He  vapours  like  a  tinker,  and  struts 
like  a  juggler. 

Mel.  \within\  So  ho.  so  ho  ! 

Trol.  There,  there,  there  !  look  to  your  right  wor 
shipful,  look  to  yourself. 

Enter  MELEANDER  with  a  poleaxe. 

Mel.  Show  me  the  dog  whose  triple-throated  noise 
Hath  rous'd  a  lion  from  his  uncouth  den 
To  tear  the  cur  in  pieces. 

Cor.  [putting  on  his  mask,  and  turning  to  Me/.] 

Stay  thy  paws, 

Courageous  beast ;  else,  lo,  the  Gorgon's9  skull, 
That  shall  transform  thee  to  that  restless  stone 
Which  Sisyphus  rolls  up  against  the  hill, 
Whence,  tumbling  down  again,  it  with  his10  weight 
Shall  crush  thy  bones  and  puff  thee  into  air. 

Mel.  Hold,  hold    thy  conquering  breath ;    'tis 

stronger  far 

Than  gunpowder  and  garlic.     If  the  fates 
Have  spun  my  thread,  and  my  spent  clue  of  life 
Be  now11  untwisted,  let  us  part  like  friends. — 
Lay  up  my  weapon,  Trollio,  and  be  gone. 

Trol.  Yes,  sir,  with  all  my  heart. 

Mel.  This  friend  and  I 

Wrill  walk,  and  gabble  wisely. 

[Exit  Trol.  with  the  poleaxe. 

Cor.  I  allow 

The  motion;  on  !  \Takes  off  his  mask. 

9  Gorgon's]  The  4to  has  "gorgeous."  D. 

10  his]  Altered  by  Gifford  to  "its," — very  unnecessarily.  D. 

11  now]  Gifford  printed  "not."  D. 


76  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

Mel.  So  politicians  thrive, 

That,  with  their  crabbed  faces  and  sly  tricks, 
Legerdemain,  ducks,  cringes,  formal  beards, 
Crisp'd  hairs,  and  punctual  cheats,  do  wriggle  in 
Their  heads  first,  like  a  fox,  to  rooms  of  state, 
Then  the  whole  body  follows. 

Cor.  Then  they  fill 

Lordships ;  steal  women's  hearts  j  with  them  and  theirs 
The  world   runs  round ;    yet  these  are  square  men 
still.12 

Mel.  There  are  none  poor  but  such  as    engross 
offices. 

Cor.  None  wise  but  unthrifts,  bankrupts,  beggars, 
rascals. 

Mel.  The  hangman  is  a  rare  physician. 

Cor.  \_aside\    That's   not   so    good. — It    shall   be 
granted. 

Mel.  All 

The  buzz  of  drugs  and  minerals  and  simples, 
Bloodlettings,  vomits,  purges,  or  what  else 
Is  conjur'd  up  by  men  of  art,  to  gull 
Liege-people,  and  rear  golden  piles,  are  trash 
To  a  strong  well-wrought  halter ;  there  the  gout, 
The  stone,  yes,  and  the  melancholy  devil, 
Are  cur'd  in  less  time  than  a  pair  of  minutes : 
Build  me  a  gallows  in  this  very  plot, 
And  I'll  dispatch  your  business. 

Cor.  Fix  the  knot 

Right  under  the  left  ear. 

Mel.  Sirrah,  make  ready. 

Cor.  Yet  do  not  be  too13  sudden ;  grant  me  leave 

12  The  -world  runs  round;  yet  these  are  square  men  still.~\  The 
play  of  words  between  round  and  square  is  not  of  a  very  exquisite 
kind,  but  it  does  well  enough  for  Corax.      By  square  he  means  just, 
unimpeachable. 

13  too]  Gifford  printed  "so."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  77 

To  give  a  farewell  to  a  creature  long 
Absented  from  me  :  'tis  a  daughter,  sir, 
Snatch'd  from  me  in  her  youth,  a  handsome  girl ; 
She  comes  to  ask  a  blessing. 

Mel.  Pray>  where  is  she  ? 

I  cannot  see  her  yet. 

Cor.  She  makes  more  haste 

In  her  quick  prayers  than  her  trembling  steps, 
Which  many  griefs  have  weakened. 

Mel.  .  Cruel  man  ! 

How  canst  thou  rip  a  heart  that's  cleft  already 
With  injuries  of  time? — Whilst  I  am  frantic, 
Whilst  throngs  of  rude  divisions  huddle  on, 
And  do  disrank  my  brains  from  peace  and  sleep, 
So  long — I  am  insensible  of  cares. 
As  balls  of  wildfire  may  be  safely  touch'd, 
Not  violently  sunder'd  and  thrown  up ; 
So  my  distemper'd  thoughts  rest  in  their  rage, 
Not  hurried  in  the  air  of  repetition, 
Or  memory  of  my  misfortunes  past : 
Then  are    my  griefs  struck  home,   when  they're  re- 

claim'd 

To  their  own  pity  of  themselves. — Proceed  ; 
What  of  your  daughter  now  ? 

Cor.  I  cannot  tell  ye, 

'Tis  now  out  of  my  head  again ;  my  brains 
Are  crazy ;  I  have  scarce  slept  one  sound  sleep 
These  twelve  months. 

Mel.  'Las,  poor  man  !  canst  thou  imagine 

To  prosper  in  the  task  thou  tak'st  in  hand 
By  practising  a  cure  upon  my  weakness, 
And  yet  be  no  physician  for  thyself? 
Go,  go,  turn  over  all  thy  books  once  more, 
And  learn  to  thrive  in  modesty ;  for  impudence 
Does  least  become  a  scholar.     Thou'rt  a  fool, 


7 8  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

A  kind  of  learned  fool. 

Cor.  I  do  confess  it. 

Mel.  If  thou  canst  wake  with  me,  forget  to  eat, 
Renounce  the  thought  of  greatness,  tread  on  fate, 
Sigh  out  a  lamentable  tale  of  things 
Done  long  ago,  and  ill  done ;  and,  when  sighs 
Are  wearied,  piece  up  what  remains  behind 
With  weeping  eyes,  and  hearts  that  bleed  to  death  ; 
Thou  shalt  be  a  companion  fit  for  me, 
And  we  will  sit  together,  like  true  friends, 
And  never  be  divided.     With  what  greediness 
Do  I  hug  my  afflictions  !  there's  no  mirth 
Which  is  not  truly  season'd  with  some  madness  : 
As,  for  example, —  [Exit  hastily. 

Cor.  What  new  crotchet  next  ? 

There  is  so  much  sense  in  this  wild  distraction, 
That  I  am  almost  out  of  my  wits  too, 
To  see  and  hear  him :  some  few  hours  more 
Spent  here  would  turn  me  apish,  if  not  frantic. 

Re-enter  MELEANDER  with  CLEOPHILA. 

Mel.  In  all  the  volumes   thou   hast   turn'd,  thou 

man 

Of  knowledge,  hast  thou  met  with  any  rarity, 
Worthy  thy  contemplation,  like  to  this  ? 
The  model  of  the  heavens,  the  earth,  the  waters, 
The  harmony  and  sweet  consent  of  times, 
Are  not  of  such  an  excellence,  in  form 
Of  their  creation,  as  the  infinite  wonder 
That  dwells  within  the  compass  of  this  face  : 
And  yet  I  tell  thee,  scholar,  under  this 
Well-order'd  sign  is  lodg'd  such  an  obedience 
As  will  hereafter,  in  another  age, 
Strike  all  comparison  into  a  silence. 
She  had  a  sister  too ; — but  as  for  her, 


SCENE  II.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  79 

If  I  were  given  to  talk,  I  could  describe 
A  pretty  piece  of  goodness — let  that  pass — 
We  must  be  wise  sometimes.     What  would  you  with 
her? 

Cor.   I  with  her  !  nothing,  by  your  leave,  sir,  I ; 
It  is  not  my  profession. 

MeL  You  are  saucy, 

And,  as  I  take  it,  scurvy  in  your  sauciness, 
To  use  no  more  respect. — Good  soul,  be  patient; 
We  are  a  pair  of  things  the  world  doth  laugh  at : 
Yet  be  content,  Cleophila  ;  those  clouds, 
Which  bar  the  sun  from  shining  on  our  miseries, 
Will  never  be  chas'd  off  till  I  am  dead  ; 
And  then  some  charitable  soul  will  take  thee 
Into  protection  :  I  am  hasting  on ; 
The  time  cannot  be  long. 

Cleo.  I  do  beseech  ye, 

Sir,  as  you  love  your  health,  as  you  respect 
My  safety,  let  not  passion  overrule  you. 

MeL  It  shall  not ;  I  am  friends  with  all  the  world. 
Get  me  some  wine  ;  to  witness  that  I  will  be 
An  absolute  good  fellow,  I  will  drink  with  thee. 

Cor.  \aside  to  Cleo.']  Have  you  prepar'd  his  cup  ? 

Cleo.  \asideto  Cor I\  It  is  in  readiness. 

Enter  CUCULUS  and  GRILLA. 

Cue.  By  your  leave,  gallants,  I  come  to  speak  with 
a  young  lady,  as  they  say,  the  old  Trojan's  daughter 
of  the  house. 

Mel.  Your  business  with  my  lady-daughter,  toss 
pot? 

GrU.  Toss-pot !     O  base !  toss-pot ! 

Cue.  Peace !  dost  not  see  in  what  case  he  is  ? — 
I  would  do  my  own  commendations  to  her ;  that's  all. 


8o  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

Mel  Do. — Come,  my  Genius,   we   will   quaff  in 

wine14 
Till  we  grow  wise. 

Cor.  True  nectar  is  divine. 

\Exeunt  Mel.  and  Cor. 

Cue.  So  !  I  am  glad  he  is  gone. — Page,  walk  aside. 
— Sweet  beauty,  I  am  sent  ambassador  from  the  mis 
tress  of  my  thoughts  to  you,  the  mistress  of  my  desires. 

Cleo.  So,  sir  !     I  pray,  be  brief. 

Cue.  That  you  may  know  I  am  not,  as  they  say,  an 
animal,  which  is,  as  they  say,  a  kind  of  cokes,15  which 
is,  as  the  learned  term  [it],  an  ass,  a  puppy,  a  widgeon, 
a  dolt,  a  noddy,  a — 

Cleo.  As  you  please. 

Cue.  Pardon  me  for  that,  it  shall  be  as  you  please 
indeed  :  forsooth,  I  love  to  be  courtly  and  in  fashion. 

Cleo.  Well,  to  your  embassy.     What,   and   from 
whom  ? 

Cue.  Marry,  what  is  more  than  I  know;16  for  to 
know  whafs  what  is  to  know  whafs  what  and  for 
whafs  what: — but  these  are  foolish  figures  and  to 
little  purpose. 

Cleo.  From  whom,  then,  are  you  sent  ? 

Cue.  There  you  come  to  me  again.  O,  to  be  in 
the  favour  of  great  ladies  is  as  much  to  say  as  to  be 
great  in  ladies'  favours. 

14  -we  -will quaff in  wine]  "To  drink  in  wine  (Mr.  Malone  says) 
always  seemed  to  me  a  very  strange  phrase  till  I  met  with  it  in  King 
James's  first  speech  to  his  parliament,  in  1604."     Mr.  Malone  seems 
to  have  gone  far  a-field  for  a  very  common  expression ;  but  his  know 
ledge  of  our  ancient  language  was  very  limited,  even  at  the  end  of 
his  career.    I  could  produce  scores  of  instances  of  this  mode  of  speak 
ing  from  the  old  dramatists,  to  every  one  of  whom  it  was  perfectly 
familiar. — See  Jonson,  vol.  ii.  44. 

15  cokes, ~\  i.  e.  a  simpleton.     The  allusion  is  [certainly  is  not.  D.] 
to  a  character  [Cokes]  in  [Jonson's]  Bartholomew  Fair. 

16  Cue.  Marry,  what  is  more  than  I  know,  &c.]   How  is  it  that 
the  commentators  have  not  discovered  a  sneer  at  Shakespeare  in  this 
speech?     But  no:  Ben  Jonson  alone  "sneers  at  the  poet,"  of  whom 
Ford,  like  Fletcher,  was  the  devoted  admirer ! 


SCENE  in.         THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  8 1 

Cleo.  Good  time  o'  day  t'ye  !  I  can  stay  no  longer. 
Cue.  By  this  light,  but  you  must ;  for  now  I  come 
to't.  The  most  excellent,  most  wise,  most  dainty, 
precious,  loving,  kind,  sweet,  intolerably  fair  Lady 
Thamasta  commends  to  your  little  hands  this  letter  of 
importance.  By  your  leave,  let  me  first  kiss,  and  then 
deliver  it  in  fashion  to  your  own  proper  beauty. 

[.Delivers  a  letter. 

Cleo.  To   me,  from   her  ?    'tis   strange !      I   dare 

peruse  it.  \Reads. 

Cue.  Good. — O,  that  I  had  not  resolved  to  live  a 

single  life  !     Here's  temptation,  able  to  conjure  up  a 

spirit  with  a  witness.     So,  so  !  she  has  read  it.  [Aside. 

Cleo.  Is't  possible?     Heaven,  thou  art  great  and 

bountiful. — 

Sir,  I  much  thank  your  pains  ;  and  to  the  princess 
Let  my  love,  duty,  service  be  remember'd. 
Cue.  They  shall,  mad-dam.17 
Cleo.  When  we  of  hopes  or  helps  are  quite  be- 

reaven, 
Our  humble  prayers  have  entrance  into  heaven. 

Cue.  That's  my  opinion  clearly  and  without  doubt. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  A  room  in  the  palace. 

Enter  ARETUS  and  SOPHRONOS. 
Are.  The  prince  is  throughly  mov'd. 
Soph.  I  never  saw  him 

So  much  distemper'd. 

Are.  What  should  this  young  man  be  ? 

Or  whither  can  he  be  convey'd  ? 

Soph.  Tis  to  me 

17  mad-dam.}  So  Gifford  (the  410  having  "  Mad-dame").   D. 
VOL.   I.  G 


82  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

A  mystery  ;  I  understand  it  not. 

Are.  Nor  I. 

Enter  PALADOR,  AMETHUS,  and  PELIAS. 

Pal.  Ye  have  consented  all  to  work  upon 
The  softness  of  my  nature  ;  but  take  heed  : 
Though  I  can  sleep  in  silence,  and  look  on 
The  mockery  ye  make  of  my  dull  patience, 
Yet  ye  shall  know,  the  best  of  ye,  that  in  me 
There  is  a  masculine,  a  stirring  spirit, 
Which,  [once]  provok'd,  shall,  like  a  bearded  comet, 
Set  ye  at  gaze,  and  threaten  horror. 

Pel.  Good  sir,— 

Pal.  Good  sir !  'tis  not  your  active  wit  or  language, 
Nor  your  grave  politic  wisdoms,  lords,  shall  dare 
To  check-mate  and  control  my  just  commands.18 

Enter  MENAPHON. 

Where  is  the  youth,  your  friend?  is  he  found  yet? 

Men.  Not  to  be  heard  of. 

Pal.  Fly,  then,  to  the  desert, 

Where  thou  didst  first  encounter  this  fantastic, 
This  airy  apparition;  come  no  more 
In  sight!  Get  ye  all  from  me:  he  that  stays 
Is  not  my  friend. 

A  met.  'Tis  strange. 

Are.  Soph.  We  must  obey. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Pal. 

Pal.  Some  angry  power  cheats   with   rare   delu 
sions 

My  credulous  sense;  the  very  soul  of  reason 
Is  troubled  in  me : — the  physician 
Presented  a  strange  masque,  the  view  of  it 
Puzzled  my  understanding;  but  the  boy — 

18  commands.^  Gifford  printed  "demands."  D. 


SCENE  in.         THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  83 

Enter  RHETIAS. 

Rhetias,  thou  art  acquainted  with  my  griefs : 
Parthenophil  is  lost,  and  I  would  see  him; 
For  he  is  like  to  something  I  remember 
A  great  while  since,  a  long,  long  time  ago. 

Rhe.  I  have  been  diligent,  sir,  to  pry  into  every 
corner  for  discovery,  but  cannot  meet  with  him.  There 
is  some  trick,  I  am  confident. 

Pal.  There  is;  there  is  some  practice,  sleight,  or 
plot. 

Rhe.  I  have  apprehended  a  fair  wench  in  an  odd 
private  lodging  in  the  city,  as  like  the  youth  in  face  as 
can  by  possibility  be  discerned. 

Pal.  How,  Rhetias ! 

Rhe.  If  it  be  not  Parthenophil  in  long-coats,  'tis  a 
spirit  in  his  likeness ;  answer  I  can  get  none  from  her : 
you  shall  see  her. 

Pal.  The  young  man  in  disguise,  upon  my  life, 
To  steal  out  of  the  land. 

Rhe.  I'll  send  him  t'ye. 

Pal.  Do,  do,  my  Rhetias.  [Exit  Rhe. 

As  there  is  by  nature 
In  everything  created  contrariety, 
So  likewise  is  there  unity  and  league 
Between  them  in  their  kind :  but  man,  the  abstract 
Of  all  perfection,  which  the  workmanship 
Of  heaven  hath  modell'd,  in  himself  contains 
Passions  of  several  qualities. 

[Enter  behind  Eroclea  (Parthenophil}  in 
female  attire. 

The  music 

Of  man's  fair  composition  best  accords 
When  'tis  in  consort,  not  in  single  strains : 
My  heart  has  been  untun'd  these  many  months, 


84  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

Wanting  her  presence,  in  whose  equal  love 

True  harmony  consisted.     Living  here, 

We  are  heaven's  bounty  all,  but  fortune's  exercise. 

Ero.  Minutes  are  number'd  by  the  fall  of  sands, 
As  by  an  hourglass;  the  span  of  time 
Doth  waste  us  to  our  graves,  and  we  look  on  it : 
An  age  of  pleasures,  revell'd  out,  conies  home 
At  last,  and  ends  in  sorrow ;  but  the  life, 
Weary  of  riot,  numbers  every  sand, 
Wailing  in  sighs,  until  the  last  drop  down; 
So  to  conclude  calamity  in  rest. 

Pal.  What  echo  yields  a  voice  to  my  complaints? 
Can  I  be  nowhere  private? 

Ero.  \comes  forward,  and  kneels]  Let  the  substance 
As  suddenly  be  hurried  from  your  eyes 
As  the  vain  sound  can  pass  [,  sir,  from]  your  ear, 
If  no  impression  of  a  troth  vow'd  yours 
Retain  a  constant  memory. 

Pal.  Stand  up.          [She  rises. 

'Tis  not  the  figure  stamp'd  upon  thy  cheeks, 
The  cozenage  of  thy  beauty,  grace,  or  tongue, 
Can  draw  from  me  a  secret,  that  hath  been 
The  only  jewel  of  my  speechless  thoughts. 

Ero.  I  am  so  worn  away  with  fears  and  sorrows, 
So  winter'd  with  the  tempests  of  affliction, 
That  the  bright  sun  of  your  life- quicken  ing  presence 
Hath  scarce  one  beam  of  force  to  warm  again 
That  spring  of  cheerful  comfort,  which  youth  once 
Apparell'd  in  fresh  looks. 

Pal.  Cunning  impostor ! 

Untruth  hath  made  thee  subtle  in  thy  trade. 
If  any  neighbouring  greatness  hath  seduc'd 
A  free-born  resolution  to  attempt 
Some  bolder  act  of  treachery  by  cutting 
My  weary  days  off,  wherefore,  cruel-mercy, 


SCENE  in.         THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  85 

Hast  thou  assum'd  a  shape  that  would  make  treason 
A  piety,  guilt  pardonable,  bloodshed 
As  holy  as  the  sacrifice  of  peace? 

Ero.  The  incense  of  my  love-desires  are  flam'd19 
Upon  an  altar  of  more  constant  proof. 
Sir,  O,  sir,  turn  me  back  into  the  world, 
Command  me  to  forget  my  name,  my  birth, 
My  father's  sadness,  and  my  death  alive, 
If  all  remembrance  of  my  faith  hath  found 
A  burial  without  pity  in  your  scorn ! 

Pal.  My  scorn,  disdainful  boy,  shall  soon  unweave 
The  web  thy  art  hath  twisted.     Cast  thy  shape  off, 
Disrobe  the  mantle  of  a  feigned  sex, 
And  so  I  may  be  gentle :  as  thou  art, 
There's  witchcraft  in  thy  language,  in  thy  face, 
In  thy  demeanours;  turn,  turn  from  me,  prithee, 
For  my  belief  is  arm'd  else. — Yet,  fair  subtilty, 
Before  we  part, — for  part  we  must, — be  true : 
Tell  me  thy  country. 

Ero.  Cyprus. 

Pal.  Ha!— Thy  father? 

Ero.  Meleander. 

Pal.  Hast  a  name? 

Ero.  A  name  of  misery ; 

Th'  unfortunate  Eroclea. 

Pal.  There  is  danger 

In  this  seducing  counterfeit.     Great  Goodness, 
Hath  honesty  and  virtue  left  the  time? 
Are  we  become  so  impious,  that  to  tread 

19  The  incense  of  my  love-desires  are  flam'd~\   Gifford  printed 

" is  flam'd"  but  in  our  early  authors  there  are  innumerable 

instances  of  a  verb  plural  following  a  nominative  singular  when  a 
genitive  plural  intervenes.— Indeed,  even  modern  writers  occasionally 
fall  unconsciously,  as  it  were,  into  the  same  formula:  e.g.  "Alas, 
how  the  dignity  of  actions  are  lost!"  Letters  of  Mrs.  Elix.  Montagu, 
vol.  i.  p.  231,  sec.  ed.  D. 


86  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  iv. 

The  path  of  impudence  is  law  and  justice? — 
Thou  vizard  of  a  beauty  ever  sacred, 
Give  me  thy  name. 

Ero.  Whilst  I  was  lost  to  memory 

Parthenophil  did  shroud  my  shame  in  change 
Of  sundry  rare  misfortunes;  but,  since  now 
I  am,  before  I  die,  return'd  to  claim 
A  convoy  to  my  grave,  I  must  not  blush 
To  let  Prince  Palador,  if  I  offend, 
Know,  when  he  dooms  me,  that  he  dooms  Eroclea : 
I  am  that  woful  maid. 

Pal.  Join  not  too  fast 

Thy  penance  with  the  story  of  my  sufferings : — 
So  dwelt  simplicity  with  virgin  truth, 
So  martyrdom  and  holiness  are  twins, 
As  innocence  and  sweetness  on  thy  tongue. 
But,  let  me  by  degrees  collect  my  senses  ; 
I  may  abuse  my  trust.     Tell  me,  what  air 
Hast  thou  perfum'd,  since  tyranny  first  ravish'd 
The  contract  of  our  hearts? 

Ero.  Dear  sir,  in  Athens 

Have  I  been  buried. 

Pal.  Buried  !     Right ;  as  I 

In  Cyprus. — Come,  to  trial ;  if  thou  beest 
Eroclea,  in  my  bosom  I  can  find  thee.20 

Ero.  As  I,  Prince  Palador  in  mine  :  this  gift 

[Shows  him  a  tablet. 

His  bounty  bless'd  me  with,  the  only  physic 
My  solitary  cares  have  hourly  took, 
To  keep  me  from  despair. 

Pal.  We  are  but  fools 

To  trifle  in  disputes,  or  vainly  struggle 

20  in  my  bosom  I  can  find  thee.]  The  allusion  is  to  the  miniature 
which  the  prince  wore,  and  which  he  here  proposes  to  compare  with 
the  lady  before  him. 


SCENE  in.         THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  87 

With  that  eternal  mercy  which  protects  us. 

Come  home,  home  to  my  heart,  thou  banish'd  peace ! 

My  ecstasy  of  joys  would  speak  in  passion, 

But  that  I  would  not  lose  that  part  of  man 

Which  is  reserv'd  to  entertain  content. 

Eroclea,  I  am  thine ;  O,  let  me  seize  thee 

As  my  inheritance  !     Hymen  shall  now 

Set  all  his  torches  burning,  to  give  light 

Throughout  this  land,  new-settled  in  thy  welcome. 

Ero.  You  are  still  gracious,  sir.    How  I  have  liv'd, 
By  what  means  been  convey'd,  by  what  preserv'd, 
By  what  return'd,  Rhetias,  my  trusty  servant, 
Directed  by  the  wisdom  of  my  uncle, 
The  good  Sophronos,  can  inform  at  large. 

Pal.  Enough.     Instead  of  music,  every  night, 
To  make  our  sleeps  delightful,  thou  shalt  close 
Our  weary  eyes  with  some  part  of  thy  story. 

Ero.  O,  but  my  father  ! 

Pal.  Fear  not ;  to  behold 

Eroclea  safe  will  make  him  young  again : 
It  shall  be  our  first  task. — Blush,  sensual  follies, 
Which  are  not  guarded  with  thoughts  chastely  pure  : 
There  is  no  faith  in  lust,  but  baits  of  arts ; 
'Tis  virtuous  love  keeps  clear  contracted  hearts. 

\Exeunt. 


88  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  the  castle. 
Enter  CORAX  and  CLEOPHILA. 

Cor.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  the  hour  is  at  hand 
Which  must  conclude  the  business,  that  no  art 
Could  all  this  while  make  ripe  for  wish'd  content. 
O,  lady,  in  the  turmoils  of  our  lives, 
Men  are  like  politic  states,  or  troubled  seas, 
Toss'd  up  and  down  with  several  storms  and  tempests, 
Change  and  variety  of  wrecks  and  fortunes ; 
Till,  labouring  to  the  havens  of  our  homes, 
We  struggle  for  the  calm  that  crowns  our  ends. 

Cleo.  A  happy  end  heaven  bless  us  with  ! 

Cor.  'Tis  well  said. 

The  old  man  sleeps  still  soundly. 

Cleo.  May  soft  dreams 

Play  in  his  fancy,  that  when  he  awakes, 
With  comfort  he  may,  by  degrees,  digest 
The  present  blessings  in  a  moderate  joy! 

Cor.  I   drench'd   his  cup   to   purpose;   he  ne'er 

stirr'd 

At  barber  or  at  tailor.     He  will  laugh 
At  his  own  metamorphosis,  and  wonder. — 
We  must  be  watchful.     Does  the  couch1  stand  ready? 

Cleo.  All,  [all]  as  you  commanded. 

Enter  TROLLIO. 

What's  your  haste  for  ? 

TroL  A  brace  of  big  women,  ushered  by  the  young 
old  ape  with  his  she-clog  at  his  bum,  are  entered  the 
castle.  Shall  they  come  on  ? 

1  couch}  The  410  has  "Coach."  D. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  89 

Cor.  By  any  means  :  the  time  is  precious  now. — 
Lady,  be  quick  and  careful. — Follow,  Trollio.     [Exit. 

Trol.  I  owe  all  sir-reverence  to  your  right  worship- 
fulness.  [Exit. 

Cleo.  So  many  fears,  so  many  joys  encounter 
My  doubtful  expectations,  that  I  waver 
Between  the  resolution  of  my  hopes 
And  my  obedience  :  'tis  not— O  my  fate  ! — 
The  apprehension  of  a  timely  blessing 
In  pleasures  shakes  my  weakness  ;  but  the  danger 
Of  a  mistaken  duty  that  confines 
The  limits  of  my  reason.     Let  me  live, 
Virtue,  to  thee  as  chaste  as  truth  to  time  ! 

Enter  THAMASTA,  speaking  to  some  one  without. 

Tha.  Attend  me  till  I  call.— My  sweet  Cleophila  ! 

Cleo.  Great  princess, — 

Tha.  I  bring  peace,  to  sue  a  pardon 

For  my  neglect  of  all  those  noble  virtues 
Thy  mind  and  duty  are  apparell'd  with  : 
I  have  deserv'd  ill  from  thee,  and  must  say 
Thou  art  too  gentle,  if  thou  canst  forget  it. 

Cleo.  Alas,  you  have  not  wrong'd  me  ;  for,  indeed, 
Acquaintance  with  my  sorrows  and  my  fortune 
Were  grown  to  such  familiarity, 
That  'twas  an  impudence,  more  than  presumption, 
To  wish  so  great  a  lady  as  you  are 
Should  lose  affection  on  my  uncle's  son  : 
But  that  your  brother,  equal  in  your  blood, 
Should  stoop  to  such  a  lowhess  as  to  love 
A  castaway,  a  poor  despised  maid, 
Only  for  me  to  hope  was  almost  sin  ; — 
Yet,  'troth,  I  never  tempted  him. 

Tha.  Chide  not 

The  grossness  of  my  trespass,  lovely  sweetness, 


9o  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

In  such  an  humble  language ;  I  have  smarted 
Already  in  the  wounds  my  pride  hath  made 
Upon  your  sufferings  :  henceforth  'tis  in  you 
To  work  my  happiness. 

Cleo.  Call  any  service 

Of  mine  a  debt ;  for  such  it  is.     The  letter 
You  lately  sent  me,  in  the  blest  contents 
It  made  me  privy  to,  hath  largely  quitted 
Every  suspicion  of  your  grace  or  goodness. 

Tha.  Let  me  embrace  thee  with  a  sister's  love, 
A  sister's  love,  Cleophila  ;  for  should 
My  brother  henceforth  study  to  forget 
The  vows  that  he  hath  made  thee,  I  would  ever 
Solicit  thy  deserts.2 

Amet.  Men.  \within\  We  must  have  entrance. 

Tha.  Must !  Who  are  they  say  must  ?  you  are  un 
mannerly. 

Enter  AMETHUS  and  MENAPHON. 
Brother,  is't  you  ?  and  you  too,  sir  ? 

Amet.  Your  ladyship 

Has  had  a  time  of  scolding  to  your  humour : 
Does  the  storm  hold  still  ? 

Cleo.  Never  fell  a  shower 

More  seasonably  gentle  on  the  barren 
Parch'd  thirsty  earth  than  showers  of  courtesy 
Have  from  this  princess  been  distill'd  on  me, 
To  make  my  growth  in  quiet  of  my  mind 
Secure  and  lasting. 

Tha.  You  may  both  believe 

That  I  was  not  uncivil. 

Amet.  Pish  !  I  know 

Her  spirit  and  her  envy. 

2  Solicit  thy  deserts.}  i.e.  plead  your  merits  to  my  brother ;  which 
accordingly  she  does  in  pp.  91-2,  where  Amethus  observes,  "The 
ladies  are  turn'd  lawyers." 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  91 

Cleo.  Now,  in  troth,  sir, — 

Pray  credit  me,  I  do  not  use  to  swear, — 
The  virtuous  princess  hath  in  words  and  carriage 
Been  kind,  so  over-kind,  that  I  do  blush 
I  am  not  rich  enough  in  thanks  sufficient 
For  her  unequalPd  bounty. — My  good  cousin, 
I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Men.  It  shall  be  granted. 

Cleo.  That  no  time,  no  persuasion,  no  respects 
Of  jealousies,  past,  present,  or  hereafter 
By  possibility  to  be  conceiv'd, 
Draw  you  from  that  sincerity  and  pureness 
Of  love  which  you  have  oftentimes  protested 
To  this  great  worthy  lady  :  she  deserves 
A  duty  more  than  what  the  ties  of  marriage 
Can  claim  or  warrant ;  be  for  ever  hers, 
As  she  is  yours,  and  heaven  increase  your  comforts ! 

Amet.  Cleophila  hath  play'd  the  churchman's  part; 
I'll  not  forbid  the  bans. 

Men.  Are  you  consented  ?3 

Tha.  I  have  one  task  in  charge  first,  which  con 
cerns  me. 

Brother,  be  not  more  cruel  than  this  lady ; 
She  hath  forgiven  my  follies,  so  may  you. 
Her  youth,  her  beauty,  innocence,  discretion, 
Without  additions  of  estate  or  birth, 
Are  dower  for  a  prince,  indeed.     You  lov'd  her  ; 
For  sure  you  swore  you  did  :  else,  if  you  did  noty 
Here  fix  your  heart ;  and  thus  resolve,4  if  now 

3  consented?}  Gifford printed  "contented."— But  compare,  in  our 
author's  Broken  Heart,  act  ii.  sc.  2, 

"  Thad  been  pity 
To  sunder  hearts  so  equally  consented."  D. 

4  and  thus  resolve,]   i.e.  and  come  to  this  certain  conclusion, 
that — if  now,  &c.     As  the  passage  was  printed  before,  it  was  hardly 
intelligible. 


92  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

You  miss  this  heaven  on  earth,  you  cannot  find 
In  any  other  choice  aught  but  a  hell. 

Amet.  The  ladies  are  turn'd  lawyers,  and   plead 

handsomely 

Their  clients'  cases :  I'm  an  easy  judge ; 
And  so  shalt  thou  be,  Menaphon.     I  give  thee 
My  sister  for  a  wife ;  a  good  one,  friend. 

Men.  Lady,  will  you  confirm  the  gift  ? 

Tha.  The  errors 

Of  my  mistaken  judgment  being  lost 
To  your  remembrance,  I  shall  ever  strive 
In  my  obedience  to  deserve  your  pity. 

Men.  My  love,  my  care,  my  all  1 

Amet.  What  rests  for  me  ? 

I'm  still  a  bachelor. — Sweet  maid,  resolve  me, 
May  I  yet  call  you  mine  ? 

Cleo.  My  Lord  Amethus, 

Blame  not  my  plainness ;  I  am  young  and  simple, 
And  have  not  any  power  to  dispose 
Mine  own  will  without  warrant  from  my  father ; 
That  purchas'd,  I  am  yours. 

Amet.  It  shall  suffice  me. 

Enter  CUCULUS,  PELIAS,  and  TKOLLIO,  plucking  in 
GRILLA. 

Cue.  Revenge  !  I  must  have  revenge ;  I  will  have 
revenge,  bitter  and  abominable  revenge ;  I  will  have 
revenge.  This  unfashionable  mongrel,  this  linsey- 
wolsey  of  mortality — by  this  hand,  mistress,  this  she- 
rogue  is  drunk,  and  clapper-clawed  me,  without  any 
reverence  to  my  person  or  good  garments. — Why  d'ye 
not  speak,  gentlemen  ? 

Pel.  Some  certain  blows  have  pass'd,  an't  like  your 
highness. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  93 

TroL  Some  few  knocks  of  friendship,  some  love- 
toys,  some  cuffs  in  kindness,  or  so. 

Gril.  I'll  turn  him  ,away;  he  shall  be  my  master 
no  longer. 

Men.  Is  this  your  she-page,  Cuculus?  'tis  a  boy, 
sure. 

Cue.  A  boy,  an  arrant  boy  in  long-coats. 

Trol.  He  has  mumbled  his  nose,  that  'tis  as  big 
as  a  great  codpiece. 

Cue.  O,  thou  cock -vermin  of  iniquity  ! 

Tha.  Pelias,  take  hence  the  wag,  and  school  him 

fort.— 

For  your  part,  servant,  I'll  entreat  the  prince 
To  grant  you  some  fit  place  about  his  wardrobe. 

Cue.  Ever  after  a  bloody  nose  do  I  dream  of  good 
luck. — I  horribly  thank  your  ladyship. — 
Whilst  I'm  in  office,  th'  old  garb  shall  agen 
Grow  in  request,  and  tailors  shall  be  men. — 
Come,  Trollio,  help  to  wash  my  face,  prithee. 

Trol.  Yes,  and  to  scour  it  too. 

[Exeunt  Cue.,  Trol.,  Pel.,  and  Grit.5 

Re-enter  CORAX  with  RHETIAS. 

Rhe.  The  prince  and  princess  are  at  hand;  give 

over 

Your  amorous  dialogues. — Most  honour'd  lady, 
Henceforth  forbear  your  sadness  :  are  you  ready 
To  practise  your  instructions  ? 

Cleo.  I  have  studied 

My  part  with  care,  and  will  perform  it,  Rhetias, 
With  all  the  skill  I  can. 

5  It  is  pleasant  to  witness  the  departure  of  this  despicable  set  of 
buffoons ;  and  Ford  has  shown  more  judgment  than  he  was  probably 
aware  of  (for  he  seems  to  take  delight  in  his  wretched  antics),  in  dis 
missing  them  at  a  period  when  they  would  have  broken  in  on  the 
deep  pathos  and  feeling  of  his  exquisite  catastrophe. 


94  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

Cor.  I'll  pass  my  word  for  her. 

A  flourish. — Enter  PALADOR,  SOPHRONOS,  ARETUS, 
and  EROCLEA. 

Pal.  Thus  princes  should  be  circled,  with  a  guard 
Of  truly  noble  friends  and  watchful  subjects. 
O,  Rhetias,  thou  art  just ;  the  youth  thou  told'st  me 
That  liv'd  at  Athens  is  return'd  at  last 
To  her  own  fortunes  and  contracted  love. 

Rhe.  My  knowledge  made  me  sure  of  my  report, 
sir. 

Pal.  Eroclea,  clear  thy  fears;  when  the  sun  shines 
Clouds  must  not  dare  to  muster  in  the  sky, 
Nor  shall  they  here. —  [Cleo.  and  Amet.  kneel. 

Why  do  they  kneel  ? — Stand  up  ; 
The  day  and  place  is  privileg'd. 

Soph.  Your  presence, 

Great  sir,  makes  every  room  a  sanctuary. 

Pal.  Wherefore  does  this  young  virgin  use  such 

circumstance 
In  duty  to  us  ? — Rise. 

Ero.  'Tis  I  must  raise  her. — \Raises  Cleo. 

Forgive  me,  sister,  I  have  been  too  private, 
In  hiding  from  your  knowledge  any  secret 
That  should  have  been  in  common  'twixt  our  souls; 
But  I  was  rul'd  by  counsel. 

Cleo.  That  I  show 

Myself  a  girl,6  sister,  and  bewray 
Joy  in  too  soft  a  passion  'fore  all  these, 
I  hope  you  cannot  blame  me. 

[  Weeps,  and  falls  into  the  arms  of  Ero. 

Pal.  We  must  part 

The  sudden  meeting  of  these  two  fair  rivulets 

6  Cleo.    That  I  show  Myself  a  g\r\,~]  Seep.  18. 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY. 


95 


With  th'  island  of  our  arms.     [Embraces  Ero.'] — Cleo- 

phila, 

The  custom  of  thy  piety  hath  built, 
Even  to  thy  younger  years,  a  monument 
Of  memorable  fame  :  some  great  reward 
Must  wait  on  thy  desert. 

Soph.  The  prince  speaks  t'ye,  niece. 

Cor.  Chat  low,  I  pray ;  let  us  about  our  business. 
The  good  old  man  awakes. — My  lord,  withdraw. — 
Rhetias,  let's  settle  here  the  couch.7 

Pal.  Away,  then !         \Exeunt. 

Soft  music.  —  Re-enter  CORAX  and  RHETIAS  with 
MELEANDER  asleep  on  a  couch,  his  hair  and  beard 
trimmed,  habit  and  gown  changed.  While  they  are 
placing  the  couch,  a  Boy  sings  without. 

Song. 

Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows  charm'd  in  sleep  ! 
Though  the  eyes  be  overtaken, 
Yet  the  heart  doth  ever  waken 
Thoughts,  chain'd  up  in  busy  snares 
Of  continual  woes  and  cares  : 
Love  and  griefs  are  so  exprest 
As  they  rather  sigh  than  rest. 
Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows  charm'd  in  sleep  ! 

Mel.  \awakes~]  Where  am  I?  ha!    What  sounds  are 

these  ?    'Tis  day,  sure. 
O,  I  have  slept  belike  ;  'tis  but  the  foolery 
Of  some  beguiling  dream.     So,  so  !  I  will  not 
Trouble  the  play  of  my  delighted  fancy, 

7  couch.']  The4tohas  "Coach."  D. 


96  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

But  dream  my  dream  out. 

Cor.  Morrow  to  your  lordship  ! 

You  took  a  jolly  nap,  and  slept  it  soundly. 

Mel.  Away,  beast !  let  me  alone. 

\The  music  ceases. 

Cor.  O,  by  your  leave,  sir, 

I  must  be  bold  to  raise  ye  ;  else  your  physic 
Will  turn  to  further  sickness. 

[He  assists  Mel.  to  sit  up. 

Mel.  '    Physic,  bear-leech?8 

Cor.  Yes,  physic ;  you  are  mad. 

Mel.  Trollio!  Cleophila ! 

Rhe.  Sir,  I  am  here. 

Mel.  I  know  thee,  Rhetias;  prithee  rid  the  room 
Of  this  tormenting  noise.     He  tells  me,  sirrah, 
I  have  took  physic,  Rhetias ;  physic,  physic  ! 

Rhe.  Sir,  true,  you  have;  and  this  most  learned 

scholar 

Applied  't  ye.9     O,  you  were  in  dangerous  plight 
Before  he  took  ye  [in]  hand. 

Mel.  These  things  are  drunk, 

Directly  drunk. — Where  did  you  get  your  liquor  ? 

Cor.  I  never  saw  a  body  in  the  wane 
Of  age  so  overspread  with  several  sorts 
Of  such  diseases  as  the  strength  of  youth 
Would  groan  under  and  sink. 

Rhe.  The  more  your  glory 

In  the  miraculous  cure. 

Cor.  Bring  me  the  cordial10 

8  bear-leech?}  i.e.  bear-doctor.   D. 

9  Applied  'tye.~\  Weber  calls  this  "remarkably  harsh ;"  and  so  it 
is :  but  he  certainly  did  not  improve  it  when  he  printed  ' '  Apply  d  't 
t'you."  D. 

10  Bring  me  the  cordial]  He  alludes  to  the  successive  appearance 
of  the  messengers  from  the  prince,  to  whom  the  hint  was  now  to  be 
given,  and  more  particularly  to  the  entrance  of  Eroclea  and  her 
sister,  who  are  brought  in  by  Rhetias. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  97 

Prepar'd  for  him  to  take  after  his  sleep  ; 
'Twill  do  him  good  at  heart. 

Rhe.  I  hope  it  will,  sir.     [Exit. 

Mel.    What  dost    [thou]   think  I  am,  that   thou 

shouldst  fiddle 

So  much  upon  my  patience  ?     Fool,  the  weight 
Of  my  disease  sits  on  my  heart  so  heavy, 
That  all  the  hands  of  art  cannot  remove 
One  grain,  to  ease  my  grief.     If  thou  couldst  poison 
My  memory,  or  wrap  my  senses  up 
Into  a  dulness  hard  and  cold  as  flints ; 
If  thou  couldst  make  me  walk,  speak,  eat,  and  laugh 
Without  a  sense  or  knowledge  of  my  faculties, 
Why,  then,  perhaps,  at  marts  thou  mightst  make  bene 
fit 

Of  such  an  antic  motion,11  and  get  credit 
From  credulous  gazers,  but  not  profit  me. 
Study  to  gull  the  wise ;  I  am  too  simple 
To  be  wrought  on. 

Cor.  I'll  burn  my  books,  old  man, 

But  I  will  do  thee  good,  and  quickly  too. 

Re-enter  ARETUS,  with  a  patent. 
Are.  Most  honour'd  Lord  Meleander,  our  great 

master, 

Prince  Palador  of  Cyprus,  hath  by  me 
Sent  you  this  patent,  in  which  is  contain'd 
Not  only  confirmation  of  the  honours 
You  formerly  enjo/d,  but  the  addition 
Of  the  Marshalship  of  Cyprus  ;  and  ere  long 
He  means  to  visit  you.     Excuse  my  haste ; 
I  must  attend  the  prince.  [Exit. 

11  Of  such  an  antic  motion,]  i.e.  of  such  a  strange  automaton, 
or  puppet.  Exhibitions  of  this  kind  formed,  in  the  poet's  days,  one 
of  the  principal  attractions  of  the  people  on  all  public  occasions. 

VOL.  I.  H 


98  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

Cor.  There's  one  pill  works. 

Mel.  Dost  know  that  spirit  ?  'tis  a  grave  familiar, 
And  talk'd  I  know  not  what. 

Cor.  He's  like,  methinks, 

The  prince's  tutor  Aretus. 

MeL  Yes,  yes  ; 

It  may  be  I  have  seen  such  a  formality ; 
No  matter  where  or  when. 

Re-enter  AMETHUS,  with  a  staff. 

Ame.  The  prince  hath  sent  ye, 

My  lord,  this  staff  of  office,  and  withal 
Salutes  you  Grand  Commander  of  the  Ports 
Throughout  his  principalities.     He  shortly 
Will  visit  you  himself :  I  must  attend  him.          [Exit. 

Cor.  D'ye  feel  your  physic  stirring  yet  ? 

Mel.  A  devil 

Is  a  rare  juggler,  and  can  cheat  the  eye, 
But  not  corrupt  the  reason,  in  the  throne 
Of  a  pure  soul. 

Re-enter  SOPHRONOS,  with  a  tablet l.12 

Another ! — I  will  stand  thee  ; 
Be  what  thou  canst,  I  care  not. 

Soph.  From  the  prince, 

Dear  brother,  I  present  you  this  rich  relic, 
A  jewel  he  hath  long  worn  in  his  bosom  : 
Henceforth,  he  bade  me  say,  he  does  beseech  you 
To  call  him  son,  for  he  will  call  you  father ; 
It  is  an  honour,  brother,  that  a  subject 
Cannot  but  entertain  with  thankful  prayers. 
Be  moderate  in  your  joys  :  he  will  in  person 
Confirm  my  errand,  but  commands  my  service.  [Exit. 

12  with  a  tablet.]  i.e.  with  the  miniature  of  Eroclea,  which  Pain- 
dor  had  worn  so  long  in  his  bosom,  and  to  which  he  alludes,  p.  86. 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  99 

Cor.  What  hope  now  of  your  cure  ? 
Mel.  Stay,  stay ! — What  earthquakes 

Roll  in  my  flesh !     Here's  prince,  and  prince,  and 

prince ; 

Prince  upon  prince  !     The  dotage  of  my  sorrows 
Revels  in  magic  of  ambitious  scorn  : 
Be  they  enchantments  deadly  as  the  grave, 
I'll  look  upon  'em.     Patent,  staff,  and  relic  ! 
To  the  last  first.  [Taking  up  the  miniature]  Round  me, 

ye  guarding  ministers, 
And  ever  keep  me  waking,  till  the  cliffs 
That  overhang  my  sight  fall  off,  and  leave 
These  hollow  spaces  to  be  cramm'd  with  dust ! 

Cor.  'Tis  time,  I  see,   to  fetch   the   cordial.13— 

Prithee, 

Sit  down ;  I'll  instantly  be  here  again.  [Exit. 

Mel.  Good,  give  me  leave ;  I  will  sit  down :  in 
deed, 
Here's  company  enough  for  me  to  prate  to. 

[Looks  at  the  picture. 

Eroclea  ! — 'tis  the  same ;  the  cunning  arts-man 
Falter'd  not  in  a  line.     Could  he  have  fashion'd 
A  little  hollow  space  here,  and  blown  breath 
T'  have  made  it  move  and  whisper,  't  had  been  excel 
lent  :-— 

But,  'faith,  'tis  well,  'tis  very  well  as  'tis, 
Passing,  most  passing  well. 

Re-enter  CLEOPHILA  leading  EROCLEA,  and  followed 

by  RHETIAS. 

Cleo.  The  sovereign  greatness, 

Who,  by  commission  from  the  powers  of  heaven, 

13  'Tis  time,  I  see,  to  fetch  the  cordial.}  i.e.  the  prince;  with 
whom  he  subsequently  returns,  and  whom  he  terms  the  sure  or 
crowning  cordial. 


100  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

Sways  both  this  land  and  us,  our  gracious  prince, 
By  me  presents  you,  sir,  with  this  large  bounty, 
A  gift  more  precious  to  him  than  his  birthright. 
Here  let  your  cares  take  end  ;  now  set  at  liberty 
Your  long-imprison'd  heart,  and  welcome  home 
The  solace  of  your  soul,  too  long  kept  from  you. 

Ero.  \kneeling\  Dear  sir,  you  know  me  ? 

Mel.  Yes,  thou  art  my  daughter, 

My  eldest  blessing.     Know  thee  !  why,  Eroclea, 
I  never  did  forget  thee  in  thy  absence. 
Poor  soul,  how  dost  ? 

Ero.  The  best  of  my  well-being 

Consists  in  yours. 

Mel.  Stand  up  :  the  gods,  who  hitherto 

[Ero.  rises. 

Have  kept  us  both  alive,  preserve  thee  ever ! — 
Cleophila,  I  thank  thee  and  the  prince  : — 
I  thank  thee  too,  Eroclea,  that  thou  wouldst, 
In  pity  of  my  age,  take  so  much  pains 
To  live,  till  I  might  once  more  look  upon  thee, 
Before  I  broke  my  heart :  O,  'twas  a  piece 
Of  piety  and  duty  unexampled  ! 

Rhe.  \aside\  The  good  man  relisheth  his  comforts 

strangely ; 
The  sight  doth  turn  me  child. 

Ero.  I  have  not  words 

That  can  express  my  joys. 

Cleo.  Nor  I. 

Mel.  Nor  I : 

Yet  let  us  gaze  on  one  another  freely, 
And  surfeit  with  our  eyes.     Let  me  be  plain  : 
If  I  should  speak  as  much  as  I  should  speak, 
I  should  talk  of  a  thousand  things  at  once, 
And  all  of  thee ;  of  thee,  my  child,  of  thee  ! 
My  tears,  like  ruffling  winds  lock'd  up  in  caves, 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  1Oi 

Do  bustle  for  a  vent ; — on  t'other  side, 

To  fly  out  into  mirth  were  not  so  comely. 

Come  hither,  let  me  kiss  thee.  [To  Ero.}  With  a  pride, 

Strength,  courage,  and  fresh  blood,  which  now  thy 

presence 

Hath  stor'd  me  with,  I  kneel  before  their  altars, 
Whose  sovereignty  kept  guard  about  thy  safety. 
Ask,  ask  thy  sister,  prithee,  she  will  tell  thee 
How  I  have  been  much  mad. 

Cleo.  Much  discontented, 

Shunning  all  means  that  might  procure  him  comfort. 

Ero.  Heaven  has  at  last  been  gracious. 

Mel.  So  say  I : 

But  wherefore  drop  thy  words  in  such  a  sloth, 
As  if  thou  wert  afraid  to  mingle  truth 
With  thy  misfortunes  ?     Understand  me  throughly  ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  to  report  at  large, 
From  point  to  point,  a  journal  of  thy  absence, 
'Twill  take  up  too  much  time ;  I  would  securely 
Engross  the  little  remnant  of  my  life, 
That  thou  mightst  every  day  be  telling  somewhat, 
Which  might  convey  me  to  my  rest  with  comfort. 
Let  me  bethink  me  :  how  we  parted  first, 
Puzzles  my  faint  remembrance — but  soft — 
Cleophila,  thou  told'st  me  that  the  prince 
Sent  me  this  present. 

Cleo.  From  his  own  fair  hands 

I  did  receive  my  sister. 

MeL  To  requite  him, 

We  will  not  dig  his  father's  grave  anew, 
Although  the  mention  of  him  much  concerns 
The  business  we  inquire  of : — as  I  said, 
We  parted  in  a  hurry  at  the  court ; 
I  to  this  castle,  after  made  my  jail. — 
But  whither  thou,  dear  heart  ? 


102  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

Rhe.  Now  they  fall  to't ; 

I  look'd  for  this. 

Ero.  I,  by  my  uncle's  care, 

Sophronos,  my  good  uncle,  suddenly 
Was  like  a  sailor's  boy  convey'd  a-shipboard 
That  very  night. 

MeL  A  policy  quick  and  strange. 

Ero.  The  ship  was  bound  for  Corinth;  whither 

first, 

Attended  only  with  your  servant  Rhetias 
And  all  fit  necessaries,  we  arriv'd : 
From  thence,  in  habit  of  a  youth,  we  journey'd 
To  Athens,  where,  till  our  return  of  late, 
Have  we  liv'd  safe. 

MeL  O,  what  a  thing  is  man, 

To  bandy  factions  of  distempered  passions 
Against  the  sacred  Providence  above  him  ! 
Here,  in  the  legend  of  thy  two  years'  exile, 
Rare  pity  and  delight  are  sweetly  mix'd. — 
And  still  thou  wert  a  boy  ? 

Ero.  So  I  obey'd 

My  uncle's  wise  command. 

Mel.  'Twas  safely  carried  : 

I  humbly  thank  thy  fate. 

Ero.  If  earthly  treasures 

Are  pour'd  in  plenty  down  from  heaven  on  mortals, 
They  rain14  amongst  those  oracles  that  flow 
In  schools  of  sacred  knowledge  ;  such  is  Athens ; 
Yet  Athens  was  to  me  but  a  fair  prison  : 
The  thoughts  of  you,  my  sister,  country,  fortunes, 
And  something  of  the  prince,  banM  all  contents, 
Which  else  might  ravish  sense  j  for  had  not  Rhetias 
Been  always  comfortable  to  me,  certainly 
Things  had  gone  worse. 

14  rain]  The  4to  has  "reigne." — Gifford  printed  "reign."  D 


SCENE  i.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  103 

Mel.  Speak  low,  Eroclea, 

That  "  something  of  the  prince"  bears  danger  in  it : 
Yet  thou  hast  travel!' d,  wench,  for  such  endowments 
As  might  create  a  prince  a  wife  fit  for  him, 
Had  he  the  world  to  guide  :  but  touch  not  there. 
How  cam'st  thou  home  ? 

Rhe.  Sir,  with  your  noble  favour, 

Kissing  your  hand  first,  that  point  I  can  answer. 

Mel.  Honest,  right  honest  Rhetias  ! 

Rhe.  Your  grave  brother 

Perceiv'd  with  what  a  hopeless  love  his  son, 
Lord  Menaphon,  too  eagerly  pursu'd 
Thamasta,  cousin  to  our  present  prince ; 
And,  to  remove  the  violence  of  affection, 
Sent  him  to  Athens,  where,  for  twelve  months'  space, 
Your  daughter,  my  young  lady,  and  her  cousin, 
Enjoy'd  each  other's  griefs ;  till  by  his  father, 
The  Lord  Sophronos,  we  were  all  call'd  home. 

Mel.  Enough,  enough  :  the  world  shall  henceforth 

witness 

My  thankfulness  to  heaven  and  those  people 
Who  have  been  pitiful  to  me  and  mine. — 
Lend  me  a  looking-glass. — How  now  !  how  came  I 
So  courtly,  in  fresh  raiments  ? 

Rhe.  Here's  the  glass,  sir. 

[Hands  a  glass  to  MeL 

Mel.  I'm  in  the  trim  too. — O  Cleophila, 
This  was  the  goodness  of  thy  care  and  cunning. — 

[Loud  music. 
Whence  comes  this  noise?15 

Rhe.  The  prince,  my  lord,  in  person. 

[They  kneel. 

15  noise  /]  i.  e.  music ;  in  which  sense  the  word  "was  formerly  not 
uncommon.  D. 


104  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  ACT  v. 

Re-enter  PALADOR,  SOPHRONOS,  ARETUS,  AMETHUS, 
MENAPHON,  CORAX,  THAMASTA,  with  KALA. 

Pal.  Ye  shall  not  kneel  to  us;  rise  all,  I  charge 
ye. —  [They  rise. 

Father,  you  wrong  your  age ;  henceforth  my  arms 

[Embracing  Mel. 

And  heart  shall  be  your  guard  :  we  have  o'erheard 
All  passages  of  your  united  loves. 
Be  young  again,  Meleander ;  live  to  number 
A  happy  generation,  and  die  old 
In  comforts  as  in  years  !     The  offices 
And  honours  which  I  late  on  thee  conferr'd 
Are  not  fantastic  bounties,  but  thy  merit : 
Enjoy  them  liberally. 

Mel.  My  tears  must  thank  ye, 

For  my  tongue  cannot. 

Cor.  I  have  kept  my  promise, 

And  given  you  a  sure  cordial. 

Mel.  O,  a  rare  one  ! 

Pal.  Good  man,  we  both  have  shar'd  enough  of 

sadness, 

Though  thine  has  tasted  deeper  of  th'  extreme  : 
Let  us  forget  it  henceforth.     Where's  the  picture 
I  sent  ye  ?     Keep  it ;  'tis  a  counterfeit ; 
And,  in  exchange  of  that,  I  seize  on  this, 

[Takes  Era.  by  the  hand. 
The  real  substance.     With  this  other  hand 
I  give  away,  before  her  father's  face, 
His  younger  joy,  Cleophila,  to  thee, 
Cousin  Amethus  :  take  her,  and  be  to  her 
More  than  a  father,  a  deserving  husband. 
Thus,  robb'd  of  both  thy  children  in  a  minute, 
Thy  cares  are  taken  off. 

Mel.  My  brains  are  dull'd ; 


SCENE  I.  THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.  105 

I  am  entranc'd,  and  know  not  what  you  mean. 
Great,  gracious  sir,  alas,  why  do  you  mock  me  ? 
I  am  a  weak  old  man,  so  poor  and  feeble, 
That  my  untoward  joints  can  scarcely  creep 
Unto  the  grave,  where  I  must  seek  my  rest. 

Pal.  Eroclea  was,  you  know,  contracted  mine  ; 
Cleophila  my  cousin's,  by  consent 
Of  both  their  hearts ;  we  both  now  claim  our  own  : 
It  only  rests  in  you  to  give  a  blessing, 
For  confirmation. 

Rhe.  Sir,  'tis  truth  and  justice. 

Mel.  The  gods,  that  lent  ye  to  me,  bless  your  vows ! 
O,  children,  children,  pay  your  prayers  to  heaven, 
For  they16  have  show'd  much  mercy. — But,  Sophronos, 
Thou  art  my  brother — I  can  say  no  more — 
A  good,  good  brother ! 

Pal.  Leave  the  rest  to  time. — 

Cousin  Thamasta,  I  must  give  you  too. — 
She's  thy  wife,  Menaphon. — Rhetias,  for  thee, 
And  Corax,  I  have  more  than  common  thanks. — 
On  to  the  temple  !  there  all  solemn  rites 
Perform'd,  a  general  feast  shall  be  proclaim'd. 
The  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY  hath  found  cure  ;17 
Sorrows  are  chang'd  to  bride-songs.     So  they  thrive 
Whom  fate  in  spite  of  storms  hath  kept  alive.    [Exeunt. 

16  heaven, 

For  they,  &c.]  Here,  as  frequently  in  our  old  writers,  "heaven" 
is  used  as  a  plural.  D. 

!7  This  line  alludes  to  the  last  couplet  of  the  Prologue.  The  con 
cluding  scene  of  this  drama  is  wrought  up  with  singular  art  and 
beauty.  If  the  Very  Woman  of  Massinger  preceded  the  Lover 's 
Melancholy  (as  I  believe  it  did),  Ford  is  indebted  to  it  for  no  incon 
siderable  part  of  his  plot. 


EPILOGUE. 

To  be  too  confident  is  as  unjust 
In  any  work  as  too  much  to  distrust : 
Who  from  the  laws  of  study  have  not  swerv'd 
Know  begg'd  applauses  never  were  deserv'd. 
We  must  submit  to  censure  :  so  doth  he 
Whose  hours  begot  this  issue ;  yet,  being  free, 
For  his  part,  if  he  have  not  pleas'd  you,  then 
In  this  kind  he'll  not  trouble  you  agen.18 

18  This  Epilogue  does  not  appear  in  all  the  copies.  Mr.  Heber's 
has  it  not.  I  can  hardly  believe  it  to  have  been  really  spoken  on  the 
stage ;  for  there  is  an  expression  in  it  which,  in  that  case,  would  bear 
an  air  of  insult  to  the  poet's  poorer  brethren,  as  well  as  to  the  audi 
ence.  By  "being  free"  he  means  that  he  was  not  compelled  by 
necessity  to  have  recourse  to  the  stage ;  indeed,  he  appears  from  his 
Dedications  to  have  been  much  engaged  in  professional  business; 
and  he  had  besides,  I  believe,  some  hereditary  property. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


This  tragedy,  in  the  dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Peterborough,  is 
styled  "the  first  fruits  of  the  author's  leisure."  How  long  it  had 
been  written,  or  what  was  the  date  of  its  first  appearance,  is  no 
where  mentioned ;  but  it  was  given  to  the  press  in  1633,  with  the 
following  title  :  "  Tis  Pity  Shee's  a  Whore.  Acted  by  the  Queenes 
Majesties  Seruants,  at  The  Phoenix,  in  Drury-Lane.  London. 
Printed  by  Nicholas  Okes  for  Richard  Collins,  and  are  to  be  sold 
at  his  shop  in  Pauls  Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  three  Kings. 
1633."  4to.  It  was  one  of  the  plays  appropriated  by  the  Lord  Cham 
berlain  to  the  Cockpit  or  Phoenix  Theatre,  in  1639.! 


1  This  tragedy  was  selected  for  publication  by  Mr.  Dodsley.  The 
choice  was  not  very  judicious  ;  for,  though  the  language  of  it  is  emi 
nently  beautiful,  the  plot  is  repulsive :  and  the  Lover  s  Melancholy 
or  the  Broken  Heart  would  have  been  fully  as  characteristic  of  the 
author's  manner.  It  owes  little  to  the  taste,  and  nothing  to  the 
judgment,  of  the  former  editors.  Dodsley  merely  copied  the  4to,  and 
Reed  republished  the  transcript  with  a  few  childish  "illustrations," 
worth  a  sponge. 


TO 
THE  TRULY  NOBLE 

JOHN, 

EARL  OF  PETERBOROUGH,  LORD  MORDAUNT,  BARON  OF 
TURVEY.2 

MY  LORD, 

WHERE  a  truth  of  merit  hath  a  general  warrant,  there 
love  is  but  a  debt,  acknowledgment  a  justice.  Great 
ness  cannot  often  claim  virtue  by  inheritance ;  yet,  in 
this,  yours  appears  most  eminent,  for  that  you  are  not 
more  rightly  heir  to  your  fortunes  than  glory  shall  be 
to  your  memory.  Sweetness  of  disposition  ennobles 
a  freedom  of  birth ;  in  both  your  lawful  interest  adds 
honour  to  your  own  name,  and  mercy  to  my  presump 
tion.  Your  noble  allowance  of  these  first  fruits  of 
my  leisure  in  the  action  emboldens  my  confidence  of 

2  John,  first  Earl  of  Peterborough,  Collins  informs  us,  ' '  obtained 
that  dignity  in  the  year  1627-8.  He  was  brought  up  in  the  Romish 
religion,  but  was  converted  by  a  disputation  at  his  own  house  be 
tween  the  learned  Bishop  Usher  (then  only  Dr.  Usher)  and  a  Papist, 
who  confessed  himself  silenced  by  the  just  hand  of  God,  for  pre 
suming  to  dispute  without  leave  from  his  superiors."  vol.  iii.  p.  317. 
No  miraculous  event  appears  to  have  confirmed  his  loyalty  (what 
ever  may  be  said  of  his  faith),  for  "he  joined  the  Parliamentary 
Army  in  1642,  and  was  made  General  of  the  Ordnance  and  Colonel 
of  a  regiment  of  foot,  under  Essex."  His  military  career  was  of 
short  duration,  as  "he  departed  this  life  June  i8th  the  same  year." 


HO  DEDICATION. 

your  as  noble  construction  in  this  presentment ;  espe 
cially  since  my  service  must  ever  owe  particular  duty 
to  your  favours,  by  a  particular  engagement.3  The 
gravity  of  the  subject  may  easily  excuse  the  lightness 
of  the  title,  otherwise  I  had  been  a  severe  judge 
against  mine  own  guilt.  Princes  have  vouchsafed 
grace  to  trifles  offered  from  a  purity  of  devotion ;  your 
lordship  may  likewise  please  to  admit  into  your  good 
opinion,  with  these  weak  endeavours,  the  constancy 
of  affection  from  the  sincere  lover  of  your  deserts  in 
honour, 

JOHN  FORD. 

3  So  little  of  Ford's  personal  history  is  known,  that  no  allusion  to 
any  circumstance  peculiar  to  himself  can  be  explained.  He  seems 
here  (and  all  is  but  seeming)  to  speak  of  some  legal  business  in  which 
he  was  engaged  under  this  nobleman ;  but  of  what  nature  it  would 
be  useless  to  inquire. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


BONAVENTURA,  a  friar. 

A  CARDINAL,  nuncio  to  the  Pope. 

SORANZO,  a  nobleman. 

FLORIO,    ) 

citizens  of  Parma. 


GRIMALDI,  a  Roman  gentleman. 
GIOVANNI,  son  to  Florio. 
BERGETTO,  nephew  to  Donado. 
RICHARDETTO,  a  supposed  physician. 
VASQUES,  servant  to  Soranzo. 
POGGIO,  servant  to  Bergetto. 
Banditti. 

ANNABELLA,  daughter  to  Florio. 
HIPPOLITA,  wife  to  Richardetto. 
PHILOTIS,  his  niece. 
PUTANA,  tutoress  to  Annabella.  ;- 

Officers,  Attendants,  Servants,  &c. 
SCENE — Parma. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  Friar  BONAVENTURA'S  cell. 

Enter  FRIAR  and  GIOVANNI. 

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  jest :  wits  that  presum'd 
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, 
And  fill'd  the  world  with  devilish  atheism. 
Such  questions,  youth,  are  fond  i1  far  better  'tis2 
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.  Gentle  father, 

To  you  I  have  unclasp'd  my  burden'd  soul, 
Emptied  the  storehouse  of  my  thoughts  and  heart, 
Made  myself  poor  of  secrets ;  have  not  left 

1  fond:}  i.  e.  idle,  unprofitable. 

2  far  better  'tis}  The  4to  reads  "for."  Reed. 

VOL.   I.  I 


H4  >TIS  PITY  SHE>S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

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  fram'd  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  peevish3  sound, 

A  customary  form,  from  man  to  man, 
Of  brother  and  of  sister,  be  a  bar 
'Twixt  my  perpetual  happiness  and  me  ? 
Say  that  we  had  one  father ;  say  one  womb — 
Curse  to  my  joys  ! — gave  both  us  life  and  birth  ; 
Are  we  not  therefore  each  to  other  bound 
So  much  the  more  by  nature  ?  by  the  links 
Of  blood,  of  reason  ?  nay,  if  you  will  have't, 
Even  of  religion,  to  be  ever  one, 
One  soul,  one  flesh,  one  love,  one  heart,  one  all  ? 

Friar.  Have  done,  unhappy  youth !  for  thou  art 
lost. 

Gio.  Shall,  then,  for  that  I  am  her  brother  born, 
My  joys  be  ever  banish'd  from  her  bed  ? 
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  : 
For  thou  hast  mov'd  a  Majesty  above 
With  thy  unranged  almost  blasphemy. 

3  peevish}  Weak,  trifling,  unimportant.     See  Mass.  vol.  i.  p.  71. 


SCENE  i.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  115 

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 
Are  lost  in  thee,  as  thou  art  in  thyself. 
O,  Giovanni  !4  hast  thou  left  the  schools 
Of  knowledge  to  converse  with  lust  and  death  ? 
For  death  waits  on  thy  lust.    Look  through  the  world, 
And  thou  shalt  see  a  thousand  faces  shine 
More  glorious  than  this  idol  thou  ador'st : 
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 
From  floats  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 

4  O,  Giovanni!^  Our  old  dramatists  appear  to  have  learned 
Italian  entirely  from  books ;  few,  if  any,  of  them  pronounce  it  cor 
rectly.  Giovanni  is  here  used  by  Ford  as  a  quadrisyllable,  as  it  was 
by  Massinger  and  others  of  his  contemporaries. 


Il6  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  I. 

That  rots  thy  soul ;  acknowledge  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  find'st 
No  change  in  thy  desires,  return  to  me  : 
I'll  think  on  remedy.     Pray  for  thyself 
At  home,  whilst  I  pray  for  thee  here. — Away  ! 
My  blessing  with  thee  !  we  have  need  to  pray. 

Gio.  All  this  I'll  do,  to  free  me  from  the  rod 
Of  vengeance ;  else  I'll  swear  my  fate's  my  god. 

[Exeunt. 5 


SCENE  II.   The  street  before  FLORIO'S  house. 

Enter  GRIMALDI  and  VASQUES,  -with  their  swords  drawn. 

Vas.  Come,  sir,  stand  to  your  tackling;  if  you 
prove  craven,  I'll  make  you  run  quickly. 

Grim.  Thou  art  no  equal  match  for  me. 

Vas.  Indeed,  I  never  went  to  the  wars  to  bring 
home  news ;  nor  cannot6  play  the  mountebank  for  a 
meal's  meat,  and  swear  I  got  my  wounds  in  the  field. 
See  you  these  gray  hairs  ?  they'll  not  flinch  for  a 
bloody  nose.  Wilt  thou  to  this  gear  ? 

5  It  is  observed  by  Langbaine  that  the  loves  of  Giovanni  and 
Annabella  are  painted  in  too  beautiful  colours  •  this,  though  it  may 
impeach  the  writer's  taste  in  selecting  such  a  subject,  is  yet  compli 
mentary  to  his  judgment  in  treating  it.     What  but  the  most  glowing 
diction,  the  most  exquisite  harmony  of  versification,  could  hope  to 
allure  the  reader  through  the  dreadful  display  of  vice  and  misery 
which  lay  before  him!     With  respect  to  the  scene  which  has  just 
passed,   it  is  replete  with  excellence  as  a  composition;  it  may  be 
doubted,  however,  whether  it  does  not  let  us  somewhat  too  abruptly 
into  the  plot,  which,  from  its  revolting  nature,  should  have  been 
more  gradually  opened.    The  character  of  the  Friar  is  artfully  drawn  ; 
pious,  but  gentle,  irresolute,  and,  to  speak  tenderly,  strangely  indul 
gent;  and  thus  we  are  prepared  for  his  subsequent  conduct,  which 
involves  the  fate  of  his  young  charge. 

6  nor  cannot]  Gifford  printed  "  nor  I  cannot."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ny 

Grim.  Why,  slave,  thinkest  thou  I'll  balance  my 
reputation  with  a  cast-suit  ?  Call  thy  master ;  he  shall 
know  that  I  dare — 

Vas.  Scold  like  a  cot-quean  ;7 — that's  your  pro 
fession.  Thou  poor  shadow  of  a  soldier,  I  will  make 
thee  know  my  master  keeps  servants  thy  betters  in 
quality  and  performance.  Comest  thou  to  fight  or 
prate  ? 

Grim.  Neither,  with  thee.  I  am  a  Roman  and 
a  gentleman;  one  that  have  got  mine  honour  with 
expense  of  blood. 

Vas.  You  are  a  lying  coward  and  a  fool.  Fight, 
or,  by  these  hilts,  I'll  kill  thee  : — brave  my  lord ! — 
you'll  fight  ? 

Grim.  Provoke  me  not,  for  if  thou  dost — 

Vas.  Have  at  you  ! 

\They  fight;  Grimaldi  is  worsted. 

Enter  FLORIO,  DONADO,  and SORANZO,  from  opposite 
sides. 

Flo.  What  mean8  these  sudden  broils  so  near  my 

doors  ? 

Have  you  not  other  places  but  my  house 
To  vent  the  spleen  of  your  disorder'd  bloods? 
Must  I  be  haunted  still  with  such  unrest 
As  not  to  eat  or  sleep  in  peace  at  home  ? 
Is  this  your  love,  Grimaldi  ?     Fie  !  'tis  naught. 

Don.  And,  Vasques,  I  may  tell  thee,  'tis  not  well 
To  broach  these  quarrels ;  you  are  ever  forward 
In  seconding  contentions. 

7  Scold  like  a  cot-quean  ;]  A  contemptuous  term  for  one  who 
cerns  himself  with  female  affairs ;  an  effeminate  meddler. 

8  mean]  The  4to  has  "meaned."  D. 


Il8  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  I. 

Enter  above*  ANNABELLA  and  PUTANA. 

Flo.  What's  the  ground  ? 

Sor.  That,   with  your  patience,  signiors,   I'll  re 
solve  : 

This  gentleman,  whom  fame  reports  a  soldier, — 
For  else  I  know  not, — rivals  me  in  love 
To  Signior  Florio's  daughter ;  to  whose  ears 
He  still  prefers  his  suit,  to  my  disgrace ; 
Thinking  the  way  to  recommend  himself 
Is  to  disparage  me  in  his  report : — 
But  know,  Grimaldi,  though,  may  be,  thou  art 
My  equal  in  thy  blood,  yet  this  bewrays 
A  lowness  in  thy  mind,  which,  wert  thou  noble, 
Thou  wouldst  as  much  disdain  as  I  do  thee 
For  this  unworthiness  : — and  on  this  ground 
I  will'd  my  servant  to  correct  his10  tongue, 
Holding  a  man  so  base  no  match  for  me. 

Vas.  And  had  [not]  your  sudden  coming  pre 
vented  us,  I  had  let  my  gentleman  blood  under  the 
gills  : — I  should  have  wormed  you,  sir,  for  running 
mad.11 

Grim.  I'll  be  reveng'd,  Soranzo. 

Fas.  On  a  dish  of  warm  broth  to  stay  your 
stomach — do,  honest  innocence,  do  !  spoon-meat  is  a 
wholesomer  diet  than  a  Spanish  blade. 

Grim.  Remember  this  ! 

Sor.  I  fear  thee  not,  Grimaldi. 

\Exit  Grim. 

9  Enter  above]  i.e.  on  the  raised  platform  which  stood  on  the 
old  stage,  and  which  served  for  a  balcony  to  the  street,  and  a  gallery 
to  the  rooms  within  doors. 

1°  his]  The  4to  has  "this."  D. 

11  /  should  have  wormed  you,  sir,  for  running  mad.]  i.e.  to  pre 
vent  you  from  running  mad.  Jonson,  vol.  iv.  p.  181.  The  allusion 
is  to  the  practice  of  cutting  what  is  called  the  worm  from  under  a 
dog's  tongue,  as  a  preventive  of  madness. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


119 


Flo.  My  Lord  Soranzo,  this  is  strange  to  me, 
Why  you  should  storm,  having  my  word  engag'd ; 
Owing  her  heart,12  what  need  you  doubt  her  ear  ? 
Losers  may  talk  by  law  of  any  game. 

Vas.  Yet  the  villany  of  words,  Signior  Florio,  may 
be  such  as  would  make  any  unspleened  dove  cho 
leric.  Blame  not  my  lord  in  this. 

Flo.  Be  you  more  silent : 
I  would  not  for  my  wealth,  my  daughter's  love 
Should  cause  the  spilling  of  one  drop  of  blood. 
Vasques,  put  up :  let's  end  this  fray  in  wine.  [Exeunt. 

Put.  How  like  you  this,  child  ?  here's  threatening, 
challenging,  quarrelling,  and  fighting  on  every  side ; 
and  all  is  for  your  sake :  you  had  need  look  to  yourself, 
charge ;  you'll  be  stolen  away  sleeping  else  shortly. 

Ann.  But,  tutoress,  such  a  life  gives  no  content 
To  me ;  my  thoughts  are  fix'd  on  other  ends. 
Would  you  would  leave  me ! 

Put.  Leave  you  !  no  marvel  else ;  leave  me  no 
leaving,  charge ;  this  is  love  outright.  Indeed,  I 
blame  you  not ;  you  have  choice  fit  for  the  best  lady 
in  Italy. 

Ann.  Pray  do  not  talk  so  much. 

Put.  Take  the  worst  with  the  best,  there's  Gri- 
maldi  the  soldier,  a  very  well-timbered  fellow.  They 
say  he  is  a  Roman,  nephew  to  the  Duke  Montferrato ; 
they  say  he  did  good  service  in  the  wars  against  the 
Milanese ;  but,  'faith,  charge,  I  do  not  like  him,  an't 
be  for  nothing  but  for  being  a  soldier  :  [not]  one 
amongst  twenty  of  your  skirmishing  captains  but  have 
some  privy  maim  or  other  that  mars  their  standing 

12  Owing  her  heart,]  i.e.  possessing,  owning:  in  this  sense  the 
word  is  used  by  all  our  old  dramatists.  Florio's  reasoning,  however, 
is  far  from  correct.  It  does  not  follow  that,  because  Soranzo  had 
his  word,  he  owed  his  daughter's  heart :  in  short,  Anhabella  seems 
to  have  thought  nothing  of  him. 


120  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

upright.  I  like  him  the  worse,  he  crinkles  so  much  in 
the  hams  :  though  he  might  serve  if  there  were  no  more 
men,  yet  he's  not  the  man  I  would  choose. 

Ann.  Fie,  how  thou  pratest ! 

Put.  As  I  am  a  very  woman,  I  like  Signior  So- 
ranzo  well ;  he  is  wise,  and  what  is  more,  rich ;  and 
what  is  more  than  that,  kind ;  and  what  is  more  than 
all  this,  a  nobleman  :  such  a  one,  were  I  the  fair 
Annabella  myself,  I  would  wish  and  pray  for.  Then 
he  is  bountiful ;  besides,  he  is  handsome,  and,  by  my 
troth,  I  think,  wholesome, — and  that's  news  in  a  gal 
lant  of  three-and-twenty ;  liberal,  that  I  know ;  loving, 
that  you  know ;  and  a  man  sure,  else  he  could  never 
ha'  purchased  such  a  good  name  with  Hippolita,  the 
lusty  widow,  in  her  husband's  lifetime :  an  'twere  but 
for  that  report,  sweetheart,  would  'a  were  thine !  Com 
mend  a  man  for  his  qualities,  but  take  a  husband  as 
he  is  a  plain,  sufficient,  naked  man  :  such  a  one  is  for 
your  bed,  and  such  a  one  is  Signior  Soranzo,  my  life 
for't. 

Ann.  Sure  the  woman  took  her  morning's  draught 
too  soon. 

Enter  BERGETTO  and  POGGIO. 

Put.  But  look,  sweetheart,  look  what  thing  comes 
now !  Here's  another  of  your  ciphers  to  fill  up  the 
number :  O,  brave  old  ape  in  a  silken  coat !  Ob 
serve. 

Berg.  Didst  thou  think,  Poggio,  that  I  would  spoil 
my  new  clothes,  and  leave  my  dinner,  to  fight? 

Peg.  No,  sir,  I  did  not  take  you  for  so  arrant  a 
baby. 

Berg.  I  am  wiser  than  so :  for  I  hope,  Poggio, 
thou  never  heardst  of  an  elder  brother  that  was  a  cox 
comb  ;  didst,  Poggio  ? 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  121 

Pog.  Never,  indeed,  sir,  as  long  as  they  had  either 
land  or  money  left  them  to  inherit. 

Berg.  Is  it  possible,  Poggio?  O, monstrous!  Why, 
I'll  undertake  with  a  handful  of  silver  to  buy  a  headful 
of  wit  at  any  time :  but,  sirrah,  I  have  another  pur 
chase  in  hand ;  I  shall  have  the  wench,  mine  uncle 
says.  I  will  but  wash  my  face  and  shift  socks,  and 
then  have  at  her,  i'faith ! — Mark  my  pace,  Poggio  ! 

[Passes  over  the  stage,  and  exit. 

Pog.  Sir, — I  have  seen  an  ass  and  a  mule  trot  the 
Spanish  pavin13  with  a  better  grace,  I  know  not  how 
often.  \_Aside,  and  follows  him. 

Ann.  This  idiot  haunts  me  too. 

Put.  Ay,  ay,  he  needs  no  description.  The  rich 
magnifico  that  is  below  with  your  father,  charge,  Sig- 
nior  Donado  his  uncle,  for  that  he  means  to  make  this, 
his  cousin,14  a  golden  calf,  thinks  that  you  will  be  a 
right  Israelite,  and  fall  down  to  him  presently :  but  I 
hope  I  have  tutored  you  better.  They  say  a  fool's 
bauble  is  a  lady's  playfellow ;  yet  you,  having  wealth 
enough,  you  need  not  cast  upon  the  dearth  of  flesh, 
at  any  rate.  Hang  him,  innocent  !15 

GIOVANNI  passes  over  the  stage. 
Ann.  But  see,  Putana,  see !  what  blessed  shape 

13  the  Spanish  pavin]  "The  pavan,  from  pavo,  a  peacock,  is  a 
grave  and  majestic  dance ;  the  method  of  performing  it  was  anciently 
by  gentlemen  dressed  with  a  cap  and  sword ;  by  those  of  the  long 
robe,  in  their  gowns ;  by  princes,  in  their  mantles ;  and  by  ladies,  in 
gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof  in  the  dance  resembled 
that  of  a  peacock's  tail."  Sir  John  Hawkins.  [The  derivation  of  the 
word  pavin  is  disputed.  D.] 

14  cousin,']  i.e.  nephew.  D. 

15  innocent!}  A  natural  fool.    Thus,  in  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen, 
act  iv.  sc.  i ; 

"but  this  very  day 

I  ask'd  her  questions,  and  she  answer'd  me 
So  far  from  what  she  was,  so  childishly, 
So  sillily,  as  if  she  were  a  fool, 
An  innocent;  and  I  was  very  angry."  Reed. 


122  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

Of  some  celestial  creature  now  appears  ! — 
What  man  is  he,  that  with  such  sad  aspect 
Walks  careless  of  himself? 

Put.  Where? 

Ann.  Look  below. 

Put.  O,  'tis  your  brother,  sweet. 

Ann.  Ha ! 

Put.  Tis  your  brother. 

Ann.  Sure,  'tis  not  he;  this  is  some  woful  thing 
Wrapp'd  up  in  grief,  some  shadow  of  a  man. 
Alas,  he  beats  his  breast  and  wipes  his  eyes, 
Drown'd  all  in  tears  :  methinks  I  hear  him  sigh  : 
Let's  down,  Putana,  and  partake  the  cause. 
I  know  my  brother,  in  the  love  he  bears  me, 
Will  not  deny  me  partage  in  his  sadness. — 
My  soul  is  full  of  heaviness  and  fear.  [Aside. 

[Exit  above  with  Put. 


SCENE  III.   A  hall  in  FLORIO'S  house. 

Gio.  Lost  !  I  am  lost  !  my  fates  have  doom'd  my 

death : 

The  more  I  strive,  I  love  ;  the  more  I  love, 
The  less  I  hope :  I  see  my  ruin  certain. 
What  judgment  or  endeavours  could  apply 
To  my  incurable  and  restless  wounds, 
I  throughly  have  examin'd,  but  in  vain. 
O,  that  it  were  not  in  religion  sin 
To  make  our  love  a  god,  and  worship  it ! 
I  have  even  wearied  heaven  with  prayers,  dried  up 
The  spring  of  my  continual  tears,  even  starv'd 
My  veins  with  daily  fasts  :  what  wit  or  art 
Could  counsel,  I  have  practis'd  ;  but,  alas, 
I  find  all  these  bat  dreams,  and  old  men's  tales, 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  123 

To  fright  unsteady  youth ;  I'm  still  the  same  : 
Or  I  must  speak,  or  burst.     Tis  not,  I  know, 
My  lust,  but  'tis  my  fate  that  leads  me  on.16 
Keep  fear  and  low  faint-hearted  shame  with  slaves  ! 
I'll  tell  her  that  I  love  her,  though  my  heart 
Were  rated  at  the  price  of  that  attempt. — 
O  me  !  she  comes. 

Enter  ANNABELLA  and  PUTANA. 

Ann.  Brother ! 

Gio.  \aside\  If  such  a  thing 

As  courage  dwell  in  men,  ye  heavenly  powers, 
Now  double  all  that  virtue  in  my  tongue  ! 

Ann.  Why,  brother, 
Will  you  not  speak  to  me  ? 

Gio.  Yes :  how  d'ye,  sister  ? 

Ann.  Howe'er  I  am,  methinks  you  are  not  well. 

Put.  Bless  us  !  why  are  you  so  sad,  sir  ? 

Gio.  Let  me  entreat  you,  leave  us  a  while,  Pu- 

tana. — 
Sister,  I  would  be  private  with  you. 

Ann.  Withdraw,  Putana. 

Put.  I  will. — If  this  were  any  other  company  for 
her,  I  should  think  my  absence  an  office  of  some 
credit :  but  I  will  leave  them  together. 

[A side,  and  exit. 

Gio.  Come,  sister,  lend  your  hand :  let's  walk  to 
gether  ; 

16  This  is  a  repetition  of  the  sentiment  with  which  he  had  taken 
leave  of  the  Friar — My  fate's  my  god.  I  would  not  detain  the  reader 
in  these  scenes,  on  which  Ford  has  lavished  all  the  charms  of  his 
eloquence ;  but  it  may  be  cursorily  observed,  that  characters  like 
Giovanni,  desperately  abandoned  to  vice,  endeavour  to  cheat  their 
conscience  by  setting  up  a  deity  of  their  own,  and  pretending  to  be 
swayed  by  his  resistless  influence.  This  is  the  last  stage  of  human 
depravation,  and  in  Scripture  language  is  called  "hardening  the 
heart."  See  Mass.  vol.  i.  p.  217. 


124  TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

I  hope  you  need  not  blush  to  walk  with  me ; 
Here's  none  but  you  and  I. 

Ann.  How's  this  ? 

Gio.  [I']  faith, 

I  mean  no  harm. 

Ann.  Harm  ? 

Gio.  No,  good  faith. 

How  is't  with  ye  ? 

Ann.  [aside]          I  trust  he  be  not  frantic. — 
I  am  very  well,  brother. 

Gio.  Trust  me,  but  I  am  sick ;  I  fear  so  sick 
'Twill  cost  my  life. 

Ann.  Mercy  forbid  it !  'tis  not  so,  I  hope. 

Gio.  I  think  you  love  me,  sister. 

Ann.  Yes,  you  know 

I  do. 

Gio.      I  know't,  indeed. — You're  very  fair. 

Ann.  Nay,  then  I  see  you  have  a  merry  sickness. 

Gio.  That's  as  it  proves.    The  poets  feign,  I  read, 
That  Juno  for  her  forehead  did  exceed 
All  other  goddesses ;  but  I  durst  swear 
Your  forehead  exceeds  hers,  as  hers  did  their.17 

Ann.  'Troth,  this  is  pretty ! 

Gio.  Such  a  pair  of  stars 

As  are  thine  eyes  would,  like  Promethean  fire, 
If  gently  glanc'd,  give  life  to  senseless  stones. 

Ann.  Fie  upon  ye  ! 

Gio.  The  lily  and  the  rose,  most  sweetly  strange, 
Upon  your  dimpled  cheeks  do  strive  for  change  : 
Such  lips  would  tempt  a  saint;  such  hands  as  those 
Would  make  an  anchorite  lascivious. 

Ann.  D'ye  mock  me  or  flatter  me  ? 

Gio.  If  you  would  see  a  beauty  more  exact 
Than  art  can  counterfeit  or  nature  frame, 

17  their. ,]  The  410  has  "  theirs;"  which  Gifford  retained.  D. 


SCENE  in.  TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  125 

Look  in  your  glass,  and  there  behold  your  own. 

Ann.  O,  you  are  a  trim  youth  ! 

Gio.  Here  !  [Offers  his  dagger  to  her. 

Ann.  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  ye  ? 

Ann.  Are  you  earnest  ? 

Gio.  Yes,  most  earnest. 

You  cannot  love  ? 

Ann.  Whom  ? 

Gio.  Me.    My  tortur'd  soul 

Hath  felt  affliction  in  the  heat  of  death. 
O,  Annabella,  I  am  quite  undone  ! 
The  love  of  thee,  my  sister,  and  the  view 
Of  thy  immortal  beauty  have  untun'd 
All  harmony  both  of  my  rest  and  life. 
Why  d'ye  not  strike  ? 

Ann.  Forbid  it,  my  just  fears  ! 

If  this  be  true,  'twere  fitter  I  were  dead. 

Gio.  True,  Annabella  !  'tis  no  time  to  jest. 
I  have  too  long  suppress'd  the18  hidden  flames 
That  almost  have  consum'd  me  :  I  have  spent 
Many  a  silent  night  in  sighs  and  groans  ; 
Ran  over  all  my  thoughts,  despis'd  my  fate, 
Reason'd  against  the  reasons  of  my  love, 
Done  all  that  smooth-cheek' d19  virtue  could  advise  ; 
But  found  all  bootless  :  'tis  my  destiny 
That  you  must  either  love,  or  I  must  die. 
•  Ann.  Comes  this  in  sadness20  from  you  ? 

18  the}  Gifford  printed  "my."  D. 

19  smooth-cheek 'd]  The  4to  has  "  smooth'd-cheeke ;"  which  per 
haps  (though  altered  here  by  Gifford)  is  what  Ford  wrote.  D. 

20  Comes  this  in  sadness]  i.  e.  in  seriousness. 


126  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

Gio.  Let  some  mischief 

Befall  me  soon,  if  I  dissemble  aught. 

Ann.  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  ;  to  which  intent 
Wise  nature  first  in  your  creation  meant 
To  make  you  mine ;  else't  had  been  sin  and  foul 
To  share  one  beauty  to  a  double  soul. 
Nearness  in  birth  and21  blood  doth  but  persuade 
A  nearer  nearness  in  affection. 
I  have  ask'd  counsel  of  the  holy  church, 
Who  tells  me  I  may  love  you  ;  and  'tis  just 
That,  since  I  may,  I  should ;  and  will,  yes,  will. 
Must  I  now  live  or  die  ? 

Ann.  Live ;  thou  hast  won 

The  field,  and  never  fought :  what  thou  hast  urg'd 
My  captive  heart  had  long  ago  resolv'd. 
I  blush  to  tell  thee,— but  I'll  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  lov'd,  as  that 
I  durst  not  say  I  lov'd,  nor  scarcely  think  it. 

Gio.  Let  not  this  music  be  a  dream,  ye  gods, 
For  pity's  sake,  I  beg  ye  ! 

Ann.  On  my  knees,     [She  kneels. 

Brother,  even  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,  even  by  my  mother's  dust,  I  charge  you, 
Do  not  betray  me  to  your  mirth  or  hate  : 

21  and]  The  4to  has  "or."  D.    ' 


SCENE  iv.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  127 

Love  me  or  kill  me,  sister. 

Ann.  You  mean  good  sooth,  then  ? 

Gio.  In  good  troth,  I  do  ; 

And  so  do  you,  I  hope  :  say,  I'm  in  earnest. 

Ann.  I'll  swear  it,  I.22 

Gio.  And  I ;  and  by  this  kiss, — 

[Kisses  her. 
Once  more,  yet  once  more :  now  let's  rise  \they  rise], 

— by  this, 

I  would  not  change  this  minute  for  Elysium. 
What  must  we  now  do  ? 

Ann.  What  you  will. 

Gio.  Come,  then ; 

After  so  many  tears  as  we  have  wept, 
Let's  learn  to  court  in  smiles,  to  kiss,  and  sleep. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  A  street. 

Enter  FLORIO  and  DONADO. 

Flo.  Signior  Donado,  you  have  said  enough, 
I  understand  you ;  but  would  have  you  know 
I  will  not  force  my  daughter  'gainst  her  will. 
You  see  I  have  but  two,  a  son  and  her ; 
And  he  is  so  devoted  to  his  book, 
As  I  must  tell  you  true,  I  doubt  his  health  : 
Should  he  miscarry,  all  my  hopes  rely 
Upon  my  girl.23     As  for  worldly  fortune, 
I  am,  I  thank  my  stars,  bless'd  with  enough. 

22  /'//  swear  it,  /.]  The  old  copy  has  "and"  before  "  I ;"  evi 
dently  an  oversight  of  the  press. 

23  Lfyon  my  girl.]   Girl  is  here,  and  almost  everywhere  else  in 
these  plays,  a  dissyllable.     See  pp.  18  and  134.     The  practice  is  not 
peculiar  to  our  poet ;  f>     Fanshaw,  and  others  of  that  age,  have 


numerous  examples  of  it 


ford. 


128  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

My  care  is,  ho.w  to  match  her  to  her  liking : 
I  would  not  have  her  marry  wealth,  but  love ; 
And  if  she  like  your  nephew,  let  him  have  her. 
Here's  all  that  I  can  say. 

Don.  Sir,  you  say  well, 

Like  a  true  father ;  and,  for  my  part,  I, 
If  the  young  folks  can  like, — 'twixt  you  and  me, — 
Will  promise  to  assure  my  nephew  presently 
Three  thousand  florins  yearly  during  life, 
And  after  I  am  dead  my  whole  estate. 

Flo.  'Tis  a  fair  proffer,  sir ;   meantime  your  ne 
phew 

Shall  have  free  passage  to  commence  his  suit : 
If  he  can  thrive,  he  shall  have  my  consent. 
So  for  this  time  I'll  leave  you,  signior.  [Exit. 

Don.  Well, 

Here's  hope  yet,  if  my  nephew  would  have  wit ; 
But  he  is  such  another  dunce,  I  fear 
He'll  never  win  the  wench.     When  I  was  young, 
I  could  have  done't,  i'faith ;  and  so  shall  he, 
If  he  will  learn  of  me ;  and,  in  good  time, 
He  comes  himself. 

Enter  BERGETTO  and  POGGIO. 
How  now,  Bergetto,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 

Berg.  O,  uncle,  I  have  heard  the  strangest  news 
that  ever  came  out  of  the  mint! — Have  I  not,  Poggio? 

Pog.  Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

Don.  What  news,  Bergetto  ? 

Berg.  Why,  look  ye,  uncle,  my  barber  told  me  just 
now  that  there  is  a  fellow  come  to  town  who  under 
takes  to  make  a  mill  go  without  the  mortal  help  of 
any  water  or  wind,  only  with  sand-bags  :  and  this  fel 
low  hath  a  strange  horse,  a  most  excellent  beast,  I'll 
assure  you,  uncle,  my  barber  s*  '  s ;  whose  head,  to 


SCENE  iv.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  129 

the  wonder  of  all  Christian  people,  stands  just  behind 
where  his  tail  is. — Is't  not  true,  Poggio  ? 

Pog.  So  the  barber  swore,  forsooth. 

Don.  And  you  are  running  [t]hither  ? 

Berg.  Ay,  forsooth,  uncle. 

Don.  Wilt  thou  be  a  fool  still?  Come,  sir,  you 
shall  not  go :  you  have  more  mind  of  a  puppet-play 
than  on  the  business  I  told  ye.  Why,  thou  great  baby, 
wilt  never  have  wit  ?  wilt  make  thyself  a  May-game24 
to  all  the  world  ? 

Pog.  Answer  for  yourself,  master. 

Berg.  Why,  uncle,  should  I  sit  at  home  still,  and 
not  go  abroad  to  see  fashions  like  other  gallants  ? 

Don.  To  see  hobby-horses  !  What  wise  talk,  I 
pray,  had  you  with  Annabella,  when  you  were  at^Sig- 
nior  Florio's  house  ? 

Berg.  O,  the  wench, — Ud's  sa'me,  uncle,  I  tickled 
her  with  a  rare  speech,  that  I  made  her  almost  burst 
her  belly  with  laughing. 

Don.  Nay,  I  think  so ;  and  what  speech  was't  ? 

Berg.  What  did  I  say,  Poggio  ? 

Pog.  Forsooth,  my  master  said,  that  he  loved  her 
almost  as  well  as  he  loved  parmasent  ;25  and  swore — 
I'll  be  sworn  for  him — that  she  wanted  but  such  a 
nose  as  his  was,  to  be  as  pretty  a  young  woman  as 
any  was  in  Parma. 

Don.  O,  gross ! 

Berg.  Nay,  uncle: — then  she  asked  me  whether 
my  father  had  any26  more  children  than  myself?  and 

24  a  May-game]  See  note,  p.  17.  D. 

25  parmasent;}  i.  e.  parmesan,  the  cheese  of  Parma,  where  the 
scene  is  laid. — Reed  suggests  that  this  word  may  mean  a  trick  in 
drinking  so  called ;  but  poor  Bergetto  had  no  tricks  of  any  kind :  the 
allusion  is  evidently  to  the  cheese,  .which  is  sufficiently  strong  to 
affect  the  breath,  and  therefore  ridiculously  put  in  competition  with 
the  lady. 

26  any]  Omitted  by  Gifford.   D. 

VOL.  I.  K 


1 30  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  i. 

I  said  "No;   'twere  better  he  should  have  had  his 
brains  knocked  out  first." 

Don.  This  is  intolerable. 

Berg.  Then  said  she,  "  Will  Signior  Donado,  your 
uncle,  leave  you  all  his  wealth  ?" 

Don.  Ha  !  that  was  good ;  did  she  harp  upon  that 
string  ? 

Berg.  Did  she  harp  upon  that  string  !  ay,  that  she 
did.  I  answered,  "  Leave  me  all  his  wealth  !  why, 
woman,  he  hath  no  other  wit ;  if  he  had,  he  should 
hear  on't  to  his  everlasting  glory  and  confusion :  I 
know,"  quoth  I,  "  I  am  his  white-boy,27  and  will  not 
be  gulled :"  and  with  that  she  fell  into  a  great  smile, 
and  went  away.  Nay,  I  did  fit  her. 

Don.  Ah,  sirrah,  then  I  see  there  is  no  changing 
of  nature.  Well,  Bergetto,  I  fear  thou  wilt  be  a  very 
ass  still. 

Berg.  I  should  be  sorry  for  that,  uncle. 

Don.  Come,  come  you  home  with  me  :  since  you 
are  no  better  a  speaker,  I'll  have  you  write  to  her  after 
some  courtly  manner,  and  enclose  some  rich  jewel  in 
the  letter. 

Berg.  Ay,  marry,  that  will  be  excellent. 

Don.  Peace,  innocent  !28 
Once  in  my  time  I'll  set  my  wits  to  school : 
If  all  fail,  'tis  but  the  fortune  of  a  fool. 

Berg.  Poggio,  'twill  do,  Poggio.  {Exeunt. 

27  white-boy,}  A  childish  term  of  endearment.     Warton  says  that 
Dr.  Busby  used  to  call  his  favourite  scholars  his  white-boys.     The 
word  occurs  in  Massinger  and  most  of  our  old  poets. 

28  innocent!}  See  note,  p.  121.  D. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  131 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  An  apartment  in  FLORIO'S  house. 

Enter  GIOVANNI  and  ANNABELLA. 

Gio.  Come,  Annabella, — no  more  sister  now, 
But  love,  a  name  more  gracious, — do  not  blush, 
Beauty's  sweet  wonder,  but  be  proud  to  know 
That  yielding  thou  hast  conquer'd,  and  inflam'd 
A  heart  whose  tribute  is  thy  brother's  life. 

Ann.  And  mine  is  his.     O,  how  these  stol'n  con 
tents 

Would  print  a  modest  crimson  on  my  cheeks, 
Had  any  but  my  heart's  delight  prevail'd ! 

Gio.  I  marvel  why  the  chaster  of  your  sex 
Should  think  this  pretty  toy  call'd  maidenhead 
So  strange  a  loss,  when,  being  lost,  'tis  nothing, 
And  you  are  still  the  same. 

Ann.  'Tis  well  for  you ; 

Now  you  can  talk. 

Gio.  Music  as  well  consists 

In  th'  ear  as  in  the  playing. 

Ann.  O,  you're  wanton  ! 

Tell  on't,  you're1  best ;  do. 

Gio.  Thou  wilt  chide  me,  then. 

Kiss  me  : — so  !     Thus  hung  Jove  on  Leda's  neck, 
And  suck'd  divine  ambrosia  from  her  lips. 
I  envy  not  the  mightiest  man  alive  ; 
But  hold  myself,  in  being  king  of  thee, 
More  great  than  were  I  king  of  all  the  world. 
But  I  shall  lose  you,  sweetheart. 

1  you're]  Gifford  printed  "you  were:"  but  the  contraction  has 
the  same  meaning;  so  in  Shakespeare's  Cymbeline,  act  iii.  sc.  2, 
"  Madam,  you're  best  consider. "  D. 


132  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

Ann.  But  you  shall  not. 

Gio.  You  must  be  married,  mistress. 

Ann.  Yes  !  to  whom  ? 

Gio.  Some  one  must  have  you. 

Ann.  You  must. 

Gio.  Nay,  some  other. 

Ann.  Now,  prithee  do  not  speak  so  ;  without  jest 
ing 
You'll  make  me  weep  in  earnest. 

Gio.  What,  you  will  not ! 

But  tell  me,  sweet,  canst  thou  be  dar'd  to  swear 
That  thou  wilt  live  to  me,  and  to  no  other  ? 

Ann.  By  both  our  loves  I  dare ;  for  didst  thou 

know, 

My  Giovanni,  how  all  suitors  seem 
To  my  eyes  hateful,  thou  wouldst  trust  me  then. 

Gio.  Enough,  I  take  thy  word  :   sweet,  we  must 

part: 
Remember  what  thou  vow'st ;  keep  well  my  heart. 

Ann.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Gio.  I  must. 

Ann.  When  to  return  ? 

Gio.  Soon. 

Ann.  Look  you  do. 

Gio.  Farewell. 

Ann.  Go  where  thou  wilt,  in  mind  I'll  keep  thee 

here, 

And  where  thou  art,  I  know  I  shall  be  there.  [Exit  Gio. 
Guardian ! 

Enter  PUTANA. 

Put.  Child,  how  is't,  child  ?  well,  thank  heaven, 
ha! 

Ann.  O  guardian,  what  a  paradise  of  joy- 
Have  I  pass'd  over  ! 


SCENE  i.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  133 

Put.  Nay,  what  a  paradise  of  joy  have  you  passed 
under !  Why,  now  I  commend  thee,  charge.  Fear 
nothing,  sweetheart :  what  though  he  be  your  brother? 
your  brother's  a  man,  I  hope;  and  I  say  still,  if  a 
young  wench  feel  the  fit  upon  her,  let  her  take  any 
body,  father  or  brother,  all  is  one. 

Ann.  I  would  not  have  it  known  for  all  the  world. 

Put.  Nor  I,  indeed;  for  the  speech  of  the  people  : 
else  'twere  nothing. 

Flo.  \within\  Daughter  Annabella  ! 

Ann.  O  me,  my  father! — Here,  sir! — Reach  my 
work. 

Flo.  [within]  What  are  you  doing  ? 

Ann.  So  :  let  him  come  now. 

Enter  FLORio,/0//<?mf^£jRiCHARDETTO  as  a  Doctor  of 
Physic,  and  PHILOTIS  with  a-lute. 

Flo.  So  hard  at  work !  that's  well ;    you  lose  no 

time. 

Look,  I  have  brought  you  company ;  here's  one, 
A  learned  doctor  lately  come  from  Padua, 
Much  skill'd  in  physic ;  and,  for  that  I  see 
You  have  of  late  been  sickly,  I  entreated 
This  reverend  man  to  visit  you  some  time. 

Ann.  You're  very  welcome,  sir. 

Rich.  I  thank  you,  mistress. 

Loud  fame  in  large  report  hath  spoke  your  praise 
As  well  for  virtue  as  perfection  ;2 
For  which  I  have  been  bold  to  bring  with  me 
A  kinswoman  of  mine,  a  maid,  for  song 
And  music  one  perhaps  will  give  content : 
Please  you  to  know  her. 

2  As  well  for  virtue  as  perfection  ;]  For  perfect  beauty,  or  fulness 
of  accomplishments. 


134  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  IT. 

Ann.  They  are  parts  I  love, 

And  she  for  them  most  welcome. 

Phi.  Thank  you,  lady. 

Flo.  Sir,  now  you  know  my  house,  pray  make  not 

strange ; 

And  if  you  find  my  daughter  need  your  art, 
I'll  be  your  pay-master. 

Rich.  Sir,  what  I  am 

She  shall  command. 

Flo.  [Sir],  you  shall  bind  me  to  you. — 

Daughter,  I  must  have  conference  with  you 
About  some  matters  that  concern  us  both. — 
Good  Master  Doctor,  please  you  but  walk  in, 
We'll  crave  a  little  of  your  cousin's  cunning  :3 
I  think  my  girl4  hath  not  quite  forgot 
To  touch  an  instrument ;  she  could  have  done't : 
We'll  hear  them  both. 

Rich.  I'll  wait  upon  you,  sir.  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  A  room  in  SORANZO'S  house. 

Enter  SORANZO  with  a  book. 

[Reads} 

Love's  measure  is  extreme,  the  comfort  pain, 
The  life  unrest,  and  the  reward  disdain. 
What's  here  ?  look't  o'er  again. — 'Tis  so ;  so  writes 
This  smooth  licentious  poet  in  his  rhymes  : 
But,  Sannazar,  thou  liest ;  for,  had  thy  bosom 
Felt  such  oppression  as  is  laid  on  mine, 
Thou  wouldst  have  kiss'd  the  rod  that  made  the[e] 
smart. — 

3  cunning-]  i. e.  skill :  the  word  is  used  in  this  sense  by  all  our 
old  writers. 

4  I  think  my  girl]  See  pp.  18  and  127. 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  135 

To  work,  then,  happy  Muse,  and  contradict 

What  Sannazar  hath  in  his  envy  writ.  [  Writes. 

Love's  measure  is  the  mean,  sweet  his  annoys, 

His  pleasures  life,  and  his  reward  all  joys. 

Had  Annabella  liv'd  when  Sannazar 

Did,  in  his  brief  Encomium,5  celebrate 

Venice,  that  queen  of  cities,  he  had  left 

That  verse  which  gain'd  him  such  a  sum  of  gold, 

And  for  one  only  look  from  Annabel 

Had  writ  of  her  and  her  diviner  cheeks. 

O,  how  my  thoughts  are — 

Vas.  \within\  Pray,  forbear;  in  rules  of  civility,  let 
me  give  notice  on't :  I  shall  be  taxed  of  my  neglect  of 
duty  and  service. 

Sor.  What  rude  intrusion  interrupts  my  peace  ? 
Can  I  be  no  where  private  ? 

Vas.  \within\  Troth,  you  wrong  your  modesty. 

Sor.  What's  the  matter,  Vasques  ?  who  is't  ? 

Enter  HIPPOLITA  and  VASQUES. 

Hip.  Tis  I ; 

Do  you  know  me  now?    Look,  perjur'd  man,  on  her 
Whom  thou  and  thy  distracted  lust  have  wrong'd. 

5  when  Sannazar 

Did,  in  his  brief  Encomium,  &c.]  This  is  the  well-known  Epi 
gram,  beginning 

' '  Viderat  Hadriacis  Venetam  Neptunus  in  undis 
Stare  urbem,  &c." 

It  is  given  by  Coryat,  who  thus  speaks  of  it :  "I  heard  in  Venice 
that  a  certaine  Italian  poet,  called  Jacobus  Sannazarius,  had  a  hun 
dred  crownes  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  Senate  of  Venice  for  each  of 
these  verses  following.  I  would  to  God  my  poeticall  friend  Master 
Benjamin  Johnson  were  so  well  rewarded  for  his  poems  here  in  Eng 
land,  seeing  he  hath  made  many  as  good  verses  (in  my  opinion)  as 
these  of  Sannazarius."  Tom  is  right.  The  verses  have  nothing  very 
extraordinary  in  them  ;  but  they  flattered  the  vanity  of  the  republic  : 
and,  after  all,  there  is  no  great  evil  in  overpaying  a  poet  once  in 
fifteen  centuries,  for  so  long  it  is  between  the  times  of  Virgil  and 
Sannazarius. 


136  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  11. 

Thy  sensual  rage  of  blood  hath  made  my  youth 

A  scorn  to  men  and  angels  ;  and  shall  I 

Be  now  a  foil  to  thy  unsated  change  ? 

Thou  know'st,  false  wanton,  when  my  modest  fame 

Stood  free  from  stain  or  scandal,  all  the  charms 

Of  hell  or  sorcery  could  not  prevail 

Against  the  honour  of  my  chaster  bosom. 

Thine  eyes  did  plead  in  tears,  thy  tongue  in  oaths, 

Such  and  so  many,  that  a  heart  of  steel 

Would  have  been  wrought  to  pity,  as  was  mine  : 

And  shall  the  conquest  of  my  lawful  bed, 

My  husband's  death,  urg'd  on  by  his  disgrace, 

My  loss  of  womanhood,  be  ill-rewarded 

With  hatred  and  contempt  ?     No ;  know,  Soranzo, 

I  have  a  spirit  doth  as  much  distaste 

The  slavery  of  fearing  thee,  as  thou 

Dost  loathe  the  memory  of  what  hath  pass'd. 

Sor.  Nay,  dear  Hippolita, — 

Hip.  Call  me  not  dear, 

Nor  think  with  supple  words  to  smooth  the  grossness 
Of  my  abuses  :  'tis  not  your  new  mistress, 
Your  goodly  madam-merchant,  shall  triumph 
On  my  dejection ;  tell  her  thus  from  me, 
My  birth  was  nobler  and  by  much  more  free. 

Sor.  You  are  too  violent. 

Hip.  You  are  too  double 

In  your  dissimulation.     Seest  thou  this, 
This  habit,  these  black  mourning  weeds  of  care  ? 
'Tis  thpji  art  cause  of  this ;  and  hast  divorc'd 
My  husband  from  his  life,  and  me  from  him, 
And  made  me  widow  in  my  widowhood. 

Sor.  Will  you  yet  hear  ? 

Hip.  More  of  thy6  perjuries  ? 

•  thy\  The  410  has  "the."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  137 

Thy  soul  is  drown'd  too  deeply  in  those  sins ; 
Thou  need'st  not  add  to  th'  number. 

Sor.  Then  I'll  leave  you  ; 

You're  past  all  rules  of  sense. 

Hip.  And  thou  of  grace. 

Vas.  Fie,  mistress,  you  are  not  near  the  limits  of 
reason  :  if  my  lord  had  a  resolution  as  noble  as  virtue 
itself,  you  take  the  course  to  unedge  it  all. — Sir,  I  be 
seech  you  do  not  perplex  her ;  griefs,  alas,  will  have  a 
vent:  I  dare  undertake  Madam  Hippolita  will  now 
freely  hear  you. 

Sor.  Talk  to  a  woman  frantic ! — Are  these  the  fruits 
of  your  love  ? 

Hip.  They  are  the  fruits  of  thy  untruth,  false  man ! 
Didst  thou  not  swear,  whilst  yet  my  husband  liv'd, 
That  thou  wouldst  wish  no  happiness  on  earth 
More  than  to  call  me  wife  ?  didst  thou  not  vow, 
When  he  should  die,  to  marry  me  ?  for  which 
The  devil  in  my  blood,  and  thy  protests, 
Caus'd  me  to  counsel  him  to  undertake 
A  voyage  to  Ligorne,  for  that  we  heard 
His  brother  there  was  dead,  and  left  a  daughter 
Young  and  unfriended,  who,7  with  much  ado, 
I  wish'd  him  to  bring  hither  :  he  did  so,  '  . , 

And  went ;  and,  as  thou  know'st,  died  on  the  way. 
Unhappy  man,  to  buy  his  death  so  dear, 
With  my  advice  !  yet  thou,  for  whom  I  did  it, 
Forgett'st  thy  vows,  and  leav'st  me  to  my  shame. 

Sor.  Who  could  help  this  ? 

Hip.  Who  !  perjufd  man,  thou  couldst, 

If  thou  hadst  faith  or  love. 

Sor.  You  are  deceiv'd  : 

7  who,}  Gifford  printed  "whom:"  but  see  Shakespeare  and  our 
old  poets,  passim.  D. 


138  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

The  vows  I  made,  if  you  remember  well, 

Were  wicked  and  unlawful ;  'twere  more  sin 

To  keep  them  than  to  break  them  :  as  for  me, 

I  cannot  mask  my  penitence.     Think  thou 

How  much  thou  hast  digress'd  from  honest  shame 

In  bringing  of  a  gentleman  to  death 

Who  was  thy  husband  ;  such  a  one  as  he, 

So  noble  in  his  quality,  condition, 

Learning,  behaviour,  entertainment,  love, 

As  Parma  could  not  show  a  braver  man. 

Vas.  You  do  not  well ;  this  was  not  your  promise. 

Sor.  I  care  not ;  let  her  know  her  monstrous  life. 
Ere  I'll  be  servile  to  so  black  a  sin, 
I'll  be  a  curse. — Woman,  come  here  no  more  ; 
Learn  to  repent,  and  die  ;  for,  by  my  honour, 
I  hate  thee  and  thy  lust :  you've  been  too  foul.   [Exit. 

Vas.  \aside\  This  part  has  been  scurvily  played. 

Hip.  How  foolishly  this  beast  contemns  his  fate, 
And  shuns  the  use  of  that  which  I  more  scorn 
Than  I  once  lov'd,  his  love  !     But  let  him  go ; 
My  vengeance  shall  give  comfort  to  his  woe.8   [Going. 

Vas.  Mistress,  mistress,  Madam  Hippolita !  pray, 
a  word  or  two. 

.Hip.  With  me,  sir  ? 

Vas.  With  you,  if  you  please. 

Hip.  What  is't  ? 

Vas.  I  know  you  are  infinitely  moved  now,  and 
you  think  you  have  cause  :  some  I  confess  you  have, 
but  sure  not  so  much  as  you  imagine. 

Hip.  Indeed! 

Vas.  O,  you  were  miserably  bitter,  which  you  fol 
lowed  even  to  the  last  syllable;  'faith,  you  were  some- 


8  to  his  woe.]  i.e.  to  the  woe  occasioned  by  his  falsehood.     She 
recurs  to  this  idea  in  the  concluding  speech  of  this  scene. 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  139 

what  too  shrewd :  by  my  life,  you  could  not  have  took 
my  lord  in  a  worse  time  since  I  first  knew  him ;  to 
morrow  you  shall  find  him  a  new  man. 

Hip.  Well,  I  shall  wait  his  leisure. 

Vas.  Fie,  this  is  not  a  hearty  patience ;  it  comes 
sourly  from  you  :  'troth,  let  me  persuade  you  for  once. 

Hip.  \aside\  I  have  it,  and  it  shall  be  so ;  thanks, 
opportunity ! — Persuade  me  !  to  what  ? 

Vas.  Visit  him  in  some  milder  temper.  O,  if  you 
could  but  master  a  little  your  female  spleen,  how  might 
you  win  him  ! 

Hip.  He  will  never  love  me.  Vasques,  thou  hast 
been  a  too  trusty  servant  to  such  a  master,  and  I  be 
lieve  thy  reward  in  the  end  will  fall  out  like  mine. 

Vas.  So  perhaps  too. 

Hip.  Resolve  thyself  it  will.9  Had  I  one  so  true, 
so  truly  honest,  so  secret  to  my  counsels,  as  thou  hast 
been  to  him  and  his,  I  should  think  it  a  slight  acquit 
tance,  not  only  to  make  him  master  of  all  I  have,  but 
even  of  myself. 

Vas.  O,  you  are  a  noble  gentlewoman  ! 

Hip.  Wilt  thou  feed  always  upon  hopes  ?  well,  I 
know  thou  art  wise,  and  seest  the  reward  of  an  old 
servant  daily,  what  it  is. 

Vas.  Beggary  and  neglect. 

Hip.  True ;  but,  Vasques,  wert  thou  mine,  and 
wouldst  be  private  to  me  and  my  designs,  I  here  pro 
test,  myself  and  all  what  I  can  else  call  mine  should 
be  at  thy  dispose. 

Vas.  [aside]  Work  you  that  way,  old  mole  ?  then 
I  have  the  wind  of  you. — I  were  not  worthy  of  it  by 
any  desert  that  could  lie  within  my  compass  :  if  I 
could — 

9  Resolve  thyself  it  will.}  i.  e.  asstire,  convince  thyself.    The  word 
occurs  before  and  after  in  the  same  sense. 

Y*w 


140  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

Hip.  What  then? 

Vas.  I  should  then  hope  to  live  in  these  my  old 
years  with  rest  and  security. 

Hip.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  now  promise  but   thy 

silence, 

And  help  to  bring  to  pass  a  plot  I  have, 
And  here,  in  sight  of  heaven,  that  being  done, 
I  make  thee  lord  of  me  and  mine  estate. 

Vas.  Come,  you  are  merry;  this  is  such  a  happi 
ness  that  I  can  neither  think  or  believe. 

Hip.  Promise  thy  secrecy,  and  'tis  confirm'd. 

Vas.  Then  here  I  call  our  good  genii  for  wit 
nesses,10  whatsoever  your  designs  are,  or  against  whom 
soever,  I  will  not  only  be  a  special  actor  therein,  but 
never  disclose  it  till  it  be  effected. 

Hip.  I  take  thy  word,  and,  with   that,  thee  for 

mine; 

Come,  then,  let's  more  confer  of  this  anon. — 
On  this  delicious  bane  my  thoughts11  shall  banquet; 
Revenge  shall  sweeten  what  my  griefs  have  tasted. 

\Aside,  and  exit  with  Vas.     i 


SCENE  III.   The  stre.t. 

Enter  RICHARDETTO  and  PHILOTIS. 
Rich.  Thou  seest,  my  lovely  niece,  these  strange 

mishaps, 

How  all  my  fortunes  turn  to  my  disgrace  ; 
Wherein  I  am  but  as  a  looker-on, 
Whiles  others  act  my  shame,  and  I  am  silent. 

Phi.  But,  uncle,  wherein  can  this  borrow'd  shape 

10  for  witnesses,'}  The  4to  has  "  foe-witnesses."  D. 

11  thoughts]  Gifford  printed  "thought."  D. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


141 


Give  you  content  ? 

Rich.  I'll  tell  thee,  gentle  niece  : 

Thy  wanton  aunt  in  her  lascivious  riots 
Lives  now  secure,  thinks  I  am  surely  dead 
In  my  late  journey  to  Ligorne  for  you, — 
As  I  have  caus'd  it  to  be  rumour'd  out. 
Now  would  I  see  with  what  an  impudence 
She  gives  scope  to  her  loose  adultery, 
And  how  the  common  voice  allows  hereof: 
Thus  far  I  have  prevail'd. 

Phi.  Alas,  I  fear 

You  mean  some  strange  revenge. 

Rich.  O,  be  not  troubled  ; 

Your  ignorance  shall  plead  for  you  in  all : 
But  to  our  business. — What !  you  learn'd  for  certain 
How  Signior  Florio  means  to  give  his  daughter   t 
In  marriage  to  Soranzo  ? 

•  Phi.  Yes,  for  certain. 

Rich.  But  how  find  you  young  Annabella's  love 
Inclin'd  to  him  ? 

Phi.  For  aught  I  could  perceive, 

She  neither  fancies  him  or  any  else. 

Rich.  There's  mystery  in  that,  which  time  must 

show. 
She  us'd  you  kindly  ? 

Phi.  Yes. 

Rich.  And  crav'd  your  company? 

Phi.  Often. 

Rich.  'Tis  well ;  it  goes  as  I  could  wish. 

I  am  the  doctor  now ;  and  as  for  you, 
None  knows  you  :  if  all  fail  not,  we  shall  thrive. — 
But  who  comes  here  ?    I  know  him ;  'tis  Grimaldi, 
A  Roman  and  a  soldier,  near  allied 
Unto  the  Duke  of  Montferrato,  one 
Attending  on  the  nuncio  of  the  pope 


142 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


That  now  resides  in  Parma ;  by  which  means 
He  hopes  to  get  the  love  of  Annabella. 

Enter  GRIMALDI. 

Grim.  Save  you,  sir.  \  ^ 

Rich.  And  you,  sir. 

Grim.  I  have  heard 

Of  your  approved  skill,  which  through  the  city 
Is  freely  talk'd  of,  and  would  crave  your  aid. 

Rich.  For  what,  sir?          -•; 

Grim.  Marry,  sir,  for  this — 
But  I  would  speak  in  private. 

Rich.  Leave  us,  cousin.12        [Exit  Phi. 

Grim.  I  love  fair  Annabella,  and  would  know 
Whether  in  art13  there  may  not  be  receipts 
To  move  affection. 

Rich.  Sir,  perhaps  there  may  ; 

But  these  will  nothing  profit  you. 

Grim.  Not  me  ? 

Rich.  Unless  I  be  mistook,  you  are  a  man 
Greatly  in  favour  with  the  cardinal. 

Grim.  What  of  that  ? 

Rich.  In  duty  to  his  grace, 

I  will  be  bold  to  tell  you,  if  you  seek 
To  marry  Florio's  daughter,  you  must  first 
Remove  a  bar  'twixt  you  and  her. 

Grim.  Who's  that  ? 

Rich.  Soranzo  is  the  man  that  hath  her  heart; 
And  while  he  lives,  be  sure  you  cannot  speed. 

Grim.  Soranzo  !  what,  mine  enemy  !14  is't  he  ? 

12  cousin, "\  i.e.  niece.  D.     13 arf\  The  410  "arts;"soGifford.  D. 

14  Grim.  Soranzo!  what,  mine  enemy/']  It  is  strange  that  this 
should  appear  a  new  discovery  to  Grimaldi,  when  he  had  been  fully 
apprised  of  it  in  the  rencontre  with  Vasques  in  the  first  act.  It  is  not 
often,  however,  that  Ford  thus  wholly  forgets  himself.  In  Grimaldi's 
next  speech  there  is  apparently  some  slight  error:  "I'll  tell  him 
straight,"  should  probably  be,  "  I'll  to  him  straight." 


SCENE  iv.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  143 

Rich.  Is  he  your  enemy  ? 

Grim.  The  man  I  hate 

Worse  than  confusion  ;  I  will  tell  him  straight. 

Rich.  Nay,  then,  take  mine15  advice, 
Even  for  his  grace's.sake  the  cardinal : 
I'll  find  a  time  when  he  and  she  do  meet, 
Of  which  I'll  give  you  notice  \  and,  to  be  sure 
He  shall  not  scape  you,  I'll  provide  a  poison 
To  dip  your  rapier's  point  in  :  if  he  had 
As  many  heads  as  Hydra  had,  he  dies. 

Grim.  But  shall  I  trust  thee,  doctor  ? 

Rich.  .  As  yourself; 

Doubt  not  in  aught.     {Exit  Grim.} — Thus  shall  the 

fates  decree 
By  me  Soranzo  falls,  that  ruin'd  me.16  \Exit. 


SCENE  IV.  Another  part  of  the  street. 

Enter  DONADO  with  a  letter,  BERGETTO,  and  POGGIO. 

Don.  Well,  sir,  I  must  be  content  to  be  both  your 
secretary  and  your  messenger  myself.  I  cannot  tell 
what  this  letter  may  work  ;  but,  as  sure  as  I  am  alive, 
if  thou  come  once  to  talk  with  her,  I  fear  thou  wilt 
mar  whatsoever  I  make. 

Ber.  You  make,  uncle  !  why,  am  not  I  big  enough 
to  carry  mine  own  letter,  I  pray  ? 

Don.  Ay,  ay,  carry  a  fool's  head  o'  thy  own  !  why, 
thou  dunce,  wouldst  thou  write  a  letter,  and  carry  it 
thyself? 

15  mine]  Gifford  printed  "my."  D. 

16  that  ruin'd  me.]  The  old  copy  reads  "that  mind  me."    What 
a  detestable  set  of  characters  has  Ford  here  sharked-up  for  the  exer 
cise  of  his  fine  talents  !    With  the  exception  of  poor  Bergetto  and  his 
uncle,  most  of  the  rest  seem  contending  which  of  them  shall  prove 
worthiest  of  the  wheel  and  the  gibbet. 


144  TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

Ber.  Yes,  that  I  would,  and  read  it  to  her  with  my 
own  mouth  ;  for  you  must  think,  if  she  will  not  believe 
me  myself  when  she  hears  me  speak,  she  will  not  be 
lieve  another's  handwriting.  O,  you  think  I  am  a 
blockhead,  uncle.  No,  sir,  Poggio  knows  I  have  in 
dited  a  letter  myself;  so  I  have. 

Pog.  Yes,  truly,  sir ;  I  have  it  in  my  pocket. 

Don.  A  sweet  one,  no  doubt ;  pray  let's  see't. 

Ber.  I  cannot  read  my  own  hand  very  well,  Pog 
gio  ;  read  it,  Poggio. 

Don.  Begin. 

Pog.  [reads]  "  Most  dainty  and  honey-sweet  mis 
tress  ;  I  could  call  you  fair,  and  lie  as  fast  as  any  that 
loves  you ;  but  my  uncle  being  the  elder  man,  I  leave 
it  to  him,  as  more  fit  for  his  age  and  the  colour  of  his 
beard.  I  am  wise  enough  to  tell  you  I  can  bourd 
where  I  see  occasion  ;17  or  if  you  like  my  uncle's  wit 
better  than  mine,  you  shall  marry  me ;  if  you  like 
mine  better  than  his,  I  will  marry  you,  in  spite  of  your 
teeth.  So,  commending  my  best  parts  to  you,  I  rest 
Yours  upwards  and  downwards,  or  you  may 
choose,  BERGETTO." 

Ber.  Ah,  ha  !  here's  stuff,  uncle  ! 

Don.  Here's  stuff  indeed — to  shame  us  all.  Pray, 
whose  advice  did  you  take  in  this  learned  letter  ? 

Pog.  None,  upon  my  word,  but  mine  own. 

Ber.  And  mine,  uncle,  believe  it,  nobody's  else ; 
'twas  mine  own  brain,  I  thank  a  good  wit  for't. 

Don.  Get  you  home,  sir,  and  look  you  keep  within 
doors  till  I  return. 


17  I  can  bourd  where  I  see  occasion  /]  i.  e.  jest ;  see  Jonson,  vol.  iv. 
p.  222.  In  the  old  spelling,  this  word  is  frequently  confounded  with 
board,  which  as  Sir  Toby  truly  says,  means  to  accost.  The  words  in 
the  text  are  borrowed  from  Nic.  Bottom,  confessedly  a  very  facetious 
personage. 


SCENE  v.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  145 

Ber.  How  !  that  were  a  jest  indeed  !  I  scorn  it, 
i'faith. 

Don.  What !  you  do  not  ? 

Ber.  Judge  me,  but  I  do  now. 

Pog.  Indeed,  sir,  'tis  very  unhealthy. 

Don.  Well,  sir,  if  I  hear  any  of  your  apish  running 
to  motions18  and  fopperies,  till  I  come  back,  you  were 
as  good  no  ;19  look  to't.  [Exit. 

Ber.  Poggio,  shall's  steal  to  see  this  horse  with 
the  head  in's  tail  ? 

Pog.  Ay,  but  you  must  take  heed  of  whipping. 

Ber.  Dost  take  me  for  a  child,  Poggio  ?  Come, 
honest  Poggio.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.  Friar  BONAVENTURA'S  cell. 

Enter  Friar  and  GIOVANNI. 
Friar.  Peace  !  thou  hast  told  a  tale  whose  every 

word 

Threatens  eternal  slaughter  to  the  soul ; 
I'm  sorry  I  have  heard  it :  would  mine  ears 
Had  been  one  minute  deaf,  before  the  hour 
That  thou  cam'st  to  me  !     O  young  man,  castaway, 
By  the  religious  number  of  mine  order,20 
I  day  and  night  have  wak'd  my  aged  eyes 
Above  my21  strength,  to  weep  on  thy  behalf ; 
But  Heaven  is  angry,  and  be  thou  resolv'd 
Thou  art  a  man  remark'd  to  taste  a  mischief.22 

18  if  I  hear  of  your  running  to  motions]  i.  e.  to  puppet-shows  ; 
see  Jonson,  vol.  ii.  p.  7. 

19  no-]  Gifford  printed  "not."  D. 

20  By  the  religious  number  of  mine  order,  ~\  A  misprint  probably 
for  founder;  but  I  have  changed  nothing. 

21  my]  The  4to  has  "thy."  D. 

22  Thou  art  a  man  remark'd  to  taste  a  mischief.]  i.  e.  marked  out 
to  experience  some  fearful  evil:  in  this  sense  the  word  '  mischief 
is  sometimes  used  by  our  old  writers. 

VOL.  I.  r 


I46  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  11. 

Look  for't ;  though  it  come  late,  it  will  come  sure. 

Gio.  Father,  in  this  you  are  uncharitable  ; 
What  I  have  done  I'll  prove  both  fit  and  good. 
It  is  a  principle  which  you  have  taught, 
When  I  was  yet  your  scholar,  that  the  frame23 
And  composition  of  the  mind  doth  follow 
The  frame  and  composition  of  [the]  body  : 
So,  where  the  body's  furniture  is  beauty, 
The  mind's  must  needs  be  virtue ;  which  allow'd, 
Virtue  itself  is  reason  but  refin'd, 
And  love  the  quintessence  of  that :  this  proves, 
My  sister's  beauty  being  rarely  fair 
Is  rarely  virtuous  ;  chiefly  in  her  love, 
And  chiefly  in  that  love,  her  love  to  me  : 
If  hers  to  me,  then  so  is  mine  to  her ; 
Since  in  like  causes  are  effects  alike. 

Friar.  O  ignorance  in  knowledge  !  Long  ago, 
How  often  have  I  warn'd  thee  this  before  ! 
Indeed,  if  we  were  sure  there  were  no  Deity, 
Nor  Heaven  nor  Hell,  then  to  be  led  alone 
By  Nature's  light — as  were  philosophers 
Of  elder  times — might  instance  some  defence. 
But  'tis  not  so  :  then,  madman,  thou  wilt  find 
That  Nature  is  in  Heaven's  positions  blind. 

Gio.  Your  age  o'errules  you ;  had  you  youth  like 

mine, 
You'd  make  her  love  your  heaven,  and  her  divine. 

Friar.  Nay,  then  I  see  thou'rt  too  far  sold  to  hell : 
It  lies  not  in  the  compass  of  my  prayers 
To  call  thee  back,  yet  let  me  counsel  thee ; 
Persuade  thy  sister  to  some  marriage. 

Gio.  Marriage  !  why,  that's  to  damn  her ;  that's  to 

prove 
Her  greedy  of  variety  of  lust. 

23  frame}  The  4to  has  "fame."  D. 


SCENE  v.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  147 

Friar.  O,  fearful !  if  thou  wilt  not,  give  me  leave 
To  shrive  her,  lest  she  should  die  unabsolv'd. 

Gio.  At  your  best  leisure,  father  :  then  she'll  tell 

you 

How  dearly  she  doth  prize  my  matchless  love  ; 
Then  you  will  know  what  pity  'twere  we  two 
Should  have  been  sunder'd  from  each  other's  arms. 
View  well  her  face,  and  in  that  little  round 
You  may  observe  a  world's  variety ; 
For  colour,  lips  ;24  for  sweet  perfumes,  her  breath  ; 
For  jewels,  eyes  ;  for  threads  of  purest  gold, 
Hair ;  for  delicious  choice  of  flowers,  cheeks  ; 
Wonder  in  every  portion  of  that  throne. 
Hear  her  but  speak,  and  you  will  swear  the  spheres 
Make  music  to  the  citizens  in  heaven. 
But,  father,  what  is  else  for  pleasure  fram'd, 
Lest  I  offend  your  ears,  shall  go  unnam'd. 

Friar.  The  more  I  hear,  I  pity  thee  the  more, 
That  one  so  excellent  should  give  those  parts 
All  to  a  second  death.     What  I  can  do 
Is  but  to  pray ;  and  yet — I  could  advise  thee, 
Wouldst  thou  be  rul'd. 

Gio.  In  what  ? 

Friar.  Why,  leave  her  yet : 

24  For  colour,  lips;]  Dodsley  reads  "for  coral,  lips;"  but  the  old 
copy  is  right;  colour  is  placed  in  apposition  to  perfume.  Just  below  he 
has  "form"  for  "throne."  In  the  extravagance  of  Giovanni's  praise,  it 
is  scarcely  possible  to  know  what  terms  he  would  adopt ;  but  "form" 
appears  too  tame  to  be  genuine,  and  "fram'd"  occurs  in  the  next  verse 
but  two.  It  is  not  quite  clear  to  me  that  a  line  has  not  been  dropped 
sites' 'throne."  [I  suspect  that  Dodsley  rightly  substituted  "form."  D.l 

For  "world's  variety"  the  old  copy  reads  "world  of  variety/ 
which  spoils  the  metre.  I  suppose  the  printer  mistook  the  's  for  o', 
the  old  abridgment  of  of.  It  would  be  unjust  to  say  that  the  Friar 
has  anything  in  him  of  "the  old  squire  of  Troy;"  yet  he  certainly 
betrays  his  duty  both  to  God  and  man  in  the  feeble  resistance  which 
he  offers  to  the  commencement  and  continuance  of  this  fatal  inter 
course.  [I  by  no  means  share  in  Gifford's  confident  belief  that  Ford 
did  not  write  "a  world  of  variety."  D.] 


148  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

The  throne  of  mercy  is  above  your  trespass  ; 
Yet  time  is  left  you  both — 

Gio.  To  embrace  each  other, 

Else  let  all  time  be  struck  quite  out  of  number  : 
She  is  like  me,  and  I  like  her,  resolv'd. 

Friar.  No  more  !  I'll  visit  her. — This  grieves  me 

most, 
Things  being  thus,  a  pair  of  souls  are  lost.       [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.  A  room  in  FLORIO'S  house. 
Enter  FLORIO,  DONADO,  ANNABELLA,  and  PUTANA. 

Flo.  Where's  Giovanni  ? 

Ann.  Newly  walk'd  abroad, 

And,  as  I  heard  him  say,  gone  to  the  friar, 
His  reverend  tutor. 

Flo.  That's  a  blessed  man, 

A  man  made  up  of  holiness  :  I  hope 
He'll  teach  him  how  to  gain  another  world. 

Don.  Fair  gentlewoman,  here's  a  letter  sent 
To  you  from  my  young  cousin  ;25  I  dare  swear 
He  loves  you  in  his  soul :  would  you  could  hear 
Sometimes  what  I  see  daily,  sighs  and  tears, 
As  if  his  breast  were  prison  to  his  heart ! 

Flo.  Receive  it,  Annabella. 

Ann.  Alas,  good  man  !  [Takes  the  letter. 

Don.  What's  that  she  said  ? 

Put.  An't  please  you,  sir,  she  said,  "Alas,  good 
man  !"  Truly  I  do  commend  him  to  her  every  night 
before  her  first  sleep,  because  I  would  have  her  dream 
of  him  ;  and  she  hearkens  to  that  most  religiously. 

25  from  my  young  cousin;]  Our  author,  like  all  the  writers  of  his 
day,  commonly  uses  cousin  for  nephew  and  niece. 


SCENE  vi.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  149 

Don.  Sayest  so  ?  God-a'-mercy,  Putana  !  there's 
something  for  thee  [Gives  her  money]  :  and  prithee 
do  what  thou  canst  on  his  behalf;  'shall  not  be  lost 
labour,  take  my  word  for't. 

Put.  Thank  you  most  heartily,  sir :  now  I  have  a 
feeling  of  your  mind,  let  me  alone  to  work. 

Ann.  Guardian, — 

Put.  Did  you  call  ? 

Ann.  Keep  this  letter. 

Don.  Signior  Florio,  in  any  case  bid  her  read  it 
instantly. 

Flo.  Keep  it !  for  what  ?  pray,  read  it  me  here- 
right. 

Ann.  I  shall,  sir.  [She  reads  the  letter. 

Don.  How  d'ye  find  her  inclined,  signior  ? 

Flo.  Troth,  sir,  I  know  not  how  ;  not  all  so  well 
As  I  could  wish. 

Ann.  Sir,  I  am  bound  to  rest  your  cousin's  debtor. 
The  jewel  I'll  return  ;  for  if  he  love, 
I'll  count  that  love  a  jewel. 

Don.  Mark  you  that  ? — 

Nay,  keep  them  both,  sweet  maid. 

Ann.  You  must  excuse  me, 

Indeed  I  will  not  keep  it. 

Flo.  Where's  the  ring, 

That  which  your  mother,  in  her  will,  bequeath'd, 
And  charg'd  you  on  her  blessing  not  to  give  't 
To  any  but  your  husband  ?  send  back  that.26 

Ann.  I  have  it  not. 

Flo.  Ha  !  have  it  not !  where  is't  ? 

Ann.  My  brother  in  the  morning  took  it  from  me, 

26  send  back  that.'}  Florio  juggles  strangely  with  his  daughter's 
suitors.  He  tells  Soranzo  in  act  i.  that  he  had  "his  word  engaged  ;" 
and  yet  he  here  endeavours  to  force  her  upon  another !  His  subse 
quent  conduct  is  not  calculated  to  increase  our  respect  for  his  cha 
racter,  or  our  sympathy  for  his  overwhelming  afflictions. 


150  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

Said  he  would  wear't  to-day. 

Flo,  Well,  what  do  you  say 

To  young  Bergetto's  love  ?  are  you  content  to 
Match  with  him  ?  speak. 

Don.  There  is  the  point,  indeed. 

Ann.  \aside~\  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  must  say  some 
thing  now. 

Flo.  What  say  ?  why  d'ye  not  speak  ? 

Ann.  Sir,  with  your  leave — 

Please  you  to  give  me  freedom  ? 

Flo.  Yes,  you  have  [it]. 

Ann.  Signior  Donado,  if  your  nephew  mean 
To  raise  his  better  fortunes  in  his  match, 
The  hope  of  me  will  hinder  such  a  hope  : 
Sir,  if  you  love  him,  as  I  know  you  do, 
Find  one  more  worthy  of  his  choice  than  me  : 
In  short,  I'm  sure  I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

Don.  Why,  here's  plain  dealing ;  I  commend  thee 

for't ; 

And  all  the  worst  I  wish  thee  is,  heaven  bless  thee  ! 
Your  father  yet  and  I  will  still  be  friends  : — 
Shall  we  not,  Signior  Florio  ? 

Flo.  Yes ;  why  not  ? 

Look,  here  your  cousin27  comes. 

Enter  BERGETTO  and  POGGIO. 

Don.  \aside\  O,  coxcomb !  what  doth  he  make  here? 

Ber.  Where's  my  uncle,  sirs  ? 

Don.  What's  the  news  now  ? 

Ber.  Save  you,  uncle,  save  you  ! — You  must  not 
think  I  come  for  nothing,  masters. — And  how,  and 
how  is't  ?  what,  you  have  read  my  letter  ?  ah,  there  I 
— tickled  you,  i'  faith. 

27  cousin]  i.  e.  nephew.  D. 


SCENE  vi.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  151 

Peg.  [aside  to  J3er.~\  But  'twere  better  you  had  tickled 
her  in  another  place. 

Ber.  Sirrah  sweetheart,  I'll  tell  thee  a  good  jest ; 
and  riddle  what  'tis. 

Ann.  You  say  you'll28  tell  me. 

Ber.  As  I  was  walking  just  now  in  the  street,  I 
met  a  swaggering  fellow  would  needs  take  the  wall  of 
me ;  and  because  he  did  thrust  me,  I  very  valiantly 
called  him  rogue.  He  hereupon  bade  me  draw;  I 
told  him  I  had  more  wit  than  so  :  but  when  he  saw 
that  I  would  not,  he  did  so  maul  me  with  the  hilts  of 
his  rapier,  that  my  head  sung  whilst  my  feet  capered 
in  the  kennel. 

Don.  \aside\  Was  ever  the  like  ass  seen ! 

Ann.  And  what  did  you  all  this  while  ? 

Ber.  Laugh  at  him  for  a  gull,  till  I  saw29  the  blood 
run  about  mine  ears,  and  then  I  could  not  choose 
but  find  in  my  heart  to  cry ;  till  a  fellow  with  a  broad 
beard — they  say  he  is  a  new-come  doctor — called  me 
into  his30  house,  and  gave  me  a  plaster,  look  you,  here 
'tis  : — and,  sir,  there  was  a  young  wench  washed  my 
face  and  hands  most  excellently ;  i'  faith,  I  shall  love 
her  as  long  as  I  live  for't. — Did  she  not,  Poggio  ? 

Pog.  Yes,  and  kissed  him  too. 

Ber.  Why,  la,  now,  you  think  I  tell  a  lie,  uncle,  I 
warrant. 

Don.  Would  he  that  beat  thy  blood  out  of  thy 
head  had  beaten  some  wit  into  it !  for  I  fear  thou 
never  wilt  have  any. 

Ber.  O,  uncle,  but  there  was  a  wench  would  have 
done  a  man's  heart  good  to  have  looked  on  her. — By 
this  light,  she  had  a  face  methinks  worth  twenty  of 
you,  Mistress  Annabella. 

28  you'll}  The  410  has  "you'd."  D. 

29  saw]  The  410  has  "see."  D. 

30  his]  The  410  has  "  this."  D. 


152  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  n. 

Don.  [aside]  Was  ever  such  a  fool  born  ! 

Ann.  I  am  glad  she  liked  you,31  sir. 

Ber.  Are  you  so  ?  by  my  troth,  I  thank  you,  for 
sooth. 

Flo.  Sure,  'twas  the  doctor's  niece,  that  was  last 
day  with  us  here. 

Ber.  'Twas  she,  'twas  she. 

Don.  How  do  you  know  that,  simplicity? 

Ber.  Why,  does  not  he32  say  so  ?  if  I  should  have 
said  no,  I  should  have  given  him  the  lie,  uncle,  and  so 
have  deserved  a  dry  beating  again :  I'll  none  of  that. 

Flo.  A  very  modest  well-behav'd  young  maid 
As  I  have  seen. 

Don.  Is  she  indeed  ? 

Flo.  Indeed  she  is,  if  I  have  any  judgment. 

Don.  Well,  sir,  now  you  are  free  :  you  need  not 
care  for  sending  letters  now ;  you  are  dismissed,  your 
mistress  here  will  none  of  you. 

Ber.  No!  why,  what  care  I  for  that?  I  can  have 
wenches  enough  in  Parma  for  half-a-crown  a-piece  : — 
cannot  I,  Poggio  ? 

Pog.  I'll  warrant  you,  sir. 

Don.  Signior  Florio, 

I  thank  you  for  your  free  recourse  you  gave 
For  my  admittance  : — and  to  you,  fair  maid, 
That  jewel  I  will  give  you  'gainst  your  marriage. — 
Come,  will  you  go,  sir  ? 

Ber.  Ay,  marry,  will  I. — Mistress,  farewell,  mis 
tress  ;  I'll  come  again  to-morrow ;  farewell,  mistress. 
[Exeunt  Don.,  Ber.,  and  Pog. 

31  I  am  glad  she  liked  you,~[  i.e.  pleased  you.     So  in  Lear,  "  His 
face  likes  me  not."    Maid's  Tragedy,  act  ii.,  "What  look  likes  you 
best."  Reed. 

32  does  not  he\  Gifford  printed  "does  he  not."  D. 


SCENE  vi.      .      'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  153 

Enter  GIOVANNI. 

Flo.  Son,  where  have   you  been?   what,   alone, 

alone  still?33 

I  would  not  have  it  so  ;  you  must  forsake 
This  over-bookish  humour.    Well,  your  sister 
Hath  shook  the  fool  off. 

Gio.  'Twas  no  match  for  her. 

Flo.  'Twas  not  indeed ;  I  meant  it  nothing  less  ; 
Soranzo  is  the  man  I  only  like  : — 
Look  on  him,  Annabella. — Come,  'tis  supper-time, 
And  it  grows  late.  [Exit. 

Gio.  Whose  jewel's  that? 

Ann.  Some  sweetheart's. 

Gio.  So  I  think. 

Ann.  A  lusty  youth, 

Signior  Donado,  gave  it  me  to  wear 
Against  my  marriage. 

Gio.  But  you  shall  not  wear  it : 

Send  it  him  back  again. 

Ann.  What,  you  are  jealous? 

Gio.  That  you  shall  know  anon,  at  better  leisure. 
Welcome  sweet  night !  the  evening  crowns  the  day. 

[Exeunt. 

33  still?}  The  4to  has  "still,  still?"  D. 


154  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  DONADO'S  house. 

Enter  BERGETTO  and  POGGIO. 

Ber.  Does  my  uncle  think  to  make  me  a  baby 
still  ?  No,  Poggio ;  he  shall  know  I  have  a  sconce 
now. 

Pog.  Ay,  let  him  not  bob  you  off  like  an  ape  with 
an  apple. 

Ber.  'Sfoot,  I  will  have  the  wench,  if  he  were  ten 
uncles,  in  despite  of  his  nose,  Poggio. 

Pog.  Hold  him  to  the  grindstone,  and  give  not  a 
jot  of  ground:  she  hath  in  a  manner  promised  you 
already. 

Ber.  True,  Poggio ;  and  her  uncle,  the  doctor, 
swore  I  should  marry  her. 

Pog.  He  swore;  I  remember. 

Ber.  And  I  will  have  her,  that's  more:  didst  see 
the  codpiece-point  she  gave  me  and  the  box  of  mar 
malade  ? 

Pog.  Very  well;  and  kissed  you,  that  my  chops 
watered  at  the  sight  on't.  There's  no  way  but  to  clap- 
up  a  marriage  in  hugger-mugger. 

Ber.  I  will  do't ;  for  I  tell  thee,  Poggio,  I  begin 
to  grow  valiant  methinks,  and  my  courage  begins  to 
rise. 

Pog.  Should  you  be  afraid  of  your  uncle  ? 

Ber.  Hang  him,  old  doting  rascal!  no:  I  say  I 
will  have  her. 

Pog.  Lose  no  time,  then. 

Ber.  I  will  beget  a  race  of  wise  men  and  con 
stables  that  shall  cart  whores  at  their  own  charges  ; 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  155 

and  break  the  duke's  peace  ere  I  have  done  myself. 
Come  away.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  A  room  in  FLORIO'S  house. 

Enter  FLORIO,  GIOVANNI,  SORANZO,  ANNABELLA,  PUTANA, 
and  VASQUES. 

Flo.  My  Lord  Soranzo,  though  I  must  confess 
The  proffers  that  are  made  me  have  been  great 
In  marriage  of  my  daughter,  yet  the  hope 
Of  your  still  rising  honours  have  prevail' d1 
Above  all  other  jointures  :  here  she  is  ; 
She  knows  my  mind ;  speak  for  yourself  to  her, — 
And  hear  you,  daughter,  see  you  use  him  nobly: 
For  any  private  speech  I'll  give  you  time. — 
Come,  son,  and  you  the  rest ;  let  them  alone ; 
Agree  [they]  as  they  may. 

Sor.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Gio.  \aside  to  Ann.]  Sister,  be  not  all  woman;  think 
on  me. 

Sor.  Vasques, — 

Vas.  My  lord  ? 

Sor.  Attend  me  without. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Sor.  and  Ann. 

Ann.  Sir,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Sor.  Do  you  not  know 

What  I  should  tell  you  ? 

Ann.  Yes;  you'll  say  you  love  me. 

Sor.  And  I  will  swear  it  too ;  will  you  believe  it  ? 

Ann.  Tis  no2  point  of  faith. 


1  the  hope 

Of  your  still  rising  honours  have  prevail' d~\  See  note,  p.  85.  D. 

2  no]  The  410  has  "not."  D. 


156  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  in. 

Enter  GIOVANNI  in  the  gallery  above. 

Sor.  Have  you  not  will  to  love  ? 

Ann.  Not  you. 

Sor.  Whom  then  ? 

Ann.  That's  as  the  fates  infer. 

Gio.  \aside\  Of  those  I'm  regent  now. 
.     Sor.  What  mean  you,  sweet  ? 

Ann.  To  live  and  die  a  maid. 

Sor.  O,  that's  unfit. 

Gio.  \aside\  Here's  one  can  say  that's  but  a  wo 
man's  note. 

Sor.  Did  you  but  see  my  heart,  then  would  you 
swear — 

Ann.  That  you  were  dead. 

Gio.  \aside\  That's  true,  or  somewhat  near  it. 

Sor.  See  you  these  true  love's  tears  ? 

Ann.  No. 

Gio.  \aside\  Now  she  winks. 

Sor.  They  plead  to  you  for  grace. 

Ann.  Yet  nothing  speak. 

Sor.  O,  grant  my  suit ! 

Ann.  What  is't  ? 

Sor.  To  let  me  live — 

Ann.  Take  it. 

Sor.  Still  yours. 

Ann.  That  is  not  mine  to  give. 

Gio.  \aside\  One  such  another  word  would  kill  his 
hopes. 

Sor.  Mistress,  to  leave  those  fruitless  strifes  of  wit, 
Know  I  have  lov'd  you  long  and  lov'd  you  truly : 
Not  hope  of  what  you  have,  but  what  you  are, 
Hath  drawn  me  on ;  then  let  me  not  in  vain 
Still  feel  the  rigour  of  your  chaste  disdain  : 
I'm  sick,  and  sick  to  the  heart. 


SCENE  ii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  157 

Ann.  Help,  aqua-vitae ! 

Sor.  What  mean  you  ? 

Ann.  Why,  I  thought  you  had  been  sick. 

Sor.  Do  you  mock  my  love  ? 

Gio.  \aside\  There,  sir,  she  was  too  nimble. 

Sor.  \aside\  'Tis  plain  she  laughs  at  me. — These 

scornful  taunts 
Neither  become  your  modesty  or  years. 

Ann.  You  are  no  looking-glass  ;  or  if  you  were, 
I'd  dress  my  language  by  you. 

Gio.  \aside\  I'm  confirm'd. 

Ann.  To  put  you  out  of  doubt,  my  lord,  methinks 
Your  common  sense  should  make  you  understand 
That  if  I  lov'd  you,  or  desir'd  your  love, 
Some  way  I  should  have  given  you  better  taste  : 
But  since  you  are  a  nobleman,  and  one 
I  would  not  wish  should  spend  his  youth  in  hopes, 
Let  me  advise  you  to3  forbear  your  suit, 
And  think  I  wish  you  well,  I  tell  you  this. 

Sor.  Is't  you  speak  this  ? 

Ann.  Yes,  I  myself;  yet  know, — 

Thus  far  I  give  you  comfort, — if  mine  eyes 
Could  have  pick'd  out  a  man  amongst  all  those 
That  su'd  to  me  to  make  a  husband  of,  , 

You  should  have  been  that  man  :  let  this  suffice  ; 
Be  noble  in  your  secrecy  and  wise. 

Gio.  \aside\  Why,  now  I  see  she  loves  me. 

Ann.  One  word  more. 

As  ever  virtue  liv'd  within  your  mind, 
As  ever  noble  courses  were  your  guide, 
As  ever  you  would  have  me  know  you  lov'd  me, 
Let  not  my  father  know  hereof  by  you  : 
If  I  hereafter  find  that  I  must  marry, 

3  advise  you  to\  The  4to  has  "  aduiseyou  here,  to."  D. 


158  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  in. 

It  shall  be  you  or  none. 

Sor.  I  take  that  promise. 

Ann.  O,  O  my  head  ! 

Sor.  What's  the  matter  ?  not  well  ? 

Ann.  O,  I  begin  to  sicken ! 

Gio.  Heaven  forbid  ! 

[Aside,  and  exit  from  above. 
Sor.  Help,  help,  within  there,  ho  ! 

Re-enter  FLORIO,  GIOVANNI,  and  PUTANA. 

Look  to  your  daughter,4  Signior  Florio. 

Flo.  Hold  her  up,  she  swoons. 

Gio.  Sister,  how  d'ye  ? 

Ann.  Sick, — brother,  are  you  there  ? 

Flo.  Convey  her  to  her5  bed  instantly,  whilst  I  send 
for  a  physician ;  quickly,  I  say. 

Put.  Alas,  poor  child  !  [Exeunt  all  but  Sor. 

Re-enter  VASQUES. 

Vas.  My  lord, — 

Sor.  O,  Vasques,  now  I  doubly  am  undone 
Both  in  my  present  and  my  future  hopes  ! 
She  plainly  told  me  that  she  could  not  love, 
And  thereupon  soon  sicken'd  ;  and  I  fear 
Her  life's  in  danger. 

Vas.  \aside\  By'r  lady,  sir,  and  so  is  yours,  if  you 
knew  all. — 'Las,  sir,  I  am  sorry  for  that :  may  be  'tis 
but  the  maid's-sickness,  an  over-flux  of  youth ;  and 
then,  sir,  there  is  no  such  present  remedy  as  present 
marriage.  But  hath  she  given  you  an  absolute  denial  ? 

Sor.  She  hath,  and  she  hath  not ;  I'm  full  of  grief: 
But  what  she  said  I'll  tell  thee  as  we  go.  [Exeunt. 

4  Look  to  your  daughter,]  The  old  copy  gives  this  speech  to  the 
brother.    It  is  evidently  a  continuation  of  Soranzo's  call  for  assistance. 

5  her]  Omitted  by  Gifford.  D. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


SCENE  III.  Another  room  in  the  same. 


159 


Enter  GIOVANNI  and  PUTANA. 

Put.  O,  sir,  we  are  all  undone,  quite  undone,  utterly 
undone,  and  shamed  for  ever  !  your  sister,  O,  your 
sister  ! 

Gio.  What  of  her  ?  for  heaven's  sake,  speak  ;  how 
does  she  ? 

Put.  O,  that  ever  I  was  born  to  see  this  day  ! 

Gio.  She  is  not  dead,  ha  ?  is  she  ? 

Put.  Dead !  no,  she  is  quick ;  'tis  worse,  she  is 
with  child.  You  know  what  you  have  done ;  heaven 
forgive  ye  !  'tis  too  late  to  repent  now,  heaven  help 
us! 

Gio.  With  child  ?  how  dost  thou  know't  ? 

Put.  How  do  I  know't !  am  I  at  these  years 
ignorant  what  the  meanings  of  qualms  and  water- 
pangs  be?  of  changing  of  colours,  queasiness  of 
stomachs,  pukings,  and  another  thing  that  I  could 
name  ?  Do  not,  for  her  and  your  credit's  sake,  spend 
the  time  in  asking  how,  and  which  way,  'tis  so  :  she 
is  quick,  upon  my  word  :  if  you  let  a  physician  see  her 
water,  you're  undone. 

Gio.  But  in  what  case  is  she  ? 

Put.  Prettily  amended :  'twas  but  a  fit,  which  I 
soon  espied,  and  she  must  look  for  often  hencefor 
ward. 

Gio.  Commend  me  to  her,  bid  her  take  no  care ;° 
Let  not  the  doctor  visit  her,  I  charge  you ; 
Make  some  excuse,  till  I  return. — O,  me ! 
I  have  a  world  of  business  in  my  head. — 
Do  not  discomfort  her. — 

6  bid  her  take  no  care ;]  i.  e.  bid  her  not  to  be  too  anxious  or 
apprehensive. 


160  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  in. 

How  do  these  news  perplex  me  ! — If  my  father 
Come  to  her,  tell  him  she's  recover'd  well ; 
Say  'twas  but  some  ill  diet — d'ye  hear,  woman  ? 
Look  you  to't. 

Put.  I  will,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  Another  room  in  the  same. 

Enter  FLORIO  and  RICHARDETTO. 

Flo.  And  how  d'ye  find  her,  sir  ? 

Rich.  Indifferent  well ; 

I  see  no  danger,  scarce  perceive  she's  sick, 
But  that  she  told  me  she  had  lately  eaten 
Melons,  and,  as  she  thought,  those  disagreed 
With  her  young  stomach. 

Flo.  Did  you  give  her  aught  ? 

Rich.  An  easy  surfeit-water,  nothing  else. 
You  need  not  doubt  her  health  :  I  rather  think 
Her  sickness  is  a  fulness  of  her  blood, — 
You  understand  me  ? 

Flo.  I  do  ;  you  counsel  well ; 

And  once,  within  these  few  days,  will  so  order  't 
She  shall  be  married  ere  she  know  the  time. 

Rich.  Yet  let  not  haste,  sir,  make  unworthy  choice ; 
That  were  dishonour. 

Flo.  Master  Doctor,  no; 

I  will  not  do  so  neither :  in  plain  words, 
My  Lord  Soranzo  is  the  man  I  mean. 

Rich.  A  noble  and  a  virtuous  gentleman. 

Flo.  As  any  is  in  Parma.     Not  far  hence 
Dwells  Father  Bonaventure,  a  grave  friar, 
Once  tutor  to  my  son  :  now  at  his  cell 
I'll  have  'em  married. 


SCENE  v.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  161 

Rich.  You  have  plotted  wisely. 

Flo.  I'll  send  one  straight  to  speak  with  him  to 
night. 

Rich.  Soranzo's  wise ;  he  will  delay  no  time. 
Flo.  It  shall  be  so. 

Enter  Friar  and  GIOVANNI. 

Friar.  Good  peace  be  here  and  love  ! 

Flo.  Welcome,  religious  friar ;  you  are  one 
That  still  bring  blessing  to  the  place  you  come  to.  • 

Gio.  Sir,  with  what  speed  I  could,  I  did  my  best 
To  draw  this  holy  man  from  forth  his  cell 
To  visit  my  sick  sister ;  that  with  words 
Of  ghostly  comfort,  in  this  time  of  need, 
He  might  absolve  her,  whether  she  live  or  die. 

Flo.  'Twas  well  done,  Giovanni ;  thou  herein 
Hast  show'd  a  Christian's  care,  a  brother's  love. —      v 
Come,  father,  I'll  conduct  you  to  her  chamber, 
And  one  thing  would  entreat  you. 

Friar.  Say  on,  sir. 

Flo.  I  have  a  father's  dear  impression 
And  wish,  before  I  fall  into  my  grave, 
That  I  might  see  her  married,  as  'tis  fit : 
A  word  from  you,  grave  man,  will  win  her  more 
Than  all  our  best  persuasions. 

Friar.  Gentle  sir, 

All  this  I'll  say,  that  Heaven  may  prosper  her. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.  A  room  in  RICHARDETTO'S  house. 

Enter  GRIMALDI. 

Grim.  Now  if  the  doctor  keep  his  word,  Soranzo, 
Twenty  to  one  you  miss  your  bride.     I  know 
'Tis  an  unnoble  act,  and  not  becomes 

VOL.  I.  M 


162  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  in. 

A  soldier's  valour ;  but  in  terms  of  love, 
Where  merit  cannot  sway,  policy  must : 
I  am  resolv'd,  if  this  physician 
Play  not  on  both  hands,  then  Soranzo  falls. 

Enter  RICHARDETTO. 

Rich.  You're  come  as  I  could  wish ;  this  very 

night 

Soranzo,  'tis  ordain'd,  must  be  affied 
To  Annabella,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
Married. 

Grim.     How ! 

Rich.  Yet  your  patience  : — 

The  place,  'tis  Friar  Bonaventure's  cell. 
Now  I  would  wish  you  to  bestow  this  night 
In  watching  thereabouts  ;  'tis  but  a  night : 
If  you  miss  now,  to-morrow  I'll  know  all.7 

Grim.  Have  you  the  poison  ? 

Rich.  Here  'tis,  in  this  box  : 

Doubt  nothing,  this  will  do't ;  in  any  case, 
As  you  respect  your  life,  be  quick  and  sure. 

Grim.  I'll  speed  him. 

Rich.  Do. — Away ;  for  'tis  not  safe 

You  should  be  seen  much  here.     Ever  my  love  ! 

Grim.  And  mine  to  you.  [Exit. 

Rich.  So  !  if  this  hit,  I'll  laugh  and  hug  revenge  ; 
And  they  that  now  dream  of  a  wedding-feast 
May  chance  to  mourn  the  lusty  bridegroom's  ruin. 
But  to  my  other  business. — Niece  Philotis  ! 

Enter  PHILOTIS. 
Phi.  Uncle? 

7  'tis  but  a  night: 

If  you  miss  now,  to-morrow  I'll  know  all.~\  i.  e.  It  is  but  a  night 
lost ;  for  if  you  miss  now,  I  shall  have  the  whole  to-morrow,  and  shall 
then  be  enabled  to  give  you  fresh  instructions. 


SCENE  v.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  163 

Rich.  My  lovely  niece  ! 
You  have  bethought  ye? 

Phi.  Yes, — and,  as  you  counsell'd, 

Fashion'd  my  heart  to  love  him  :  but  he  swears 
He  will  to-night  be  married  :  for  he  fears 
His  uncle  else,  if  he  should  know  the  drift, 
Will  hinder  all,  and  call  his  coz8  to  shrift. 

Rich.  To-night !  why,  best  of  all :  but,  let  me  see — 
Ay — ha  !  yes,  so  it  shall  be — in  disguise 
We'll  early  to  the  friar's ;  I  have  thought  on't. 

Phi.  Uncle,  he  comes. 

Enter  BERGETTO  and  POGGIO. 

Rich.  Welcome,  my  worthy  coz. 

Ber.  Lass,  pretty  lass,  come  buss,  lass  !— A-ha, 
Poggio !  [Kisses  her. 

Rich,  [aside]  There's  hope  of  this  yet.9 — 
You  shall  have  time  enough;  withdraw  a  little  ; 
We  must  confer  at  large. 

Ber.  Have  you  not  sweetmeats  or  dainty  devices 
for  me  ? 

Phi.  You  shall  [have]  enough,  sweetheart. 

Ber.  Sweetheart !  mark  that,  Poggio.  —  By  my 
troth,  I  cannot  choose  but  kiss  thee  once  more  for 
that  word,  sweetheart. — Poggio,  I  have  a  monstrous 
swelling  about  my  stomach,  whatsoever  the  matter  be. 

Pog.  You  shall  have  physic  for't,  sir. 

Rich.  Time  runs  apace. 

Ber.  Time's  a  blockhead. 

Rich.  Be  rul'd :  when  we  have  done  what's  fit  to  do, 
Then  you  may  kiss  your  fill,  and  bed  her  too.  [Exeunt. 

8  coz]  i.e.  nephew.  D. 

9  There's  hope  of  this  yet.~\  The  410  erroneously  gives  this  hemi 
stich  to  Philotis.     If  it  be  not  a  side-speech  of  the  uncle,  it  must  be 
considered  as  a  continuation  of  poor  Bergetto's  rapture  at  the  con 
descension  of  his  mistress. 


1 64  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


SCENE  VI.  FLORIO'S  house. 

ANNABELLA'S  chamber.    A  table  with  wax  lights;  ANNABELLA  at 
confession  before  the  Friar ;  she  weeps  and  wrings  her  hands. 

Friar.  I'm  glad  to  see  this  penance ;  for,  believe 

me, 

You  have  unripp'd  a  soul  so  foul  and  guilty, 
As,  I  must  tell  you  true,  I  marvel  how 
The  earth  hath  borne  you  up  :  but  weep,  weep  on, 
These  tears  may  do  you  good;  weep  faster  yet, 
Whiles  I  do  read  a  lecture. 

Ann.  Wretched  creature  ! 

Friar.  Ay,  you  are  wretched,  miserably  wretched, 
Almost  condemn'd  alive.     There  is  a  place, — 
List,  daughter  ! — in  a  black  and  hollow  vault, 
Where  day  is  never  seen ;  there  shines  no  sun, 
But  flaming  horror  of  consuming  fires, 
A  lightless  sulphur,  chok'd  with  smoky  fogs 
Of  an  infected  darkness  :  in  this  place 
Dwell  many  thousand  thousand  sundry  sorts 
Of  never-dying  deaths :  there  damned  souls 
Roar  without  pity  ;  there  are  gluttons  fed 
With  toads  and  adders;  there  is  burning  oil 
PouiM  down  the  drunkard's  throat ;  the  usurer 
Is  forc'd  to  sup  whole  draughts  of  molten  gold  ; 
There  is  the  murderer  for  ever  stabb'd, 
Yet  can  he  never  die ;  there  lies  the  wanton 
On  racks  of  burning  steel,  whiles  in  his  soul 
He  feels  the  torment  of  his  raging  lust. 

Ann.  Mercy !  O,  mercy  ! 

Friar.  There  stand  these  wretched  things 

Who  have  dream'd  out  whole  years  in  lawless  sheets 
And  secret  incests,  cursing  one  another. 
Then  you  will  wish  each  kiss  your  brother  gave 


SCENE  vi.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  165 

Had  been  a  dagger's  point ;  then  you  shall  hear 

How  he  will  cry,  "  O,  would  my  wicked  sister 

Had  first  been  damn'd,  when  she  did  yield  to  lust !" — 

But  soft,  methinks  I  see  repentance  work 

New  motions  in  your  heart :  say,  how  is't  with  you? 

Ann.  Is  there  no  way  left  to  redeem  my  miseries  ? 

Friar.  There  is,  despair  not ;  Heaven  is  merciful, 
And  offers  grace  even  now.     'Tis  thus  agreed : 
First,  for  your  honour's  safety,  that  you  marry 
My  Lord  Soranzo ;  next,  to  save  your  soul, 
Leave  off  this  life,  and  henceforth  live  to  him. 

Ann.  Ay  me  !10 

Friar.  Sigh  not ;  I  know  the  baits  of  sin 

Are  hard  to  leave;  O,  'tis  a  death  to  do't : 
Remember  what  must  come.     Are  you  content  ? 

Ann.  I  am. 

Friar.  I  like  it  well ;  we'll  take  the  time. — 

Who's  near  us  there? 

Enter  FLORIO  and  GIOVANNI. 

Flo.  Did  you  call,  father? 

Friar.  Is  Lord  Soranzo  come  ? 

Flo.  He  stays  below. 

Friar.  Have  you  acquainted  him  at  full  ? 

Flo.  I  have, 

And  he  is  overjoy'd. 

Friar.  And  so  are  we. 

Bid  him  come  near. 

Gio.  \aside\  My  sister  weeping  !     Ha  ! 

I  fear  this  friar's  falsehood. — I  will  call  him. 

[Exit. 

Flo.  Daughter,  are  you  resolv'd  ? 

Ann.  Father,  I  am. 

10  Ay  me.']  The  Italian  aime—  Gifford  printed  "Ah  me!"  D. 


1 66  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  in. 

Re-enter  GIOVANNI  with  SORANZO  and  VASQUES. 

Flo.  My  Lord  Soranzo,  here 
Give  me  your  hand ;  for  that  I  give  you  this. 

[Joins  their  hands. 

Sor.  Lady,  say  you  so  too? 

Ann.  I  do,  and  vow 

To  live  with  you  and  yours. 

Friar.  Timely  resolv'd : 

My  blessing  rest  on  both  !     More  to  be  done, 
You  may  perform  it  on  the  morning  sun.         \Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.   The  street  before  the  monastery. 

Enter  GRIMALDI  with  his  rapier  drawn  and  a  dark  lantern. 

Grim.  'Tis  early  night  as  yet,  and  yet  too  soon 
To  finish  such  a  work  ;  here  I  will  lie 
To  listen  who  comes  next.  \He  lies  down. 

Enter  BERGETTO  and  PHILOTIS  disguised,  and  followed 
at  a  short  distance  by  RICHARDETTO  and  POGGIO. 

Ber.  We  are  almost  at  the  place,  I  hope,  sweet 
heart. 

Grim.  \aside\  I  hear  them  near,  and  heard  one  say 

sweetheart. 

'Tis  he ;  now  guide  my  hand,  some  angry  justice, 
Home  to  his  bosom  ! — Now  have  at  you,  sir  ! 

[Stabs  Ber.  and  exit. 

Ber.  O,  help,  help!  here's  a  stitch  fallen  in  my 
guts  :  O  for  a  flesh-tailor  quickly ! — Poggio ! 

Phi.  What  ails  my  love? 

Ber.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  piss  forward  and  back- 


SCENE  vii.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  167 

ward,  and  yet  I  am  wet  before  and  behind. — Lights  ! 
lights  !  ho,  lights  ! 

Phi.  Alas,  some  villain  here  has  slain  my  love  ! 

Rich.  O,  Heaven'  forbid  it !  —  Raise  up  the  next 

neighbours 

Instantly,  Poggio,  and  bring  lights.  [Exit  Pog. 

How  is't,  Bergetto?  slain  !     It  cannot  be  ; 
Are  you  sure  you're  hurt? 

Ber.  O,  my  belly  seethes  like  a  porridge-pot !  Some 
cold  water,  I  shall  boil  over  else :  my  whole  body  is 
in  a  sweat,  that  you  may  wring  my  shirt ;  feel  here — 
Why,  Poggio  ! 

Re-enter  POGGIO  with  Officers  and  lights. 

Pog.  Here.     Alas,  how  do  you  ? 

Rich.  Give  me  a  light. — What's  here  ?  all  blood  ! 

— O,  sirs, 

Signior  Donado's  nephew  now  is  slain. 
Follow  the  murderer  with  all  the  haste 
Up  to  the  city,  he  cannot  be  far  hence  : 
Follow,  I  beseech  you. 

Officers.  Follow,  follow,  follow !  [Exeunt. 

Rich.  Tear  off  thy  linen,  coz,  to  stop  his  wounds. — 
Be  of  good  comfort,  man. 

Ber.  Is  all  this  mine  own  blood?  nay,  then,  good 
night  with  me. — Poggio,  commend  me  to  my  uncle, 
dost  hear  ?  bid  him,  for  my  sake,  make  much  of  this 
wench. — O,  I  am  going  the  wrong  way  sure,  my  belly 
aches  so.— O,  farewell,  Poggio  ! — O,  O  !  [Dies. 

Phi.  O,  he  is  dead! 

Pog.  How!  dead! 

Rich.  He's  dead  indeed ; 

'Tis  now  too  late  to  weep  :  let's  have  him  home, 
And  with  what  speed  we  may  find  out  the  murderer. 

Pog.  O,  my  master  !  my  master  !  my  master  ! 

[Exeunt. 


1 68  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


SCENE  VIII.  A  room  in  HIPPOLITA'S  house. 

Enter  VASQUES  and  HIPPOLITA. 

Hip.  Betroth'd? 

Vas.  I  saw  it. 

Hip.  And  when's  the  marriage-day  ? 

Vas.  Some  two  days  hence. 

Hip.  Two  days  !  why,  man,  I  would  but  wish  two 

hours 

To  send  him  to  his  last  and  lasting  sleep ; 
And,  Vasques,  thou  shalt  see  I'll  do  it  bravely. 

Vas.  I  do  not  doubt  your  wisdom,  nor,  I  trust, 
you  my  secrecy;  I  am  infinitely  yours. 

Hip.  I  will  be  thine  in  spite  of  my  disgrace. — 
So  soon  ?     O  wicked  man,  I  durst  be  sworn 
He'd  laugh  to  see  me  weep. 

Vas.  And  that's  a  villanous  fault  in  him. 

Hip.  No,  let  him  laugh;  I'm  arm'd  in  my  resolves : 
Be  thou  still  true. 

Vas.  I  should  get  little  by  treachery  against  so 
hopeful  a  preferment  as  I  am  like  to  climb  to. 

Hip.  Even  to — my  bosom,  Vasques.  Let  my  youth 
Revel  in  these  new  pleasures  :  if  we  thrive, 
He  now  hath  but  a  pair  of  days  to  live.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IX.   The  street  before  the  Cardinal's  gates. 

Enter  FLORIO,  DONADO,  RICHARDETTO,  POGGIO,  and  Officers. 

Flo.  'Tis  bootless  now  to  show  yourself  a  child, 
Signior  Donado ;  what  is  done,  is  done  : 
Spend  not  the  time  in  tears,  but  seek  for  justice. 

Rich.  I  must  confess  somewhat  I  was  in  fault 
That  had  not  first  acquainted  you  what  love 


SCENE  ix.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  169 

Pass'd  'twixt  him  and  my  niece ;  but,  as  I  live, 
His  fortune  grieves  me  as  it  were  mine  own. 

Don.  Alas,  poor  creature !  he  meant  no  man  harm, 
That  I  am  sure  of. 

Flo.  I  believe  that  too. 

But  stay,  my  masters  :  are  you  sure  you  saw 
The  murderer  pass  here  ? 

First  Officer.  An  it  please  you,  sir,  we  are  sure  we 
saw  a  ruffian,  with  a  naked  weapon  in  his  hand  all 
bloody,  get  into  my  Lord  Cardinal's  Grace's  gate ; 
that  we  are  sure  of;  but  for  fear  of  his  grace — bless 
us  ! — we  durst  go  no  farther. 

Don.  Know  you  what  manner  of  man  he  was  ? 

First  Officer.  Yes,  sure,  I  know  the  man ;  they  say 
he  is  a  soldier ;  he  that  loved  your  daughter,  sir,  an't 
please  ye ;  'twas  he  for  certain. 

Flo.  Grimaldi,  on  my  life  ! 

First  Officer.  Ay,  ay,  the  same. 

Rich.  The  Cardinal  is  noble ;  he  no  doubt 
Will  give  true  justice. 

Don.  Knock  some  one  at  the  gate. 

Pog.  I'll  knock,  sir.  [Knocks. 

Serv.  \within\  What  would  ye? 

Flo.  We  require  speech  with  the  Lord  Cardinal 
About  some  present  business  :  pray  inform 
His  grace  that  we  are  here. 

Enter  Cardinal,  followed  by  GRIMALDI. 

Car.  Why,  how  now,  friends !  what  saucy  mates 

are  you 

That  know  nor  duty  nor  civility  ? 
Are  we  a  person  fit  to  be  your  host ; 
Or  is  our  house  become  your  common  inn, 
To  beat  our  doors  at  pleasure  ?     What  such  haste 
Is  yours,  as  that  it  cannot  wait  fit  times  ? 


1 70  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  in. 

Are  you  the  masters  of  this  commonwealth, 

And  know  no  more  discretion  ?     O,  your  news 

Is  here  before  you ;  you  have  lost  a  nephew, 

Donado,  last  night  by  Grimaldi  slain  : 

Is  that  your  business?  well,  sir,  we  have  knowledge 

on't; 
Let  that  suffice. 

Grim.  In  presence  of  your  grace, 

In  thought  I  never  meant  Bergetto  harm  : 
But,  Florio,  you  can  tell  with  how  much  scorn 
Soranzo,  back'd  with  his  confederates, 
Hath  often  wrong'd  me ;  I  to  be  reveng'd, — 
For  that  I  could  not  win  him  else  to  fight, — 
Had  thought  by  way  of  ambush  to  have  kill'd  him, 
But  was  unluckily  therein  mistook ; 
Else  he  had  felt  what  late  Bergetto  did  : 
And  though  my  fault  to  him  were  merely  chance, 
Yet  humbly  I  submit  me  to  your  grace,         \Kneeling. 
To  do  with  me  as  you  please. 

Car.  Rise  up,  Grimaldi. —  \He  rises. 

You  citizens  of  Parma,  if  you  seek 
For  justice,  know,  as  nuncio  from  the  Pope, 
For  this  offence  I  here  receive  Grimaldi 
Into  his  holiness'  protection  : 
He  is  no  common  man,  but  nobly  born, 
Of  princes'  blood,  though  you,  Sir  Florio, 
Thought  him  too  mean  a  husband  for  your  daughter. 
If  more  you  seek  for,  you  must  go  to  Rome, 
For  he  shall  thither :  learn  more  wit,  for  shame. — 
Bury  your  dead. — Away,  Grimaldi ;  leave  'em  ! 

[Exeunt  Cardinal  and  Grimaldi. 

Don.  Is  this  a  churchman's  voice?  dwells  justice 
here? 

Flo.  Justice  is  fled  to  heaven,  and  comes  no  nearer. 
Soranzo  ! — was't  for  him  ?     O,  impudence  ! 


SCENE  I.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  1 7 1 

Had  he  the  face  to  speak  it,  and  not  blush  ? 
Come,  come,  Donado,  there's  no  help  in  this, 
When  cardinals  think  murder's  not  amiss. 
Great  men  may  do  their  wills,  we  must  obey; 
But  Heaven  will  judge  them  for't  another  day. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.1  A  room  in  FLORIO'S  house.    A  banquet  set 
out;  hautboys. 

Enter  the  Friar,  GIOVANNI,  ANNABELLA,  PHILOTIS,   SORANZO, 
DONADO,  FLORIO,  RICHARDETTO,  PUTANA, 


Friar.  These  holy  rites  perform'd,  now  take  your 

times 

To  spend  the  remnant  of  the  day  in  feast  : 
Such  fit  repasts  are  pleasing  to  the  saints, 
Who  are  your  guests,  though  not  with  mortal  eyes 
To  be  beheld.  —  Long  prosper  in  this  day, 
You  happy  couple,  to  each  other's  joy  ! 

Sor.  Father,  your  prayer  is  heard;   the  hand  of 

goodness 

Hath  been  a  shield  for  me  against  my  death  : 
And,  more  to  bless  me,  hath  enrich'd  my  life 
With  this  most  precious  jewel;  such  a  prize 
As  earth  hath  not  another  like  to  this.  — 

1  I  have  reluctantly  followed  the  4to  (which  has  no  division  of 
scenes),  and  begun  the  fourth  act  here.  The  reader  will  see,  as  he 
proceeds,  the  impropriety  of  this  arrangement.  After  all,  there  is 
but  a  choice  of  evils  ;  for  as  some  time  must  necessarily  have  elapsed 
(two  days  according  to  Vasques)  since  the  death  of  Bergetto,  suffi 
cient  would  hardly  be  gained  on  the  score  of  probability  to  justify 
disturbing  the  author's  distribution  of  the  story  ;  though  it  might  be 
wished  that  this  scene  had  concluded  the  third  act. 


172  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 

Cheer  up,  my  love  : — and,  gentlemen  my  friends, 
Rejoice  with  me  in  mirth  :  this  day  we'll  crown 
With  lusty  cups  to  Annabella's  health. 

Gio.  \aside\  O,  torture !  were  the  marriage  yet  un 
done, 

Ere  I'd  endure  this  sight,  to  see  my  love 
dipt2  by  another,  I  would  dare  confusion, 
And  stand  the  horror  of  ten  thousand  deaths. 

Vas.  Are  you  not  well,  sir  ? 

Gio.  Prithee,  fellow,  wait ; 

I  need  not  thy  officious  diligence. 

Flo.  Signior  Donado,  come,  you  must  forget 
Your  late  mishaps,  and  drown  your  cares  in  wine. 

Sor.  Vasques  ! 

Vas.  My  lord? 

Sor.  Reach  me  that  weighty  bowl. — 

Here,  brother  Giovanni,  here's  to  you ; 
Your  turn  comes  next,  though  now  a  bachelor ; 
Here's  to  your  sister's  happiness  and  mine  ! 

[Drinks,  and  offers  kirn  the  bowl. 

Gio.  I  cannot  drink. 

Sor.  What ! 

Gio.  'Twill  indeed  offend  me. 

Ann.  Pray,  do  not  urge  him,  if  he  be  not  willing. 

[Hautboys. 

Flo.  How  now  !  what  noise3  is  this? 

Vas.  O,  sir,  I  had  forgot  to  tell  you ;  certain  young 
maidens  of  Parma,  in  honour  to  Madam  Annabella's 
marriage,  have  sent  their  loves  to  her  in  a  Masque,  for 
which  they  humbly  crave  your  patience  and  silence. 

Sor.  We  are  much  bound  to  them ;  so  much  the 

more 
As  it  comes  unexpected  :  guide  them  in. 

2  dipt]  \.  e.  Embraced.  D.       ^  » 

3  noise]  See  note,  p.  103.  D.  ^  'fV\tUjlG 


SCENE  I.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  173 

Enter  HIPPOLITA,  followed  by  Ladies  in  white  robes 
with  garlands  of  willows ,  all  masked. 

Music  AND  A  DANCE. 

Thanks,  lovely  virgins  !  now  might  we  but  know 
To  whom  we've  been  beholding  for  this4  love, 
We  shall  acknowledge  it 

Hip.  Yes,  you  shall  know.  [  Unmasks. 

What  think  you  now  ? 

Omnes.  Hippolita ! 

Hip.  'Tis  she ; 

Be  not  amaz'd ;  nor  blush,  young  lovely  bride ; 
I  come  not  to  defraud  you  of  your  man  : 
'Tis  now  no  time  to  reckon-up  the  talk 
What  Parma  long  hath  rumour'd  of  us  both  : 
Let  rash  report  run  on ;  the  breath  that  vents  it 
Will,  like  a  bubble,  break  itself  at  last. 
But  now  to  you,  sweet  creature ; — lend's5  your  hand; — 
Perhaps  it  hath  been  said  that  I  would  claim 
Some  interest  in  Soranzo,  now  your  lord ; 
What  I  have  right  to  do,  his  soul  knows  best : 
But  in  my  duty  to  your  noble  worth, 
Sweet  Annabella,  and  my  care  of  you, — 
Here,  take,  Soranzo,  take  this  hand  from  me ; 
I'll  once  more  join  what  by  the  holy  church 
Is  finish'd  and  allow'd. — Have  I  done  well  ? 

Sor.  You  have  too  much  engag'd  us. 

Hip.  One  thing  more. 

That  you  may  know  my  single  charity,6 
Freely  I  here  remit  all  interest 

4  this}  So  the  4to  in  the  Brit.  Museum. — My  copy  has  "thy."  See 
note  p.  34.  D. 

s  lend's]  Gifford  printed  "lend."  D. 

6  my  single  charity, ]  i.e.  pure,  genuine,  disinterested  charity. 


174  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 

I  e'er  could  claim,  and  give  you  back  your  vows ; 
And  to  confirm'!:, — reach  me  a  cup  of  wine, — 

[  Vas.  gives  her  a  poisoned  cup. 
My  Lord  Soranzo,  in  this  draught  I  drink 
Long  rest  t'  ye  !    [She  drinks}. — [Aside  to  Vas}  Look 
to  it,  Vasques. 

Vas.  [aside  to  Hip}  Fear  nothing. 

Sor.  Hippolita,  I  thank  you ;  and  will  pledge 
This  happy  union  as  another  life. — 
Wine,  there  ! 

Vas.  You  shall  have  none;  neither  shall  you 
pledge  her. 

Hip.  How! 

Vas.  Know  now,  Mistress  She-devil,  your  own 
mischievous  treachery  hath  killed  you ;  I  must  not 
marry  you. 

Hip.  Villain! 

Omnes.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Vas.  Foolish  woman,  thou  art  now  like  a  fire 
brand  that  hath  kindled  others  and  burnt  thyself: — 
k  troppo  sperar,  inganna, — thy  vain  hope  hath  deceived 
thee;  thou  art  but  dead;  if  thou  hast  any  grace,  pray. 

Hip.  Monster  5 

Vas.  Die  in  charity,  for  shame. — This  thing  of 
malice,  this  woman,  had 7  privately  corrupted  me  with 
promise  of  marriage,8  under  this  politic  reconciliation, 
to  poison  my  lord,  whiles  she  might  laugh  at  his  con 
fusion  on  his  marriage-day.  I  promised  her  fair ;  but 
I  knew  what  my  reward  should  have  been,  and  would 
willingly  have  spared  her  life,  but  that  I  was  acquainted 
with  the  danger  of  her  disposition;  and  now  have  fitted 
her  a  just  payment  in  her  own  coin  :  there  she  is,  she 

7  had]  Gifford  printed  "hath."  D. 

8  marriage,}  The  4to  has  "malice."  D. 


SCENE  I.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  175 

hath  yet9 and  end  thy  days  in  peace,  vile  woman ; 

as  for  life,  there's  no  hope ;  think  not  on't. 

Omnes.  Wonderful  justice ! 

Rich.  Heaven,  thou  art  righteous. 

Hip.  O,  'tis  true  ; 

I  feel  my  minute  coming.     Had  that  slave 
Kept  promise, — O,  my  torment ! — thou  this  hour 
Hadst  died,  Soranzo ; — heat  above  hell-fire  ! — 
Yet,  ere  I  pass  away, — cruel,  cruel  flames  ! — 
Take  here  my  curse  amongst  you  :  may  thy  bed 
Of  marriage  be  a  rack  unto  thy  heart, 
Burn  blood,  and  boil  in  vengeance ;— O,  my  heart, 
My  flame's  intolerable  ! — mayst  thou  live 
To  father  bastards ;  may  her  womb  bring  forth 
Monsters, — and  die  together  in  your  sins, 
Hated,  scorn'd,  and  unpitied  ! — O,  O  !  [Dies. 

Flo.  Was  e'er  so  vile  a  creature  ! 

Rich.  Here's  the  end 

Of  lust  and  pride. 

Ann.  It  is  a  fearful  sight. 

Sor.  Vasques,  I  know  thee  now  a  trusty  servant, 
And  never  will  forget  thee. — Come,  my  love, 
V/e'll  home,  and  thank  the  heavens  for  this  escape. — 
Father  and  friends,  we  must  break-up  this  mirth ; 
It  is  too  sad  a  feast. 

Don.  Bear  hence  the  body. 

Friar  [aside  to  Gio\  Here's  an  ominous  change  ! 
Mark  this,  my  Giovanni,  and  take  heed  ! — 
I  fear  th'  event :  that  marriage  seldom's  good 
Where  the  bride-banquet  so  begins  in  blood.  {Exeunt. 

9  she  hath  yet]  The  old  copy  has  a  considerable  double  break 
here,  probably  from  some  defect  in  the  Ms. 


176  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 


SCENE  II.10  A  room  in  RICHARDETTO'S  house. 
Enter  RICHARDETTO  and  PHILOTIS. 

Rich.  My  wretched  wife,  more  wretched  in  her 

shame 

Than  in  her  wrongs  to  me,  hath  paid  too  soon 
The  forfeit  of  her  modesty  and  life. 
And  I  am  sure,  my  niece,  though  vengeance  hover, 
Keeping  aloof  yet  .from  Soranzo's  fall, 
Yet  he  will  fall,  and  sink  with  his  own  weight. 
I  need  not  now — my  heart  persuades  me  so — 
To  further  his  confusion;  there  is  One 
Above  begins  to  work :  for,  as  I  hear, 
Debates  already  'twixt  his  wife  and  him 
Thicken  and  run  to  head;  she,  as  'tis  said, 
Slightens  his  love,  and  he  abandons  hers  : 
Much  talk  I  hear.     Since  things  go  thus,  my  niece, 
In  tender  love  and  pity  of  your  youth, 
My  counsel  is,  that  you  should  free  your  years 
From  hazard  of  these  woes  by  flying  hence 
To  fair  Cremona,  there  to  vow  your  soul 
In  holiness,  a  holy  votaress  : 
Leave  me  to  see  the  end  of  these  extremes. 
All  human  worldly  courses  are  uneven; 
No  life  is  blessed  but  the  way  to  heaven. 

10  Scene  //.]  As  the  play  is  now  divided,  this  conversation  takes 
place  on  the  way  home  from  the  marriage-feast,  or  immediately  after 
it,  and  in  either  case  before  Richardetto  could  have  heard  a  word 
of  what  he  informs  his  niece  ; 

' '  Debates  already  'twixt  his  wife  and  him 
Thicken  and  run  to  head;  she,  as  'tis  said, 
Slightens  his  love,  and  he  abandons  hers  : 
Much  talk  I  hear." 

Enough,  and  more  than  enough,  of  improbability  would  perhaps  re 
main,  were  even  the  arrangement  recommended  in  a  former  page 
[171]  to  take  place ;  but  the  most  glaring  part  of  it  would  certainly 
be  removed  or  weakened  by  the  change. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  177 

Phi.  Uncle,  shall  I  resolve  to  be  a  nun  ? 

Rich.  Ay,  gentle  niece;  and  in  your  hourly  prayers 
Remember  me,  your  poor  unhappy  uncle. 
Hie  to  Cremona  now,  as  fortune  leads, 
Your  home  your  cloister,  your  best  friends  your  beads : 
Your  chaste  and  single  life  shall  crown  your  birth  : 
Who  dies  a  virgin  live[s]  a  saint  on  earth. 

Phi.  Then  farewell,  world,  and  worldly  thoughts, 

adieu ! 
Welcome,  chaste  vows ;  myself  I  yield  to  you. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.   A  chamber  in  SORANZO'S  house. 

Enter  SORANZO  unbraced,  and  dragging  in  ANNABELLA. 

Sor.  Come,  strumpet,  famous  whore!  were  every 

drop 

Of  blood  that  runs  in  thy  adulterous  veins 
A  life,  this  sword — dost  see't? — should  in  one  blow 
Confound  them  all.     Harlot,  rare,  notable  harlot, 
That  with  thy  brazen  face  maintain'st  thy  sin, 
Was  there  no  man  in  Parma  to  be  bawd 
To  your  loose  cunning  whoredom  else  but  I  ? 
Must  your  hot  itch  and  plurisy  of  lust, 
The  heyday  of  your  luxury,11  be  fed 
Up  to  a  surfeft,  and  could  none  but  I 
Be  pick'd  out  to  be  cloak  to  your  close  tricks, 
Your  belly-sports?     Now  I  must  be  the  dad 
To  all  that  jmllimaufry  that  is  stuff'd 

11  The  heyday  of  your  luxury,]  i.e.  the  height  of  your  wanton 
ness.  Reed.  Luxury,  about  which  the  commentators  on  Shakespeare 
have  drivelled  out  so  much  indecency,  is  simply  the  French  luxure, 
the  old  word  for  lust,  and  common  to  every  writer  of  the  poet's  age. 
Luxury  in  the  present  sense  of  the  word  is  their  luxe. 

VOL.  I.  N 


1 78  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 

In  thy  corrupted  bastard-bearing  womb ! 
Say,  must  I  ? 

Ann.  Beastly  man  !  why,  'tis  thy  fate.12 

I  su'd  not  to  thee ;  for,  but  that  I  thought 
Your  over-loving  lordship  would  have  run 
Mad  on  denial,  had  ye  lent  me  time, 
I  would  have  told  ye  in  what  case  I  was  : 
But  you  would  needs  be  doing. 

Sor.  Whore  of  whores ! 

Barest  thou  tell  me  this  ? 

Ann.  O,  yes ;  why  not  ? 

You  were  deceiv'd  in  me  ;  'twas  not  for  love 
I  chose  you,  but  for  honour  :  yet  know  this, 
Would  you  be  patient  yet,  and  hide  your  shame, 
I'd  see  whether  I  could  love  you. 

Sor.  Excellent  quean  ! 

Why,  art  thou  not  with  child  ? 

Ann.  What  needs  all  this, 

When  'tis  superfluous  ?  I  confess  I  am. 

Sor.  Tell  me  by  whom. 

Ann.  Soft  !13  'twas  not  in  my  bargain. 

Yet  somewhat,  sir,  to  stay  your  longing  stomach, 
I  am  content  t'  acquaint  you  with  ;  THE  man, 
The  more  than  man,  that  got  this  sprightly  boy, — 
For  'tis  a  boy,  [and]  therefore  glory,  sir,14 

12  Say,  must  I? 

Ann.  Beastly  man!  why,  'tis  thy  fate  J\  Gifford  printed 

"Why,  must  I? 

Ann.  Beastly  man!     Why  —  'tis  thy  fate;" 

and  he  observed ;  ' '  The  4to  is  corrupt  in  this  place,  and  reads  '  Shey, 
must  I?'  Dodsleyhas  corrected  it  into  'Say;'  but  I  prefer  the  ex 
pression  in  the  text,  as  it  seems  borne  out  by  Annabella's  answer." 
It  must  have  escaped  Gifford's  notice,  that,  though  in  the  first  of  these 
words,  which  stand  at  the  top  of  the  page,  the  4to  has  "Shey,"  yet 
the  catch- word  at  the  bottom  of  the  preceding  page  is  "Say."  D. 

13  Soft,  sir,]  I  have  omitted  "sir,"  which  spoils  the  verse,  and 
appears  to  have  crept  in  from  the  line  immediately  below  it. 

14  therefore  glory,  sir,  ]  This  is  made  out  by  Dodsley  from  the 
old  copy,  which  reads  "For  'tis  a  boy  that  for  glory,  sir;"  and  has 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  179 

Your  heir  shall  be  a  son — 

Sor.  Damnable  monster ! 

Ann.  Nay,  an  you  will  not  hear,  I'll  speak  no  more. 

Sor.  Yes,  speak,  and  speak  thy  last. 

Ann.  A  match,  a  match ! — 

This  noble  creature  was  in  every  part 
So  angel-like,  so  glorious,  that  a  woman, 
Who  had  not  been  but  human,  as  was  I, 
Would  have  kneel'd  to  him,  and  have  begg'd  for  love. — 
You  !  why,  you  are  not  worthy  once  to  name 
His  name  without  true  worship,  or,  indeed, 
Unless  you  kneel'd,  to  hear  another  name  him. 

Sor.  What  washecall'd? 

Ann.  We  are  not  come  to  that ; 

Let  it  suffice  that  you  shall  have  the  glory 
To  father  what  so  brave  a  father  got. 
In  brief,  had  not  this  chance  fall'n  out  as  't  doth, 
I  never  had  been  troubled  with  a  thought 
That  you  had  been  a  creature  : — but  for  marriage, 
I  scarce  dream  yet  of  that. 

Sor.  Tell  me  his  name. 

Ann.  Alas,  alas,  there's  all !  will  you  believe  ? 

Sor,  What? 

Ann.  You  shall  never  know. 

Sor.  How ! 

Ann.  Never:  if 

You  do,  let  me  be15  curs'd  ! 

Sor.  Not  know  it,  strumpet !  I'll  rip  up  thy  heart, 
And  find  it  there. 


all  the  appearance  of  being  genuine.  The  insulting  and  profligate 
language  of  this  wretched  woman,  if  not  assumed,  like  that  of  Bianca 
in  Love's  Sacrifice,  to  provoke  her  husband  to  destroy  her  on  the 
spot,  is  perfectly  loathsome  and  detestable.  Well  sung  the  poet, 

' '  nihil  est  audacius  illis 
Deprensis  :  iram  atque  animos  a  crimine  sumunt." 

i5  be}  Omitted  by  Giffbrd.  D. 


l8o  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  IV. 

Ann.  Do,  do. 

Sor.  And  with  my  teeth 

Tear  the  prodigious  lecher  joint  by  joint. 

Ann.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  the  man's  merry. 

Sor.  Dost  thou  laugh  ? 

Come,  whore,  tell  me  your  lover,  or,  by  truth, 
I'll  hew  thy  flesh  to  shreds ;  who  is't  ? 

Ann.   \sings\   Che  morte  piii  dolce  che  morire  per 
•  r  amore? 

Sor.  Thus  will  I  pull  thy  hair,  and  thus  I'll  drag 
Thy  lust-be-leper'd  body  through  the  dust. 

[Hales  her  up  and  down. 
Yet  tell  his  name. 

Ann.   \sings\  Morendo  in  grazia16  dee  morire  senza 
dolore. 

Sor.  Dost   thou   triumph  ?     The   treasure  of  the 

earth 

Shall  not  redeem  thee ;  were  there  kneeling  kings 
Did  beg  thy  life,  or  angels  did  come  down 
To  plead  in  tears,  yet  should  not  all  prevail 
Against  my  rage  :  dost  thou  not  tremble  yet  ? 

Ann.  At  what  ?  to  die  !  no,  be  a  gallant  hang 
man  ;17 

I  dare  thee  to  the  worst :  strike,  and  strike  home  ; 
I  leave  revenge  behind,  and  thou  shalt  feel 't. 

Sor.  Yet  tell  me  ere  thou  diest,  and  tell  me  truly, 
Knows  thy  old  father  this  ? 

Ann.  No,  by  my  life. 

16  Morendo  in  grazia,  &c.]  This  quotation  is  incorrectly  given  in 
the  4to.     It  has  been  amended  into  impiety,  for  which  there  is  little 
occasion.     We  have  already  seen  more  than  enough  to  prove  that 
when  a  woman  loses  the  sense  of  religion  (and  Annabella,  like  her 
brother,  is  a  fatalist),  modesty,  self-respect,  every  virtuous  and  every 
amiable  feeling  speedily  follow. 

17  hangman  /]  This  passage  might  be  added  to  the  passages  which 
I  have  cited  in  my  Glossary  to  Shakespeare  as  proofs  that  our  old 
writers  frequently  used  "hangman"  in  the  general  sense  of  "execu 
tioner."  D. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  181 

Sor.  Wilt  thou  confess,  and  I  will  spare  thy  life  ? 
Ann.  My  life  !  I  will  not  buy  my  life  so  dear. 
Sor.  I  will  not  slack  my  vengeance. 

[Draws  his  sword. 

Enter  VASQUES. 

Vas.  What  d'ye  mean,  sir  ? 

Sor.  Forbear,  Vasques  ;  such  a  damned  whore 
Deserves  no  pity. 

Vas.  Now  the  gods  forfend  ! 

And  would  you  be  her  executioner,  and  kill  her  in 
your  rage  too?  O,  'twere  most,  unmanlike.  She  is 
your  wife  :  what  faults  have  been  done  by  her  before 
she  married  you  were  not  against  you  :  alas,  poor 
lady,  what  hath  she  committed,  which  any  lady  in 
Italy,  in  the  like  case,  would  not  ?  Sir,  you  must  be 
ruled  by  your  reason,  and  not  by  your  fury;  that  were 
unhuman  and  beastly. 

Sor.  She  shall  not  live. 

Vas.  Come,  she  must.  You  would  have  her  con 
fess  the  author18  of  her  present  misfortunes,  I  warrant 
ye ;  'tis  an  unconscionable  demand,  and  she  should 
lose  the  estimation  that  I,  for  my  part,  hold  of  her 
worth,  if  she  had  done  it :  why,  sir,  you  ought  not, 
of  all  men  living,  to  know  it.  Good  sir,  be  recon 
ciled  :  alas,  good  gentlewoman  ! 

Ann.  Pish,  do  not  beg  for  me ;  I  prize  my  life 
As  nothing  ;  if  the  man  will  needs  be  mad, 
Why,  let  him  take  it. 

Sor.  Vasques,  hear'st  thou  this  ? 

Vas.  Yes,  and  commend  her  for  it  ;19  in  this  she 

18  author}  The  410  has  "Authors ;"  and  so.  Gifford.  D. 

19  This  odious  wretch  has  no  variety  in  his  bloody  tricks :  here  is 
a  repetition  of  the  paltry  artifice  by  which  Hippolita  was  deceived ; 
and  Putana  is  subsequently  wrought  upon  much  in  the  same  manner. 
Vasques  is  fortunate  in  finding  such  easy  gulls. 


1 82  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 

shows  the  nobleness  of  a  gallant  spirit,  and  beshrew 
my  heart,  but  it  becomes  her  rarely. — [Aside  to  Sor.~] 
Sir,  in  any  case,  smother  your  revenge ;  leave  the 
scenting  -  out  your  wrongs  to  me  :  be  ruled,  as  you 
respect  your  honour,  or  you  mar  all. — [Aloud']  Sir,  if 
ever  my  service  were  of  any  credit  with  you,  be  not 
so  violent  in  your  distractions:  you  are  married  now; 
what  a  triumph  might  the  report  of  this  give  to  other 
neglected  suitors !  Tis  as  manlike  to  bear  extremities 
as  godlike  to  forgive. 

Sor.  O,  Vasques,  Vasques,  in  this  piece  of  flesh, 
This  faithless  face  of  hers,  had  I  laid  up 
The  treasure  of  my  heart ! — Hadst  thou  been  virtuous, 
Fair,  wicked  woman,  not  the  matchless  joys 
Of  life  itself  had  made  me  wish  to  live 
With  any  saint  but  thee  :  deceitful  creature, 
How  hast  thou  mock'd  my  hopes,  and  in  the  shame 
Of  thy  lewd  womb  even  buried  me  alive  ! 
I  did  too  dearly  love  thee.       . 

Fas.  [aside  to  Sor.]  This  is  well ;  follow  this  tem 
per  with  some  passion  :  be  brief  and  moving;  'tis  for 
the  purpose. 

Sor.  Be  witness  to  my  words  thy  soul  and  thoughts ; 
And  tell  me,  didst  not  think  that  in  my  heart 
I  did  too  superstitiously  adore  thee  ? 

Ann.  I  must  confess  I  know  you  lov'd  me  well. 

Sor.  And  wouldst  thou  use  me  thus !     O  Anna- 

bella, 

Be  thou  assufd,  whoe'er20  the  villain  was 
That  thus  hath  tempted  thee  to  this  disgrace, 
Well  he  might  lust,  but  never  lov'd  like  me  : 
He  doted  on  the  picture  that  hung  out 
Upon  thy  cheeks  to  please  his  humorous  eye ; 

20  Be  thou  assur'd,  whoe'er]  The  4*0  has  "  Bee  thus  assurd,  what- 
soe're."  D. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  183 

Not  on  the  part  I  lov'd,  which  was  thy  heart, 
And,  as  I  thought,  thy  virtues. 

Ann.  O,  my  lord  ! 

These  words  wound  deeper  than  your  sword  could 
do. 

Vas.  Let  me  not  ever  take  comfort,  but  I  begin 
to  weep  myself,  so  much  I  pity  him :  why,  madam,  I 
knew,  when  his  rage  was  over-past,  what  it  would 
come  to. 

Sor.  Forgive  me,  Annabella.     Though  thy  youth 
Hath  tempted  thee  above  thy  strength  to  folly, 
Yet  will  not  I21  forget  what  I  should  be, 
And  what  I  am — a  husband ;  in  that  name 
Is  hid  divinity:  if  I  do  find 
That  thou  wilt  yet  be  true,  here  I  remit 
All  former  faults,  and  take  thee  to  my  bosom. 

Vas.  By  my  troth,  and  that's  a  point  of  noble 
charity. 

Ann.  Sir,  on  my  knees, — 

Sor.  Rise  up,  you  shall  not  kneel. 

Get  you  to  your  chamber;  see  you  make  no  show 
Of  alteration  ;  I'll  be  with  you  straight : 
My  reason  tells  me  now  that  "  'tis  as  common 
To  err  in  frailty  as  to  be  a  woman." 
Go  to  your  chamber.  [Exit  Ann. 

Vas.  So !  this  was  somewhat  to  the  matter :  what 
do  you  think  of  your  heaven  of  happiness  now, 
sir? 

Sor.  I  carry  hell  about  me ;  all  my  blood 
Is  fir'd  in  swift  revenge. 

Vas.  That  may  be ;  but  know  you  how,  or  on 
whom  ?  Alas,  to  marry  a  great  woman,  being  made 
great  in  the  stock  to  your  hand,  is  a  usual  sport  in 

21  will  not  I]  Gifford  printed  "will  I  not."  D. 


1 84  >TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 

these  days;  but  to  know  what  ferret  it  was22  that 
hunted  your  cony-berry,23 — there's  the  cunning. 

Sor.  I'll  make  her  tell  herself,  or— 

Fas.  Or  what  ?  you  must  not  do  so ;  let  me  yet 
persuade  your  sufferance  a  little  while  :  go  to  her,  use 
her  mildly ;  win  her,  if  it  be  possible,  to  a  voluntary, 
to  a  weeping  tune  :  for  the  rest,  if  all  hit,  I  will  not 
miss  my  mark.  Pray,  sir,  go  in :  the  next  news  I  tell 
you  shall  be  wonders. 

Sor.  Delay  in  vengeance  gives  a  heavier  blow. 

[Exit. 

Vas.  Ah,  sirrah,  here's  work  for  the  nonce  !  I  had 
a  suspicion  of  a  bad  matter  in  my  head  a  pretty  whiles 
ago ;  but  after  my  madam's  scurvy  looks  here  at  home, 
her  waspish  perverseness  and  loud  fault-finding,  then 
I  remembered  the  proverb,  that  "where  hens  crow, 
and  cocks  hold  their  peace,  there  are  sorry  houses." 
'Sfoot,  if  the  lower  parts  of  a  she-tailor's  cunning  can 
cover  such  a  swelling  in  the  stomach,  I'll  never  blame 
a  false  stitch  in  a  shoe  whiles  I  live  again.  Up,  and 
up  so  quick  ?  and  so  quickly  too  ?  'twere  a  fine  policy 
to  learn  by  whom :  this  must  be  known ;  and  I  have 
thought  on't: — 

Enter  PUTANA  in  tears. 

Here's  the  way,  or  none. — What,  crying,  old  mistress ! 
alas,  alas,  I  cannot  blame  ye ;  we  have  a  lord,  Heaven 
help  us,  is  so  mad  as  the  devil  himself,  the  more 
shame  for  him. 

22  to  know  what  ferret  it  was]  This  is  the  ingenious  emendation 
of  Dodsley.    The  4to  reads  "secret;"  and  it  may  be  conjectured  that 
the  substantive  which  probably  followed  it  has  been  lost.     The  pre 
sent  reading,  however,  leaves  nothing  to  regret. 

23  cony-berry, ~\  Gifford  printed  "  coney-burrow, " — a  most  unne 
cessary  alteration.     Coles  gives  "A  cunny berry,  ctmiculorum  lati- 
bulum."  Lat.  and  Engl.  Diet.  D. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  185 

Put.  O,  Vasques,  that  ever  I  was  born  to  see  this 
day!  Doth  he  use  thee  so  too  sometimes,  Vasques? 

Fas.  Me  ?  why,  he  makes  a  dog  of  me  :  but  if 
some  were  of  my  mind,  I  know  what  we  would  do. 
As  sure  as  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  will  go  near  to 
kill  my  lady  with  unkindness  :  say  she  be  with  child, 
is  that  such  a  matter  for  a  young  woman  of  her  years 
to  be  blamed  for? 

Put.  Alas,  good  heart,  it  is  against  her  will  full 
sore. 

Vas.  I  durst  be  sworn  all  his  madness  is  for  that 
she  will  not  confess  whose  'tis,  which  he  will  know ; 
and  when  he  doth  know  it,  I  am  so  well  acquainted 
with  his  humour,  that  he  will  forget  all  straight.  Well, 
I  could  wish  she  would  in  plain  terms  tell  all,  for  that's 
the  way,  indeed. 

Put.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Vas.  Foh,  I  know't ;  provided  that  he  did  not  win 
her  to  't  by  force.  He  was  once  in  a  mind  that  you 
could  tell,  and  meant  to  have  wrung  it  out  of  you; 
but  I  somewhat  pacified  him  for24  that :  yet,  sure,  you 
know  a  great  deal. 

Put.  Heaven  forgive  us  all ! .  I  know  a  little,  Vas 
ques. 

Vas.  Why  should  you  not?  who  else  should? 
Upon  my  conscience,  she  loves  you  dearly ;  and  you 
would  not  betray  her  to  any  affliction  for  the  world. 

Put.  Not  for  all  the  world,  by  my  faith  and  troth, 
Vasques. 

Vas.  'Twere  pity  of  your  life  if  you  should  ;  but  in 
this  you  should  both  relieve  her  present  discomforts, 
pacify  my  lord,  and  gain  yourself  everlasting  love  and 
preferment. 

24  for]  Gifford  printed  "from."  D. 


1 86  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  iv. 

Put.  Dost  think  so,  Vasques  ? 

Vas.  Nay,  I  know  't ;  sure  'twas  some  near  and 
entire  friend. 

Put.  'Twas  a  dear  friend  indeed  ;  but — 

Vas.  But  what?  fear  not  to  name  him;  my  life 
between  you  and  danger  :  'faith,  I  think  'twas  no  base 
fellow. 

Put.  Thou  wilt  stand  between  me  and  harm  ? 

Vas.  Ud's  pity,  what  else  ?  you  shall  be  rewarded 
too,  trust  me. 

Put.  'Twas  even  no  worse  than  her  own  brother. 

Vas.  Her  brother  Giovanni,  I  warrant  ye  ! 

Put.  Even  he,  Vasques ;  as  brave  a  gentleman  as 
ever  kissed  fair  lady.  O,  they  love  most  perpetually. 

Vas.  A  brave  gentleman  indeed  !  why,  therein  I 
commend  her  choice. — \Aside\  Better  and  better. — 
You  are  sure  'twas  he  ? 

Put.  Sure;  and  you  shall  see  he  will  not  be  long 
from  her  too. 

Vas.  He  were  to  blame  if  he  would :  but  may  I 
believe  thee  ? 

Put.  Believe  me  !  why,  dost  think  I  am  a  Turk  or 
a  Jew  ?  No,  Vasques,  I  have  known  their  dealings 
too  long  to  belie  them  now. 

Vas.  Where  are  you  there  ?  within,  sirs  ! 

Enter  Banditti.25 

Put.  How  now  !  what  are  these? 

Vas.  You  shall  know  presently. — Come,  sirs,  take 
me  this  old  damnable  hag,  gag  her  instantly,  and  put 
out  her  eyes,  quickly,  quickly  ! 

25  Enter  Banditti.}  It  may  appear  singular  that  Vasques  should 
have  a  body  of  assassins  awaiting  his  call,  before  he  had  any  assur 
ance  that  they  would  be  needed ;  the  circumstance  serves,  however, 
to  illustrate  the  savage  nature  of  this  revengeful  villain. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  187 

Put.  Vasques  !  Vasques  ! — 

Fas.  Gag  her,  I  say ;  'sfoot,  d'ye  suffer  her  to  prate? 
what  d'ye  fumble  about?  let  me  come  to  her.  I'll 
help  your  old  gums,  you  toad-bellied  bitch !  [They  gag 
her.~\  Sirs,  carry  her  closely  into  the  coal-house,  and 
put  out  her  eyes  instantly;  if  she  roars,  slit  her  nose: 
d'ye  hear,  be  speedy  and  sure.  [Exeunt  Ban.  with  Put^\ 
Why,  this  is  excellent,  and  above  expectation — her 
own  brother  !  O,  horrible !  to  what  a  height  of  liberty 
in  damnation  hath  the  devil  trained  our  age  !  her  bro 
ther,  well  !  there's  yet  but  a  beginning ;  I  must  to  my 
lord,  and  tutor  him  better  in  his  points  of  vengeance  : 
now  I  see  how  a  smooth  tale  goes  beyond  a  smooth 
tail. — But  soft !  what  thing  comes  next  ?  Giovanni  ! 
as  I  would26  wish :  my  belief  is  strengthened,  'tis  as 
firm  as  winter  and  summer. 

Enter  GIOVANNI. 

Gio.  Where's  my  sister  ? 

Vas.  Troubled  with  a  new  sickness,  my  lord;  she's 
somewhat  ill. 

Gio.  Took  too  much  of  the  flesh,  I  believe. 

Vas.  Troth,  sir,  and  you,  I  think,  have  e'en  hit  it : 
but  my  virtuous  lady — 

Gio.  Where's  she? 

Vas.  In  her  chamber ;  please  you  visit  her ;  she 
is  alone.  [Gio.  gives  him  money, ,]  Your  liberality  hath 
doubly  made  me  your  servant,  and  ever  shall,  ever. 

[Exit  Gio. 

Re-enter  SORANZO. 

Sir,  I  am  made  a  man ;  I  have  plied  my  cue  with 
cunning  and  success :  I  beseech  you  let's  be  pri 
vate. 

26  would}  Gifford  printed  "could."  D. 


1 88  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

'Sor.  My  lady's  brother's  come;  now  he'll  know 
all. 

Vas.  Let  him  know't ;  I  have  made  some  of  them 
fast  enough.  How  have  you  dealt  with  my  lady? 

Sor,  Gently,  as  thou  hast  counseled  ;  O,  my  soul 
Runs  circular  in  sorrow  for  revenge  : 
But,  Vasques,  thou  shalt  know — 

Fas.  Nay,  I  will  know  no  more,  for  now  comes 
your  turn  to  know :  I  would  not  talk  so  openly  with 
you. — [Aside]  Let  my  young  master  take  time  enough, 
and  go  at  pleasure;  he  is  sold  to  death,  and  the 
devil  shall  not  ransom  him. — Sir,  I  beseech  you,  your 
privacy. 

Sor.  No  conquest  can  gain  glory  of  my  fear. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.   The  street  before  SORANZO'S  house. 

ANNABELLA  appears  at  a  window  above. 

Ann.  Pleasures,  farewell,  and  all  ye  thriftless  mi 
nutes 

Wherein  false  joys  have  spun  a  weary  life ! 
To  these  my  fortunes  now  I  take  my  leave. 
Thou,  precious  Time,  that  swiftly  rid'st  in  post 
Over  the  world,  to  finish-up  the  race 
Of  my  last  fate,  here  stay  thy  restless  course, 
And  bear  to  ages  that  are  yet  unborn 
A  wretched,  woful  woman's  tragedy  ! 
My  conscience  now  stands  up  against  my  lust 
With  depositions1  character'd  in  guilt, 

1  depositions]  The  4to  has  "dispositions."  D. 


SCENE  i.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  189 

Enter  Friar  below. 

And  tells  me  I  am  lost :  now  I  confess 

Beauty  that  clothes  the  outside  of  the  face 

Is  cursed  if  it  be  not  cloth'd  with  grace. 

Here  like  a  turtle  mew'd-up  in  a  cage, 

Unmated,  I  converse  with  air  and  walls, 

And  descant  on  my  vile  unhappiness. 

O,  Giovanni,  that  hast  had  the  spoil 

Of  thine  own  virtues  and  my  modest  fame, 

Would  thou  hadst  been  less  subject  to  those  stars 

That  luckless  reign'd  at  my  nativity  ! 

O,  would  the  scourge  due  to  my  black  offence 

Might  pass  from  thee,  that  I  alone  might  feel 

The  torment  of  an  uncontrolled  flame  ! 

Friar  [aside}.  What's  this  I  hear  ? 

Ann.  That  man,  that  blessed  friar, 

Who  join'd  in  ceremonial  knot  my  hand 
To  him  whose  wife  I  now  am,  told  me  oft 
I  trod  the  path  to  death,  and  show'd  me  how. 
But  they  who  sleep  in  lethargies  of  lust 
Hug  their  confusion,  making  Heaven  unjust ; 
And  so  did  I.       % 

Friar  {aside}.  Here's  music  to  the  soul ! 

Ann.  Forgive  me,  my  good  Genius,  and  this  once 
Be  helpful  to  my  ends  :  let  some  good  man 
Pass  this  way,  to  whose  trust  I  may  commit 
This  paper,  double-lin'd  with  tears  and  blood ; 
Which  being  granted,  here  I  sadly  vow 
Repentance,  and  a  leaving-of  that  life 
I  long  have  died  in. 

Friar.  Lady,  Heaven  hath  heard  you, 

And  hath  by  providence  ordain'd  that  I 
Should  be  his  minister  for  your  behoof. 

Ann.  Ha,  what  are  you  ? 


1 90  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

Friar.  Your  brother's  friend,  the  Friar; 

Glad  in  my  soul  that  I  have  liv'd  to  hear 
This  free  confession  'twixt  your  peace  and  you. 
What  would  you,  or  to  whom  ?  fear  not  to  speak. 

Ann.  Is  Heaven  so  bountiful  ?  then  I  have  found 
More  favour  than  I  hop'd.     Here,  holy  man : 

[Throws  down  a  letter. 

Commend  me  to  my  brother;  give  him  that, 
That  letter ;  bid  him  read  it,  and  repent. 
Tell  him  that  I,  imprison'd  in  my  chamber, 
Barr'd  of  all  company,  even  of  my  guardian, — 
Who2  gives  me  cause  of  much  suspect, — have  time 
To  blush  at  what  hath  pass'd  ;  bid  him  be  wise, 
And  not  believe  the  friendship  of  my  lord  : 
I  fear  much  more  than  I  can  speak  :  good  father, 
The  place  is  dangerous,  and  spies  are  busy. 
I  must  break  off.     You'll  do't  ? 

Friar.  Be  sure  I  will, 

And  fly  with  speed.     My  blessing  ever  rest 
With  thee,  my  daughter ;  live,  to  die  more  blest ! 

[Exit. 

Ann.  Thanks  to  the  heavens,  who  have  prolong'd 

my  breath 
To  this  good  use  !  now  I  can  welcome  death. 

[  Withdraws  from  the  window. 


SCENE  II.  A  room  in  SORANZO'S  house. 

Enter  SORANZO  and  VASQUES. 

Vas.  Am  I  to  be  believed  now?  first  marry  a 
strumpet,  that  cast  herself  away  upon  you  but  to  laugh 
at  your  horns,  to  feast  on  your  disgrace,  riot  in  your 

2    Who]  Gifford  printed  "Which."  D. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  191 

vexations,  cuckold  you  in  your  bride-bed,  waste  your 
estate  upon  panders  and  bawds ! — 

Sor.  No  more,  I  say,  no  more ! 

Vas.  A  cuckold  is  a  goodly  tame  beast,  my  lord. 

Sor.  I  am  resolv'd  ;  urge  not  another  word  ; 
My  thoughts  are  great,  and  all  as  resolute 
As  thunder :  in  mean  time  I'll  cause  our  lady 
To  deck  herself  in  all  her  bridal  robes ; 
Kiss  her,  and  fold  her  gently  in  my  arms. 
Begone, — yet,  hear  you,  are  the  banditti  ready 
To  wait  in  ambush  ? 

Vas.  Good  sir,  trouble  not  yourself  about  other 
business  than  your  own  resolution  :  remember  that 
time  lost  cannot  be  recalled. 

Sor.  With  all  the  cunning  words  thou  canst,  invite 
The  states3  of  Parma  to  my  birthday's  feast : 
Haste  to  my  brother-rival  and  his  father, 
Entreat  them  gently,  bid  them  not  to  fail. 
Be  speedy,  and  return. 

Vas.  Let  not  your  pity  betray  you  till  my  coming 
back  ;  think  upon  incest  and  cuckoldry. 

Sor.  Revenge  is  all  th'  ambition  I  aspire ; 
To  that  I'll  climb  or  fall :  my  blood's  on  fire.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  A  room  in  FLORIO'S  house. 

Enter  GIOVANNI. 

Gio.  Busy  opinion  is  an  idle  fool, 
That,  as  a  school-rod  keeps  a  child  in  awe, 
Frights  th'  unexperienc'd  temper  of  the  mind  : 
So  did  it  me,  who,  ere  my  precious  sister 
Was  married,  thought  all  taste  of  love  would  die 

3  states]  i.  e.  persons  of  high  rank,  nobles.  D. 


192  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

In  such  a  contract ;  but  I  find  no  change 
Of  pleasure  in  this  formal  law  of  sports. 
She  is  still  one  to  me,  and  every  kiss 
As  sweet  and  as  delicious  as  the  first 
I  reap'd,  when  yet  the  privilege  of  youth 
Entitled  her  a  virgin.     O,  the  glory 
Of  two  united  hearts  like  hers  and  mine  ! 
Let  poring  book-men  dream  of  other  worlds  ; 
My  world  and  all  of  happiness  is  here, 
And  I'd  not  change  it  for  the  best  to  come : 
A  life  of  pleasure  is  Elysium. 

Enter  Friar. 

Father,  you  enter  on  the  jubilee 
Of  my  retir'd  delights  :  now  I  can  tell  you, 
The  hell  you  oft  have  prompted  is  nought  else 
But  slavish  and  fond  superstitious  fear ; 
And  I  could  prove  it  too — 

Friar.  Thy  blindness  slays  thee  : 

Look  there,  'tis  writ  to  thee.          [Gives  him  the  letter. 

Gio.  From  whom  ? 

Friar.  Unrip  the  seals  and  see ; 
The  blood's  yet  seething  hot,  that  will  anon 
Be  frozen  harder  than  congealed  coral. — 
Why  d'ye  change  colour,  son  ? 

Gio.  'Fore  heaven,  you  make 

Some  petty  devil  factor  'twixt  my  love 
And  your  religion-masked  sorceries. 
Where  had  you  this  ? 

Friar.  Thy  conscience,  youth,  is  sear'd, 

Else  thou  wouldst  stoop  to  warning. 

Gio.  'Tis  her  hand, 

I  know't ;  and  'tis  all  written  in  her  blood. 
She  writes  I  know  not  what.     Death!    I'll  not  fear 
An  armed  thunderbolt  aim'd  at  my  heart. 


SCENE  in.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  193 

She  writes,  we  are  discover'd : — Pox  on  dreams 
Of  low  faint-hearted  cowardice  ! — discover'd  ? 
The  devil  we  are  !  which  way  is't  possible  ? 
Are  we  grown  traitors  to  our  own  delights  ? 
Confusion  take  such  dotage  !  'tis  but  forg'd  : 
This  is  your  peevish  chattering,  weak  old  man  ! 

Enter  VASQUES. 

Now,  sir,  what  news  bring  you  ? 

Vas.  My  lord,  according  to  his  yearly  custom, 
keeping  this  day  a  feast  in  honour  of  his  birthday, 
by  me  invites  you  thither.  Your  worthy  father,  with 
the  pope's  reverend  nuncio,  and  other  magnincoes  of 
Parma,  have  promised  their  presence :  will't  please 
you  to  be  of  the  number  ? 

Gio.  Yes,  tell  him4  I  dare  come. 

Vas.  Dare  come ! 

Gio.  So  I  said ;  and  tell  him  more,  I  will  come. 

Vas.  These  words  are  strange  to  me. 

Gio.  Say,  I  will  come. 

Vas.  You  will  not  miss  ? 

Gio.  Yet  more !  I'll  come,  sir.  Are  you  ans 
wered  ? 

Vas.  So  I'll  say. — My  service  to  you.  [Exit. 

friar.  You  will  not  go,  I  trust. 

Gio.  Not  go  !  for  what  ? 

Friar.  O,  do  not  go  :  this  feast,  I'll  gage  my  life, 
Is  but  a  plot  to  train  you  to  your  ruin. 
Be  rul'd,  you  shall  not  go. 

Gio.  Not  go  !  stood  Death 

Threatening  his  armies  of  confounding  plagues, 
With  hosts  of  dangers  hot  as  blazing  stars, 
I  would  be  there  :  not  go  !  yes,  and  resolve 

4  him}  The  4to  has  "  them."  D. 
VOL.  I.  O 


194  >TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

To  strike  as  deep  in  slaughter  as  they  all ; 
For  I  will  go. 

Friar.          Go  where  thou  wilt :  I  see 
The  wildness  of  thy  fate  draws  to  an  end, 
To  a  bad  fearful  end.     I  must  not  stay 
To  know  thy  fall :  back  to  Bononia  I 
With  speed  will  haste,  and  shun  this  coming  blow. — 
Parma,  farewell ;  would  I  had  never  known  thee, 
Or  aught  of  thine  ! — Well,  young  man,  since  no  prayer 
Can  make  thee  safe,  I  leave  thee  to  despair.       [Exit. 

Gio.  Despair,  or  tortures  of  a  thousand  hells  ; 
All's  one  to  me  :  I  have  set  up  my  rest.5 
Now,  now,  work  serious  thoughts  on  baneful  plots ; 
Be  all  a  man,  my  soul ;  let  not  the  curse 
Of  old  prescription  rent6  from  me  the  gall 
Of  courage,  which  enrols  a  glorious  death  : 
If  I  must  totter  like  a  well-grown  oak, 
Some  under-shrubs  shall  in  my  weighty  fall 
Be  crush'd  to  splits ;  with  me  they  all  shall  perish  ! 

{Exit. 


SCENE  IV.   A  hall  in  SORANZO'S  house. 

Enter  SORANZO,  VASQUES  with  masks,  and  Banditti. 

Sor.  You  will  not  fail,  or  shrink  in  the  attempt  ? 

Vas.  I  will  undertake  for  their  parts. — Be  sure, 
my  masters,  to  be  bloody  enough,  and  as  unmerciful 
as  if  you  were  preying  upon  a  rich  booty  on  the  very 
mountains  of  Liguria :  for  your  pardons  trust  to  my 

8  /  have  set  up  my  rest.]  i.e.  I  have  made  my  determination, 
taken  my  fixed  and  final  resolution. — See  Jonson,  vol.  ii.  p.  142. 
[Here  Gifford  ought  rather  to  have  referred  to  his  note  on  Mas- 
singer's  Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  21,  ed.  1813.  D.] 

6  rent~\  Gifford  printed  "rend:"  but. the  other  form  was  common 
enough  in  our  author's  days.  D. 


SCENE  iv.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  195 

lord;  but  for  reward  you  shall  trust  none  but  your 
own  pockets. 

Banditti.  We'll  make  a  murder. 

Sor.  Here's  gold  [Gives  them  money];  here's  more  ; 

want  nothing ;  what  you  do 
Is  noble,  and  an  act  of  brave  revenge  : 
I'll  make  ye  rich,  banditti,  and  all  free. 

Banditti*  Liberty!  liberty! 

Vas.  Hold,  take  every  man  a  vizard  [Gives  them 
masks] :  when  ye  are  withdrawn,  keep  as  much  silence 
as  you  can  possibly.  You  know  the  watch-word;7 
till  which  be  spoken,  move  not ;  but  when  you  hear 
that,  rush  in  like  a  stormy  flood  :  I  need  not  instruct 
ye  in  your  own  profession. 

Banditti.  No,  no,  no. 

Vas.  In,  then  :  your  ends  are  profit  and  prefer 
ment  :  away !  [Exeunt  Ban. 

Sor.  The  guests  will  all  come,  Vasques  ? 

Vas.  Yes,  sir.  And  now  let  me  a  little  edge  your 
resolution :  you  see  nothing  is  unready  to  this  great 
work,  but  a  great  mind  in  you ;  call  to  your  remem 
brance  your  disgraces,  your  loss  of  honour,  Hippolita's 
blood,  and  arm  your  courage  in  your  own  wrongs ; 
so  shall  you  best  right  those  wrongs  in  vengeance, 
which  you  may  truly  call  your  own. 

Sor.  Tis  well :  the  less  I  speak,  the  more  I  burn, 
And  blood  shall  quench  that  flame. 

Vas.  Now  you  begin  to  turn  Italian.  This  be 
side  : — when  my  young  incest-monger  comes,  he  will 
be  sharp  set  on  his  old  bit :  give  him  time  enough, 
let  him  have  your  chamber  and  bed  at  liberty;  let 
my  hot  hare  have  law  ere  he  be  hunted  to  his  death, 

7   You  know  the  watch-word ;]  It  appears  from  a  subsequent  pass 
age  (p.  204)  that  this  was  "VENGEANCE." 


196  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

that,  if  it  be  possible,  he  may8  post  to  hell  in  the  very 
act  of  his  damnation.9 

Sor.  It  shall  be  so ;  and  see,  as  we  would  wish, 
He  comes  himself  first. 

Enter  GIOVANNI. 

Welcome,  my  much-lov'd  brother  : 
Now  I  perceive  you  honour  me ;  you're  welcome. 
But  where's  my  father  ? 

Gio.  With  the  other  states,10 

Attending  on  the  nuncio  of  the  pope, 
To  wait  upon  him  hither.     How's  my  sister  ? 

Sor.  Like  a  good  housewife,  scarcely  ready  yet ; 
You're11  best  walk  to  her  chamber. 

Gio.  If  you  will. 

Sor.  I  must  expect  my  honourable  friends ; 
Good  brother,  get  her  forth. 

Gio.  You're  busy,  sir.     [Exit. 

Vas.  Even  as  the  great  devil  himself  would  have 
it !  let  him  go  and  glut  himself  in  his  own  destruc 
tion. — [Flourish.']  Hark,  the  nuncio  is  at  hand  :  good 
sir,  be  ready  to  receive  him. 

Enter  Cardinal,  FLORIO,  DONADO,  RICHARDETTO,  and 
Attendants. 

Sor.  Most  reverend  lord,  this  grace  hath  made  me 

proud, 
That  you  vouchsafe  my  house ;  I  ever  rest 

8  may]  Omitted  by  Gifford.  D. 

*  that,  if  it  be  possible,  he  may  post  to  hell  in  the  very  act  of  his 
damnation.]  This  infernal  sentiment  has  been  copied  from  Shake 
speare  [Hamlet,  act  iii.  sc.  3]  by  several  writers  who  were  nearly  his 
contemporaries.  Reed.  It  is  not,  however,  ill  placed  in  the  mouth 
of  such  an  incarnate  fiend  as  Vasques. 

10  states,]  See  note,  p.  191.  D. 

11  You're]  Gifford  printed  "You  were." — See  note,  p.  131.   D. 


SCENE  v.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  197 

Your  humble  servant  for  this  noble  favour. 

Car.  You  are  our  friend,  my  lord  :  his  Holiness 
Shall  understand  how  zealously  you  honour 
Saint  Peter's  vicar  in  his  substitute  : 
Our  special  love  to  you. 

Sor.  Signiors,  to  you 

My  welcome,  and  my  ever  best  of  thanks 
For  this  so  memorable  courtesy. — 
Pleaseth  your  grace  walk12  near  ? 

Car.  My  lord,  we  come 

To  celebrate  your  feast  with  civil  mirth, 
As  ancient  custom  teacheth  :  we  will  go. 

Sor.  Attend  his  grace  there ! — Signiors,  keep  your 
way.  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.  ANNABELLA'S  bed-chamber  in  the  same. 

ANNABELLA  richly  dressed™  and  GIOVANNI  [discovered]. 

Gio.    What,   chang'd   so  •  soon !    hath  your    new 

sprightly  lord 

Found  out  a  trick  in  night-games  more  than  we 
Could  know  in  our  simplicity?     Ha  !  is't  so  ? 
Or  does  the  fit  come  on  you,  to  prove  treacherous 
To  your  past  vows  and  oaths  ? 

Ann.  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, 

12  grace  •walk']  The  4to  has  "Grace  to  walke."  D. 

13  Annabella  richly  dressed,  &c.]  The  4t"o,  with  the  usual  ab 
surdity  of  stage-directions  from  the  prompter's  book,  has  ' '  Enter 
Giouanni  and  Annabella  lying  on  a  bed."  D. 


198  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

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. 
And  what  ?  you'll  now  be  honest,  that's  resolv'd  ? 

Ann.  Brother,  dear  brother,  know  what  I  have 

been, 

And  know  that  now  there's  but  a  dining-time14 
'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  in  expense ; 
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  deceiv'd,  my  brother ; 
This  banquet  is  an  harbinger  of  death 
To  you  and  me  ;  resolve  yourself  it  is, 
And  be  prepar'd  to  welcome  it. 

Gio.  Well,  then  ; 

The  schoolmen  teach  that  all  this  globe  of  earth 
Shall  be  consum'd  to  ashes  in  a  minute. 

Ann.  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. 

Ann.  That's  most  certain. 

Gio.  A  dream,  a  dream !  else  in  this  other  world 
We  should  know  one  another. 

Ann.  So  we  shall. 

Gio.  Have  you  heard  so  ? 

14  dining-time}  So  the  410  in  my  possession. — A  410  in  the  King's 
Library,  British  Museum,  has  "  dying  time."— See  note,  p.  34.  D. 


SCENE  v.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  199 

Ann.  For  certain. 

Gio.  But  d'ye  think 

That  I  shall  see  you  there  ? — You  look  on  me.15 — 
May  we  kiss  one  another,  prate  or  laugh, 
Or  do  as  we  do  here  ? 

Ann.  I  know  not  that. 

But,  brother,  for  the  present,  what  d'ye  mean16 
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? 

Ann.  Distraction  and  a  troubled  conscience.17 

Gio.   Death,   and   a   swift   repining  wrath  : — yet 

look; 
What  see  you  in  mine  eyes  ? 

Ann.  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  lov'd  and  knew  not  how  to  woo. 
Fair  Annabella,  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, 

15  You  look  on  me.]  i.e.  You  look  with  surprise  or  astonishment 
on  me.     Such  is  the  force  of  this  expression. — See  Jonson,  vol.  iv. 
p.  180. 

16  But,  brother,  for  the  present,  what  d'ye  mean]  The  4to,  which 
is  imperfect  in,  this  place,  reads  "But  good  for  the  present."     The 
word  adopted  is  certainly  not  the  author's ;  but  it  is  safe,  at  least ; 
and  I  prefer  it  to  inserting  a  monosyllable  at  random. 

17  Distraction  and  a  troubled  conscience.]   The  old  copy  reads 
"  a  troubled  countenance;"  well  corrected  by  Dodsley. 


200  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

Which  in  an  instant,  ere  it  scarce  was  seen, 
The  jealous  Destinies  required18  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  ! 

Ann.  Then  I  see  your  drift. — 

Ye  blessed  angels,  guard  me  ! 

Gio.  So  say  I. 

Kiss  me.     If  ever  after-times  should  hear 
Of  our  fast-knit  affections,  though  perhaps 
The  laws  of  conscience  and  of  civil  use 
May  justly  blame  us,  yet  when  they  but  know 
Our  loves,  that  love  will  wipe  away  that  rigour 
Which  would  in  other  incests  be  abhorr'd. 
Give  me  your  hand  :  how  sweetly  life  doth  run 
In  these  well-colour'd  veins  !  how  constantly 
These  palms  do  promise  health  !  but  I  could  chide 
With  Nature  for  this  cunning  flattery. 
Kiss  me  again  : — forgive  me. 

Ann.  With  my  heart. 

Gio.  Farewell ! 

Ann.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Gio.  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  ! — 
One  other  kiss,  my  sister. 

Ann.  What  means  this  ? 

Gio.  To  save  thy  fame,  and  kill  thee  in  a  kiss. 

\Stabs  her. 

Thus  die,  and  die  by  me,  and  by  my  hand  ! 
Revenge  is  mine ;  honour  doth  love  command. 

Ann.  O,  brother,  by  your  hand  ! 

18  requir'd}  The  4to  has  "require."  D. 


SCENE  vi.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  2OI 

Gio.  When  thou  art  dead 

I'll  give  my  reasons  fort  ;  for  to  dispute 
With  thy — even  in  thy  death — most  lovely  beauty, 
Would  make  me  stagger  to  perform  this  act, 
Which  I  most  glory  in. 

Ann.  Forgive  him,   Heaven — and  me  my  sins  ! 

Farewell, 

Brother  unkind,  unkind — Mercy,  great  Heaven ! 
O,  O  !  [Dies. 

Gio.  She's  dead,  alas,  good  soul !   The  hapless  fruit 
That  in  her  womb  receiv'd  its  life  from  me 
Hath  had  from  me  a  cradle  and  a  grave. 
I  must  not  dally.     This  sad  marriage-bed, 
In  all  her  best,  bore  her  alive  and  dead. 
Soranzo,  thou  hast  miss'd  thy  aim  in  this  : 
I  have  prevented  now  thy  reaching  plots, 
And  kill'd  a  love,  for  whose  each  drop  of  blood 
I  would  have  pawn'd  my  heart. — Fair  Annabella, 
How  over-glorious  art  thou  in  thy  wounds, 
Triumphing  over  infamy  and  hate  ! — 
Shrink  not,  courageous  hand,  stand  up,  my  heart, 
And  boldly  act  my  last  and  greater  part ! 

[The  scene  closes. 


SCENE  VI.  A  banqueting-rooml<d  in  the  same. 

A  banquet  set  out.     Enter  the  Cardinal,  FLORIO,  DONADO, 
SORANZO,  RICHARDETTO,  VASQUES,  and  Attendants. 

Vas.  [aside  to  Sor.]  Remember,  sir,  what  you  have 
to  do ;  be  wise  and  resolute. 

Sor.  [aside  to  Vas.']  Enough :  my  heart  is  fix'd. — 
Pleaseth  your  grace 

19  A  banqueting-room]  They  had  dined  in  another  room,  and, 
according  to  the  usual  practice,  repaired  to  the  apartment  in  which 
the  confectionery  was  set  out. 


202  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT 

To  taste  these  coarse  confections :  though  the  use 
Of  such  set  entertainments  more  consists 
In  custom  than  in  cause,  yet,  reverend  sir, 
I  am  still  made  your  servant  by  your  presence. 

Car.  And  we  your  friend. 

Sor.  But  where's  my  brother  Giovanni  ? 

Enter  GIOVANNI  with  a  heart  upon  his  dagger. 

Gio.  Here,  here,  Soranzo  !  trimm'd  in  reeking 

blood, 

That  triumphs  over  death,  proud  in  the  spoil 
Of  love  and  vengeance  !     Fate,  or  all  the  powers 
That  guide  the  motions  of  immortal  souls, 
Could  not  prevent  me. 

Car.  What  means  this? 

Flo.  Son  Giovanni ! 

Sor.  [aside}  Shall  I  be  forestall'd  ? 

Gio.  Be  not  amaz'd  :  if  your  misgiving  hearts 
Shrink  at  an  idle  sight,  what  bloodless  fear 
Of  coward  passion  would  have  seiz'd  your  senses, 
Had  you  beheld  the  rape  of  life  and  beauty 
Which  I  have  acted  ! — My  sister,  O,  my  sister  ! 

Flo.  Ha  !  what  of  her  ? 

Gio.  The  glory  of  my  deed 

Darken'd  the  mid-day  sun,  made  noon  as  night. 
You  came  to  feast,  my  lords,  with  dainty  fare  : 
I  came  to  feast  too ;  but  I  digg'd  for  food 
In  a  much  richer  mine  than  gold  or  stone 
Of  any  value  balanc'd ;  'tis  a  heart, 
A  heart,  my  lords,  in  which  is  mine  entomb'd  : 
Look  well  upon't ;  d'ye  know't  ? 

Fas.  [aside]  What  strange  riddle's  this  ? 

Gio.  'Tis  Annabella's  heart,  'tis  :  —  why  d'ye 

startle  ? — 
I  vow  'tis  hers  :  this  dagger's  point  plough'd  up 


SCENE  vi.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  203 

Her  fruitful  womb,  and  left  to  me  the  fame 
Of  a  most  glorious  executioner. 

Flo.  Why,  madman,  art  thyself? 

Gio.  Yes,  father;  and,  that  times  to  come  may 

know 

How,  as  my  fate,  I  honour'd  my  revenge, 
List,  father ;  to  your  ears  I  will  yield  up 
How  much  I  have  deserv'd  to  be  your  son. 

Flo.  What  is't  thou  say'st  ? 

Gio.  Nine  moons  have  had  their  changes 

Since  I  first  throughly  view'd  and  truly  lov'd 
Your  daughter  and  my  sister. 

Flo.  How  ! — Alas,  my  lords, 

He  is  a  frantic  madman  ! 

Gio.  Father,  no. 

For  nine  months'  space  in  secret  I  enjoy 'd 
Sweet  Annabella's  sheets  ;  nine  months  I  liv'd 
A  happy  monarch  of  her  heart  and  her. — 
Soranzo,  thou  know'st  this :  thy  paler  cheek 
Bears  the  confounding  print  of  thy  disgrace  ; 
For  her  too-fruitful  womb  too  soon  bewray'd 
The  happy  passage  of  our  stol'n  delights, 
And  made  her  mother  to  a  child  unborn. 

Car.  Incestuous  villain  ! 

Flo.  O,  his  rage  belies  him. 

Gio.  It  does  not,  'tis  the  oracle  of  truth  ; 
I  vow  it  is  so. 

Sor.  I  shall  burst  with  fury. — 

Bring  the  strumpet  forth ! 

Vas.  I  shall,  sir.  {Exit. 

Gio.  Do,  sir. — Have  you  all  no  faith 

To  credit  yet  my  triumphs  ?     Here  I  swear 
By  all  that  you  call  sacred,  by  the  love 
I  bore  my  Annabella  whilst  she  liv'd, 
These  hands  have  from  her  bosom  ripp'd  this  heart. 


204  >TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

Re-enter  VASQUES. 
Is't  true,  or  no,  sir  ? 

Fas.  Tis  most  strangely  true. 

Flo.  Cursed  man ! — Have  I  liv'd  to —  [Dies. 

Car.  Hold  up,  Florio. — 

Monster  of  children  !  see  what  thou  hast  done, 
Broke  thy  old  father's  heart. — Is  none  of  you 
Dares  venture  on  him  ? 

Gio.  Let  'em  !— O,  my  father, 

How  well  his  death  becomes  him  in  his  griefs ! 
Why,  this  was  done  with  courage  :  now  survives 
None  of  our  house  but  I,  gilt  in  the  blood 
Of  a  fair  sister  and  a  hapless  father. 

Sor.  Inhuman  scorn  of  men,  hast  thou  a  thought 
T'  outlive  thy  murders  ?  .  [Draws. 

Gio.  Yes,  I  tell  thee,  yes; 

For  in  my  fists  I  bear  the  twists  of  life. 
Soranzo,  see  this  heart,  which  was  thy  wife's; 
Thus  I  exchange  it  royally  for  thine,  [They  fight. 

And  thus,  and  thus  !  [Soranzo  falls. 

Now  brave  revenge  is  mine. 

Vas.  I  cannot  hold  any  longer. — You,  sir,  are  you 
grown  insolent  in  your  butcheries  ?  have  at  you  ! 

Gio.  Come,  I  am  arm'd  to  meet  thee.    [They  fight. 

Vas.  No  !  will  it  not  be  yet?  if  this  will  not,  an 
other  shall.  Not  yet  ?  I  shall  fit  you  anon. — VEN 
GEANCE  !20 

2 he  Banditti  rush  in. 

Gio.  Welcome  !  come  more  of  you  ;  whate'er  you 

be, 

I  dare  your  worst.        [They  surround  and  wound  him. 
O,  I  can  stand  no  longer  !  feeble  arms, 

20  VENGEANCE  !]  This,  as  was  observed  p.  195,  was  the  watch 
word,  or  preconcerted  signal  for  assistance. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE. 


205 


Have  you  so  soon  lost  strength?  [Falls. 

Vas.  Now  you  are  welcome,  sir  ! — [Aside  to  Bandl\ 
Away,  my  masters,  all  is  done;  shift  for  yourselves, 
your  reward  is  your  own  ;  shift  for  yourselves. 

Banditti.  Away,  away  !  [Exeunt. 

Fas.  How  d'ye,  my  lord? — See  you  this?  {pointing 
to  Gio.]  How  is't  ? 

Sor.  Dead ;  but  in  death  well  pleas'd  that  I  have 

liv'd 

To  see  my  wrongs  reveng'd  on  that  black  devil. 
O,  Vasques,  to  thy  bosom  let  me  give 
My  last  of  breath ;  let  not  that  lecher  live. 
O !  [Dies. 

Vas.  The  reward  of  peace  and  rest  be  with  him,21 
my  ever  dearest  lord  and  master  ! 

Gio.  Whose  hand  gave  me  this  wound  ? 

Vas.  Mine,  sir;  I  was  your  first  man:  have  you 
enough  ? 

Gio.  I  thank  thee  ;22  thou  hast  done  for  me 
But  what  I  would  have  else  done  on  myself. 
Art  sure  thy  lord  is  dead  ? 

Vas.  O,  impudent  slave  ! 

As  sure  as  I  am  sure  to  see  thee  die. 

Car.  Think  on    thy  life   and  end,    and  call   for 
mercy. 

Gio.  Mercy  !  why,  I  have  found  it  in  this  justice. 

Car.  Strive  yet  to  cry  to  Heaven. 

Gio.  O,  I  bleed  fast ! 

Death,  thou'rt  a  guest  long  look'd  for ;  I  embrace 
Thee  and  thy  wounds  :  O,  my  last  minute  comes ! 
Where'er  I  go,  let  me  enjoy  this  grace, 
Freely  to  view  my  Annabella's  face.  [Dies. 

Don.  Strange  miracle  of  justice  ! 

21  with  him,}  Gifford  printed  "  with  [you]."  D. 

22  I  thank  thee ;\  Qy.  lt  I  thank  thee,  Vasques"?  D. 


206  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

Car.  Raise  up  the  city ;  we  shall  be  murder'd  all  ! 

Vas.  You  need  not  fear,  you  shall  not :  this  strange 
task  being  ended,  I  have  paid  the  duty*  to  the  son 
which  I  have  vowed  to  the  father. 

Car.  Speak,  wretched  villain,  what  incarnate  fiend 
Hath  led  thee  on  to  this  ? 

Vas.  Honesty,  and  pity  of  my  master's  wrongs  : 
for  know,  my  lord,  I  am  by  birth  a  Spaniard,  brought 
forth  my  country  in  my  youth  by  Lord  Soranzo's  fa 
ther,  whom  whilst  he  lived  I  served  faithfully;  since 
whose  death  I  have  been  to  this  man  as  I  was  to  him. 
What  I  have  done  was  duty,  and  I  repent  nothing, 
but  that  the  loss  of  my  life  had  not  ransomed  his. 

Car.  Say,  fellow,  know'st  thou  any  yet  unnam'd 
Of  counsel  in  this  incest  ? 

Vas.  Yes,  an  old  woman,  sometimes23  guardian  to 
this  murdered  lady. 

Car.  And  what's  become  of  her  ? 

Vas.  Within  this  room  she  is;  whose  eyes,  after 
her  confession,  I  caused  to  be  put  out,  but  kept  alive, 
to  confirm  what  from  Giovanni's  own  mouth  you  have 
heard.  Now,  my  lord,  what  I  have  done  you  may 
judge  of;  and  let  your  own  wisdom  be  a  judge  in  your 
own  reason. 

Car.  Peace! — First  this  woman,24  chief  in  these 

effects, 

My  sentence  is,  that  forthwith  she  be  ta'en 
Out  of  the  city,  for  example's  sake, 
There  to  be  burnt  to  ashes. 

23  sometimes}  i.e.  formerly,  in  other  times  (see  my  Glossary  to 
Shakespeare]. — Gifford  printed  "sometime."  D. 

24  First  this  woman,  &c.J  What !  without  hearing  her?   It  is  well, 
however,  that  some  one  was  at  hand  to  satisfy  the  Cardinal's  fierce 
love  of  justice.     The  sacrifice,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  somewhat  like 
that  of  the  poor  bed-rid  weaver  in  Hudibras;  and  if,  of  the  four  who 
now  remain  alive  upon  the  stage,  three,  including  his  Eminence,  had 
been  sentenced  to  the  hurdle  with  her,  few  would  have  thought  them 
too  hardly  dealt  with. 


SCENE  vi.  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  207 

Don.  'Tis  most  just. 

Car.  Be  it  your  charge,  Donado,  see  it  done. 

Don.  I  shall. 

Vas.  What  for  me  ?  if  death,  'tis  welcome :  I  have 
been  honest  to  the  son,  as  I  was  to  the  father. 

Car.  Fellow,  for  thee,  since  what  thou  didst  was 

done 

Not  for  thyself,  being  no  Italian, 
We  banish  thee  for  ever ;  to  depart 
Within  three  days  :  in  this  we  do  dispense 
With  grounds  of  reason,  not  of  thine  offence. 

Vas.  'Tis  well:  this  conquest  is  mine,  and  I  rejoice 
that  a  Spaniard  outwent  an  Italian  in  revenge.    [Exit. 

Car.  Take  up  these  slaughter'd  bodies,  see  them 

buried ; 

And  all  the  gold  and  jewels,  or  whatsoever, 
Confiscate  by  the  canons  of  the  church, 
We  seize  upon  to  the  pope's  proper  use. 

Rich,  {discovers  himself]  Your  grace's  pardon  :  thus 

long  I  liv'd  disguis'd, 
To  see  th'  effect  of  pride  and  lust  at  once 
Brought  both  to  shameful  ends. 

Car.  What !    Richardetto,  whom  we  thought  for 
dead? 

Don.  Sir,  was  it  you — 

Rich.  Your  friend. 

Car.  We  shall  have  time 

To  talk  at  large  of  all :  but  never  yet 
Incest  and  murder  have  so  strangely  met. 
Of  one  so  young,  so  rich  in  nature's  store, 
Who  could  not  say,  'Tis  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE  ? 

\Exeunt. 

Here,  instead  of  an  epilogue,  we  have,  in  the  old  copy,  an  apo 
logy  for  the  errors  of  the  press.     It  forms,  as  the  learned  Partridge 


208  'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  ACT  v. 

says,  a  strange  non  sequitur,  and  is,  in  truth,  more  captious  than 
logical.  As  a  just  compliment,  however,  to  the  skill  of  the  per 
formers  and  the  good  taste  of  Lord  Peterborough,  it  merits  preser 
vation.  "The  general  commendation  deserved  by  the  actors  in 
their25  presentment  of  this  tragedy  may  easily  excuse  such  few26 
faults  as  are  escaped  in  the  printing.  A  common  charity  may  allow 
him  the  ability  of  spelling,  whom  a  secure  confidence  assures  that  he 
cannot  ignorantly  err  in  the  application  of  sense." 

The  remarks  on  this  dreadful  story  cannot  be  more  appositely 
terminated,  perhaps,  than  by  the  following  passage  from  the  con 
cluding  chapter  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Vulgar  Errors.  It  is,  as 
Mr.  Lamb  observes,  "solemn  and  fine."  "  As  there  are  many  rela 
tions,"  he  begins,  "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. " — "  For  of  sins  heteroclital,  and  such 
as  want  either  name  or  precedent,  there  is  ofttimes  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  amit 
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  expatiate  without 
these  singularities  of  villany ;  for  as  they  increase  the  hatred  of  vice  in 
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  seducible  spirits,  and  soliciting 
those  unto  the  imitation  of  them  whose  heads  were  never  so  per 
versely  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  Pancirollus,  nor  remain  any  register 
but  that  of  hell."  Works,  vol.  iii.  pp.  370,  372,  373. 

25  their]  Gifford  printed  "the."  D. 

26  few]  Omitted  by  Gifford.  D. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


VOL.   I. 


There  is  no  account  to  be  found  of  the  first  appearance  of  this 
tragedy,  or  of  its  success  on  the  stage ;  but  it  was  given  to  the  public 
in  1633.  In  the  title  it  is  said  to  have  been  "acted  by  the  King's 
Majestie's  servants,  at  the  Private  House  in  the  Black  Friers."  Ford 
has  prefixed  as  a  motto  the  words  FIDE  HONOR,  an  anagram  of  his 
own  name,  which  therefore  should  perhaps  be  written,  as  he  some 
times  wrote  it  himself,  JOHN  FORDE.  It  would  appear  from  the  Pro 
logue,  that  the  story,  which  is  admitted  to  be  of  ancient  date,  had 
some  foundation  in  fact.  It  may  one  day  perhaps  be  met  with. 
[The  full  title  of  the  4to  is,  The  Broken  Heart.  A  Tragedy.  Acted 
By  the  Kings  Majesties  Seruants  at  the  priuate  House  in  the  Black- 
Friers.  Fide  Honor.  London:  Printed  by  I.  B.  for  Hvgh  Beeston, 
and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  Shop,  neere  the  Castle  in  Corne-hill.  1633. 


TO  THE 
MOST  WORTHY  OBSERVER  OF  THE  NOBLEST  TITLES  IN  HONOUR, 

WILLIAM, 

LORD  CRAVEN,  BARON  OF  HAMPSTED-MARSHALL.1 
MY  LORD, 

THE  glory  of  a  great  name,  acquired  by  a  greater  glory 
of  action,  hath  in  all  ages  lived  the  truest  chronicle  to 
his  own  memory.  In  the  practice  of  which  argument 
your  growth  to  perfection,  even  in  youth,  hath  appeared 
so  sincere,  so  unflattering  a  penman,  that  posterity  can 
not  with  more  delight  read  the  merit  of  noble  endea- 

1  The  following  extract  from  Collins 's  Peerage  will  sufficiently 
explain  the  allusions  in  the  Dedication  to  the  active  life  of  this  emi 
nent  person.  "William,  first  Baron  and  Earl  Craven,  the  eldest  son 
of  Sir  W.  Craven,  Lord  Mayor,  was  much  affected  with  military 
exercises  from  his  youth,  and  signalised  himself  in  Germany  and  in 
the  Netherlands  under  Henry,  Prince  of  Orange.  In  which  valiant 
adventures  he  gained  such  honour,  that  on  his  return  he  was  first 
knighted  at  Newmarket,  March  4,  1626,  and  in  the  year  after  de 
servedly  raised  to  the  dignity  of  Lord  Craven  of  Hampsted-Marshall. 
In  1631  he  was  one  of  the  commanders  of  those  forces  sent  to  the 
assistance  of  the  great  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and  was  wounded  in  the 
assault  upon  the  strong  fortress  of  Kreutznach ;  after  the  surrender 
of  which,  he  was  told  by  the  Swedish  monarch,  '  he  adventured  so 
desperately,  he  bid  his  younger  brother  fair  play  for  his  estate. '  Sub 
sequently  he  was  advanced  to  the  dignities  of  Viscount  and  Earl, 
and  served  Charles  I.  and  II.  and  James  II.  faithfully;  and  died, 
after  a  very  active  and  chequered  life,  April  9,  1697,  at  the  advanced 
age  of  88.  He  is  now  chiefly  remembered  for  his  romantic  attach 
ment  to  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  daughter  of  James  I . ,  to  whom  it  is 
generally  supposed  he  was  privately  married." 


212  DEDICATION. 

vours  than  noble  endeavours  merit  thanks  from  pos 
terity  to  be  read  with  delight.  Many  nations,  many 
eyes  have  been  witnesses  of  your  deserts,  and  loved 
them:  be  pleased,  then,  with  the  freedom  of  your 
own  name,  to  admit  one  amongst  all,  particularly  into 
the  list  of  such  as  honour  a  fair  example  of  nobility. 
There  is  a  kind  of  humble  ambition,  not  uncommend- 
able,  when  the  silence  of  study  breaks  forth  into  dis 
course,  coveting  rather  encouragement  than  applause; 
yet  herein  censure  commonly  is  too  severe  an  auditor, 
without  the  moderation  of  an  able  patronage.  I  have 
ever  been  slow  in  courtship  of  greatness,  not  ignorant 
of  such  defects  as  are  frequent  to  opinion  :  but  the 
justice  of  your  inclination  to  industry  emboldens  my 
weakness  of  confidence  to  relish  an  experience  of 
your  mercy,  as  many  brave  dangers  have  tasted  of 
your  courage.  Your  Lordship  strove  to  be  known  to 
the  world,  when  the  world  knew  you  least,  by  volun 
tary  but  excellent  attempts  :  like  allowance  I  plead 
of  being  known  to  your  Lordship  (in  this  low  pre 
sumption),  by  tendering,  to  a  favourable  entertain 
ment,  a  devotion  offered  from  a  heart  that  can  be  as 
truly  sensible  of  any  least  respect  as  ever  profess  the 
owner  in  my  best,  my  readiest  services,  a  lover  of 
your  natural  love  to  virtue, 

JOHN  FORD. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


AMYCLAS,  king  of  Laconia. 
ITHOCLES,  a  favourite. 
ORGILUS,  son  to  Crotolon. 
BASSANES,  a  jealous  nobleman. 
ARMOSTES,  a  counsellor  of  state. 
CROTOLON,  another  counsellor. 
PROPHILUS,  friend  to  Ithocles. 
NEARCHUS,  prince  of  Argos. 
TECNICUS,  a  philosopher. 
HEMOPHIL, 


GRONEAS, 

AMELUS,  friend  to  Nearchus. 

PHULAS,  servant  to  Bassanes. 

CALANTHA,  the  King's  daughter. 

PENTHEA,  sister  to  Ithocles. 

EUPHRANEA,  daughter  to  Crotolon,  a  maid  of  honour. 

CHRISTALLA, 


,  maids  of  honour. 
PHILEMA, 

GRAUSIS,  overseer  of  Penthea. 

Courtiers,  Officers,  Attendants,  &c. 
SCENE — Sparta. 


Here  Ford  gives  what  he  calls  "the  names  of  the  speakers  fitted 
to  their  qualities."  If  he  found  them  elsewhere,  it  is  well ;  if  not,  he 
has  not  been  very  successful  in  his  appropriation  of  some  of  them. 

ITHOCLES,  Honour  of  Loveliness. 
ORGILUS,  Angry. 
BASSANES,  Vexation. 
ARMOSTES,  an  Appeaser. 
CROTOLON,  Noise. 
PROPHILUS,  Dear. 
NEARCHUS,  Young  Prince. 
TECNICUS,  Artist. 
HEMOPHIL,  Glutton. 
GRONEAS,  Tavern-haunter. 
AMELUS,  Trusty. 
PHULAS,  Watchful. 

CALANTHA,  Flower  of  Beauty. 
PENTHEA,  Complaint. 

EUPHRANEA,  Joy. 

CHRISTALLA,  Crystal. 
PHILEMA,  a  Kiss. 
GRAUSIS,  Old  Beldam. 

Persons  included. 

THRASUS,  Fierceness. 
APLOTES,  Simplicity. 


PROLOGUE. 

OUR  scene  is  Sparta.     He  whose  best  of  art 

Hath  drawn  this  piece  calls  it  THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

The  title  lends  no  expectation  here 

Of  apish  laughter,  or  of  some  lame  jeer 

At  place  or  persons ;  no  pretended  clause 

Of  jests  fit  for  a  brothel  courts  applause 

From  vulgar  admiration  :  such  low  songs, 

Tun'd  to  unchaste  ears,  suit  not  modest  tongues. 

The  virgin-sisters  then  deserv'd  fresh  bays 

When  innocence  and  sweetness  crown'd  their  lays; 

Then  vices  gasp'd  for  breath,  whose  whole  commerce 

Was  whipp'd  to  exile  by  unblushing  verse. 

This  law  we  keep  in  our  presentment  now, 

Not  to  take  freedom  more  than  we  allow ; 

What  may  be  here  thought  FICTION,2  when  time's  youth 

Wanted  some  riper  years,  was  known  a  TRUTH  : 

In  which,  if  words  have  cloth'd  the  subject  right, 

You  may  partake  a  pity  with  delight. 

2  fiction,}  The  4to  has  "a  fiction."  D. 


This  Prologue  has  been  hitherto  most  strangely  printed.  It  is  in 
the  author's  best  manner,  and,  whether  considered  in  a  moral  or 
poetical  light,  entitled  to  considerable  praise. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  CROTOLON'S  house. 

Enter  CROTOLON  and  ORGILUS. 

Crot.  Dally  not  further ;  I  will  know  the  reason 
That  speeds  thee  to  this  journey. 

Org.  Reason !  good  sir, 

I  can  yield  many. 

Crot.  Give  me  one,  a  good  one ; 

Such  I  expect,  and  ere  we  part  must  have  : 
Athens  !  pray,  why  to  Athens  ?  you  intend  not 
To  kick  against  the  world,  turn  cynic,  stoic, 
Or  read  the  logic-lecture,  or  become 
An  Areopagite,  and  judge  in  cases 
Touching  the  commonwealth;  for,  as  I  take  it, 
The  budding  of  your  chin  cannot  prognosticate 
So  grave  an  honour. 

Org.  All  this  I  acknowledge. 

Crot.  You  do!  then,  son,  if  books   and  love  of 

knowledge 

Inflame  you  to  this  travel,  here  in  Sparta 
You  may  as  freely  study. 

Org.  'Tis  not  that,  sir. 


2l8  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  I. 

Crot.  Not  that,  sir !    As  a  father,  I  command  thee 
T'  acquaint  me  with  the  truth. 

Org.  Thus  I  obey  ye. 

After  so  many  quarrels  as  dissension, 
Fury,  and  rage  had  broach'd  in  blood,  and  sometimes 
With  death  to  such  confederates  as  sided 
With  now-dead  Thrasus  and  yourself,  my  lord ; 
Our  present  king,  Amyclas,  reconcil'd 
Your  eager  swords  and  seal'd  a  gentle  peace : 
Friends  you  profess'd  yourselves ;  which  to  confirm, 
A  resolution  for  a  lasting  league 
Betwixt  your  families  was  entertain'd, 
By  joining  in  a  Hymenean  bond 
Me  and  the  fair  Penthea,  only  daughter 
To  Thrasus. 

Crot.  What  of  this  ? 

Org.  Much,  much,  dear  sir. 

A  freedom  of  converse,  an  interchange 
Of  holy  and  chaste  love,  so  fix'd  our  souls 
In  a  firm  growth  of  union,1  that  no  time 
Can  eat  into  the  pledge  :  we  had  enjo/d 
The  sweets  our  vows  expected,  had  not  cruelty 
Prevented  all  those  triumphs  we  prepar'd  for, 
By  Thrasus  his  untimely  death. 

Crot.  Most  certain. 

Org.  From  this  time  sprouted-up  that  poisonous  stalk 
Of  aconite,  whose  ripen'd  fruit  hath  ravish'd 
All  health,  all  comfort  of  a  happy  life ; 
For  Ithocles,  her  brother,  proud  of  youth, 
And  prouder  in  his  power,  nourish'd  closely 

1  In  a  firm  growth  of  union, ~\  I  have  omitted  "holy"  before 
"  union,"  which  had  evidently  crept  in  from  the  preceding  line,  and 
wholly  destroys  the  metre.  [But,  though  "holy"  is  found  in  one  copy 
of  the  4to  in  my  possession,  yet  it  is  omitted  in  another  copy  I  pos 
sess,  as  also  in  the  copy  in  the  King's  Library,  British  Museum.— 
See  note,  p.  34.  D.] 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


2I9 


The  memory  of  former  discontents, 
To  glory  in  revenge.     By  cunning  partly, 
Partly  by  threats,  he  woos  at  once  and  forces 
His  virtuous  sister  to  admit  a  marriage 
With  Bassanes,  a  nobleman,  in  honour 
And  riches,  I  confess,  beyond  my  fortunes. 

Crot.  All  this  is  no  sound  reason  to  importune 
My  leave  for  thy  departure. 

Org.  Now  it  follows. 

Beauteous  Penthea,  wedded  to  this  torture 
By  an  insulting  brother,  being  secretly 
CompelPd  to  yield  her  virgin  freedom  up 
To  him,  who  never  can  usurp  her  heart, 
Before  contracted  mine,  is  now  so  yok'd 
To  a  most  barbarous  thraldom,  misery, 
Affliction,  that  he  savours  not  humanity, 
Whose  sorrow  melts  not  into  more  than  pity 
In  hearing  but  her  name. 

Crot.  As  hpw,  pray  ? 

Org.  Bassanes, 

The  man  that  calls  her  wife,  considers  truly 
What  heaven  of  perfections  he  is  lord  of 
By  thinking  fair  Penthea  his  :  this  thought 
Begets  a  kind  of  monster-love,  which  love 
Is  nurse  unto  a  fear  so  strong  and  servile 
As  brands  all  dotage  with  a  jealousy  : 
All  eyes  who  gaze  upon  that  shrine  of  beauty 
He  doth  resolve2  do  homage  to  the  miracle  ; 
Some  one,  he  is  assur'd,  may  now  or  then, 
If  opportunity  but  sort,  prevail : 
So  much,  out  of  a  self-unworthiness, 
His  fears  transport  him  ;  not  that  he  finds  cause 
In  her  obedience,  but  his  own  distrust. 

2  He  doth  resolve]  i.  e.  he  doth  satisfy,  convince  himself. 


220  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

Crot.  You  spin-out  your  discourse. 

Org.  My  griefs  are  violent : 

For,  knowing  how  the  maid  was  heretofore 
Courted  by  me,  his  jealousies  grow  wild 
That  I  should  steal,  again  into  her  favours, 
And  undermine  her  virtues  ;  which  the  gods 
Know  I  nor  dare  nor  dream  of.     Hence,  from  hence, 
I  undertake  a  voluntary  exile ; 
First,  by  my  absence  to  take  off  the  cares 
Of  jealous  Bassanes  ;  but  chiefly,  sir, 
To  free  Penthea  from  a  hell  on  earth  ; 
Lastly,  to  lose  the  memory  of  something 
Her  presence  makes  to  live  in  me  afresh. 

Crot.  Enough,  my  Orgilus,  enough.     To  Athens, 
I  give  a  full  consent. — Alas,  good  lady  ! — 
We  shall  hear  from  thee  often  ? 

Org.  Often. 

Crot.  See, 

Thy  sister  comes  to  give  a  farewell. 

Enter  EUPHRANEA. 

Euph.  Brother  !— 

Org.  Euphranea,  thus  upon  thy  cheeks  I  print 
A  brother's  kiss  ;  more  careful  of  thine  honour, 
Thy  health,  and  thy  well-doing,  than  my  life. 
Before  we  part,  in  presence  of  our  father, 
I  must  prefer  a  suit  t'  ye. 

Euph.  You  may  style  it, 

My  brother,  a  command. 

Org.  That  you  will  promise3 


3  That  you  will  promise,  &c.]  Orgilus  seems  to  entertain  some 
suspicion  of  Ithocles ;  but  the  exaction  of  such  a  promise  appears 
not  altogether  consistent  in  one  who  had  just  been  describing  the 
misery  of  his  own  sufferings  from  the  power  and  influence  of  a  bro 
ther.  This,  however,  is  an  admirable  introductory  scene ;  and  in 


SCENE  I.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  22 1 

Never  to  pass4  to  any  man,  however 

Worthy,  your  faith,  till,  with  our  father's  leave, 

I  give  a  free  consent. 

Crot.  An  easy  motion  ! 

I'll  promise  for  her,  Orgilus. 

Org.  Your  pardon ; 

Euphranea's  oath  must  yield  me  satisfaction. 

Euph.  By  Vesta's  sacred  fires  I  swear. 

Crot.  And  I, 

By  great  Apollo's  beams,  join  in  the  vow, 
Not  without  thy  allowance  to  bestow  her 
On  any  living. 

Org.  Dear  Euphranea, 

Mistake  me  not :  far,  far  'tis  from  my  thought, 
As  far  from  any  wish  of  mine,  to  hinder 
Preferment  to  an  honourable  bed 
Or  fitting  fortune  ;  thou  art  young  and  handsome ; 
And  'twere  injustice, — more,  a  tyranny, — 
Not  to  advance  thy  merit :  trust  me,  sister, 
It  shall  be  my  first  care  to  see  thee  match'd 
As  may  become  thy  choice  and  our  contents. 
I  have  your  oath. 

Euph.  You  have.     But  mean  you,  brother, 

To  leave  us,  as  you  say  ? 

Crot.  Ay,  ay,  Euphranea  : 

He  has  just  grounds  direct  him.     I  will  prove 
A  father  and  a  brother  to  thee. 

Euph.  Heaven 

Does  look  into  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  : 
Gods,  you  have  mercy  with  ye,  else — 

Grot.  Doubt  nothing ; 


justice  to  the  author  it  should  be  observed,  that  few  of  his  contem 
poraries  open  the  plot  of  their  drama  so  happily  as  he  occasionally 
does. 

4  Never  to  pass]  The  4to  has  "To  passe  neuer."  D. 


222  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

Thy  brother  will  return  in  safety  to  us. 

Org.  Souls  sunk  in  sorrows  never  are  without  'em ; 
They  change  fresh  airs,  but  bear  their  griefs  about  'em. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.   A  room  in  the  palace. 

Flourish.    Enter  AMYCLAS,  ARMOSTES,  PROPHILUS,  Courtiers, 
and  Attendants. 

Amyc.  The  Spartan  gods  are  gracious ;  our  humility 
Shall  bend  before  their  altars,  and  perfume 
Their  temples  with  abundant  sacrifice. 
See,  lords,  Amyclas,  your  old  king,  is  entering 
Into  his  youth  again  !  I  shall  shake  off 
This  silver  badge  of  age,  and  change  this  snow 
For  hairs  as  gay  as  are  Apollo's  locks; 
Our  heart  leaps  in  new  vigour. 

Arm.  May  old  time 

Run  back  to  double  your  long  life,  great  sir ! 

Amyc.  It  will,  it  must,  Armostes  :  thy  bold  nephew, 
Death-braving  Ithocles,  brings  to  our  gates 
Triumphs  and  peace  upon  his  conquering  sword. 
Laconia  is  a  monarchy  at  length  ; 
Hath  in  this  latter  war  trod  under  foot 
Messene's  pride ;  Messene  bows  her  neck 
To  Lacedaemon's  royalty.     O,  'twas 
A  glorious  victory,  and  doth  deserve 
More  than  a  chronicle — a  temple,  lords, 
A  temple  to  the  name  of  Ithocles. — 
Where  didst  thou  leave  him,  Prophilus  ? 

Pro.  At  Pephon, 

Most  gracious  sovereign ;  twenty  of  the  noblest 
Of  the  Messenians  there  attend  your  pleasure, 
For  such  conditions  as  you  shall  propose 
In  settling  peace,  and  liberty  of  life. 


SCENE  ir.  THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


223 


Amyc.  When  comes  your  friend  the  general  ? 
Pro.  He  promis'd 

To  follow  with  all  speed  convenient. 

Enter  CALANTHA,  EUPHRANEA  ;  CHRISTALLA  and 
PHILEMA  with  a  garland  ;  and  CROTOLON. 

Amyc.  Our  daughter  ! — Dear  Calantha,  the  happy 

news, 

The  conquest  of  Messene,  hath  already 
Enrich'd  thy  knowledge. 

Cat.  With  the  circumstance 

And  manner  of  the  fight,  related  faithfully 
By  Prophilus  himself. — But,  pray,  sir,  tell  me 
How  doth  the  youthful  general  demean 
His  actions  in  these  fortunes  ? 

Pro.  Excellent  princess, 

Your  own  fair  eyes  may  soon  report  a  truth 
Unto  your  judgment,  with  what  moderation, 
Calmness  of  nature,  measure,  bounds,  and  limits 
Of  thankfulness  and  joy,  he  doth  digest 
Such  amplitude  of  his  success  as  would 
In  others,  moulded  of  a  spirit  less  clear, 
Advance  'em  to  comparison  with  heaven : 
But  Ithocles — 

Cal.  Your  friend — 

Pro.  He  is  so,  madam, 

In  which  the  period  of  my  fate  consists  : 
He,  in  this  firmament  of  honour,  stands 
Like  a  star  fix'd,  not  mov'd  with  any  thunder 
Of  popular  applause  or  sudden  lightning 
Of  self-opinion ;  he  hath  serv'd  his  country, 
And  thinks  'twas  but  his  duty. 

Crot.  You  describe 

A  miracle  of  man. 


224  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

Amyc.  Such,  Crotolon, 

On  forfeit  of  a  king's  word,  thou  wilt  find  him. — 

[Flourish. 
Hark,  warning  of  his  coming  !  all  attend  him. 

Enter  ITHOCLES,  ushered  in  by  the  Lords,  and  followed 
by  HEMOPHIL  and  GRONEAS. 

Return  into  these  arms,  thy  home,  thy  sanctuary, 
Delight  of  Sparta,  treasure  of  my  bosom, 
Mine  own,  own  Ithocles ! 

Ith.  Your  humblest  subject. 

Arm.  Proud  of  the  blood  I  claim  an  interest  in, 
As  brother  to  thy  mother,  I  embrace  thee, 
Right  noble  nephew. 

Ith.  Sir,  your  love's  too  partial. 

Crot.  Our  country  speaks  by  me,  who  by  thy  valour, 
Wisdom,  and  service,  shares  in  this  great  action  ; 
Returning  thee,  in  part  of  thy  due  merits, 
A  general  welcome. 

Ith.  You  exceed  in  bounty. 

Cal.  Christalla,   Philema,  the  chaplet.  [Takes  the 

chapletfrom  them.'] — Ithocles, 
Upon  the  wings  of  fame  the  singular 
And  chosen  fortune  of  an  high  attempt 
Is  borne  so  past  the  view  of  common  sight, 
That  I  myself  with  mine  own  hands  have  wrought, 
To  crown  thy  temples,  this  provincial5  garland  : 
Accept,  wear,  and  enjoy  it  as  our  gift 

8  this  provincial  garland:]  i.e.  the  wreath  (of  laurel)  which  she 
had  prepared ;  and  which  the  ancients  conferred  on  those  who,  like 
Ithocles,  had  added  a  province  to  the  empire.  These  honorary 
chaplets  or  crowns  were,  as  every  schoolboy  knows,  composed  of 
plants,  leaves,  or  flowers,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  service  ren 
dered.  Thus  we  have  the  provincial,  the  civic,  the  mural,  the  obsi- 
dional,  and  various  other  garlands,  all  woven  of  different  materials, 
and  all  appropriate  to  their  respective  wearers,  "deserv'd,  not  pur- 
chas'd." 


SCENE  II.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  225 

Deserv'd,  not  purchas'd. 

Ith.  You're  a  royal  maid. 

Amyc.  She  is  in  all  our  daughter. 

Ith.  Let  me  blush, 

Acknowledging  how  poorly  I  have  serv'd, 
What  nothings  I  have  done,  compared  with  th'  honours 
Heap'd  on  the  issue  of  a  willing  mind ; 
In  that  lay  mine  ability,  that  only  : 
For  who  is  he  so  sluggish  from  his  birth, 
So  little  worthy  of  a  name  or  country, 
That  owes  not  out  of  gratitude  for  life 
A  debt  of  service,  in  what  kind  soever 
Safety  or  counsel  of  the  commonweath 
Requires,  for  payment? 

Cat.  He  speaks  truth. 

Ith.  Whom  heaven 

Is  pleas'd  to  style  victorious,  there  to  such 
Applause  runs  madding,  like  the  drunken  priests 
In  Bacchus'  sacrifices,  without  reason 
Voicing  the  leader-on  a  demi-god  ; 
Whenas,  indeed,  each  common  soldier's  blood 
Drops  down  as  current  coin  in  that  hard  purchase 
As  his  whose  much  more  delicate  .condition 
Hath  suck'd  the  milk  of  ease  :  judgment  commands, 
But  resolution  executes.     I  use  not, 
Before  this  royal  presence,  these  fit  slights6 
As  in  contempt  of  such  as  can  direct ; 
My  speech  hath  other  end ;  not  to  attribute 
All  praise  to  one  man's  fortune,  which  is  strengthen'd 
By  many  hands :  for  instance,  here  is  Prophilus, 
A  gentleman — I  cannot  flatter  truth — 
Of  much  desert ;  and,  though  in  other  rank, 

6  these  fit  slights]  i.  e.  these  trifling  services,  to  which  I  have 
adapted  the  slight  or  humble  language  which  becomes  them.  It  is 
the  modesty  of  Ithocles  which  speaks. 

VOL.   I.  Q 


226  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  I. 

Both  Hemophil  and  Groneas  were  not  missing 
To  wish  their  country's  peace  ;  for,  in  a  word, 
All  there  did  strive  their  best,  and  'twas  our  duty. 

Amyc.  Courtiers  turn  soldiers  ! — We  vouchsafe  our 
hand  :         \Hem.  and  Gron.  kiss  his  hand. 
Observe  your  great  example. 

Hem.  With  all  diligence. 

Gron.  Obsequiously  and  hourly. 

Amyc.  Some  repose 

After  these  toils  is7  needful.     We  must  think  on 
Conditions  for  the  conqueiM ;  they  expect  'em. 
On  ! — Come,  my  Ithocles. 

Euph.  Sir,  with  your  favour, 

I  need  not  a  supporter. 

Pro.  Fate  instructs  me. 

[Exit  Amyc.  attended,  Ith.,  Col.,  &c.  As  Chris, 
and  Phil,  are  following  Cal.  they  are  detained 
by  Hem.  and  Gron. 

Chris.  With  me? 

Phil.  Indeed  I  dare  not  stay. 

Hem.  Sweet  lady, 

Soldiers  are  blunt, — your  lip.  [Kisses  her. 

Chris.  Fie,  this  is  rudeness  : 

You  went  not  hence  such  creatures. 

Gron.  Spirit  of  valour 

Is  of  a  mounting  nature. 

Phil.  It  appears  so. — 

In  earnest,  pray,  how  many  men  apiece8 
Have  you  two  been  the  death  of? 

Gron.  'Faith,  not  many; 

We  were  compos'd  of  mercy. 

Hem.  For  our  daring, 

7  is]  The  410  has  "are."  D. 

8  In  earnest,  pray,  how  many  men  apiece}  The  4to  has  "  Pray  in 
earnest,  how,"  &c. — Gifford  printed  "Pray  [now],  in  earnest,  how 
many  men  apiece."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  227 

You  heard  the  general's  approbation 
Before  the  king. 

Chris.  You  "wisffdyQMi  country's  peace;" 

That  show'd  your  charity  :  where  are  your  spoils, 
Such  as  the  soldier  fights  for  ? 

Phil.  They  are  coming. 

Chris.  By  the  next  carrier,  are  they  not  ? 

Gron.  Sweet  Philema, 

When  I  was  in  the  thickest  of  mine  enemies, 
Slashing  off  one  man's  head,  another's  nose, 
Another's  arms  and  legs, — 

Phil.  And  all  together. 

Gron.  Then  would  I9  with  a  sigh  remember  thee, 
And  cry,  "  Dear  Philema,  'tis  for  thy  sake 
I  do  these  deeds  of  wonder  !" — dost  not  love  me 
With  all  thy  heart  now  ? 

Phil.  Now  as  heretofore. 

I  have  not  put  my  love  to  use  ;  the  principal 
Will  hardly  yield  an  interest. 

Gron.  By  Mars, 

I'll  marry  thee  ! 

Phil.  By  Vulcan,  you're  forsworn, 

Except  my  mind  do  alter  strangely. 

Gron.  One  word. 

Chris.  You  lie  beyond  all  modesty  : — forbear  me. 

Hem.  I'll  make  thee  mistress  of  a  city  ;  'tis 
Mine  own  by  conquest. 

Chris.  By  petition;  sue  for't 

In  forma  pauper  is. — City  !  kennel. — Gallants  ! 
Off  with  your  feathers,  put  on  aprons,  gallants  ; 
Learn  to  reel,  thrum,  or  trim  a  lady's  dog, 
And  be  good  quiet  souls  of  peace,  hobgoblins  ! 

Hem.  Christalla  ! 

9  would  I]  Gifford  printed  "  I  would."  D. 


228  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

Chris.  Practise  to  drill  hogs,  in  hope 

To  share  in  th'  acorns. — Soldiers  !  corncutters, 
But  not  so  valiant ;  they  ofttimes  draw  blood, 
Which  you  durst  never  do.     When  you  have  practis'd 
More  wit  or  more  civility,  we'll  rank  ye 
I'  th'  list  of  men  :  till  then,  brave  things-at-arms, 
Dare  not  to  speak  to  us, — most  potent  Groneas ! — 

Phil.  And  Hemophil  the  hardy ! — at  your  services. 
[Exeunt  Chris,  and  Phil. 

Gron.  They  scorn  us,  as  they  did  before  we  went. 

Hem.  Hang  'em !  let  us  scorn  them,  and  be  re- 
veng'd. 

Gron.  Shall  we  ? 

Hem.        We  will :  and  when  we  slight  them  thus, 
Instead  of  following  them,  they'll  follow  us ; 
It  is  a  woman's  nature. 

Gron.  'Tis  a  scurvy  one.      [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.   The  gardens  of  the  palace.     A  grove. 

Enter  TECNICUS,  and  ORGILUS  disguised  like  one  of  his  Scholars. 

Tec.  Tempt  not  the  stars ;  young  man,  thou  canst 

not  play 

With  the  severity  of  fate  :  this  change 
Of  habit  and  disguise  in  outward  view 
Hides  not  the  secrets  of  thy  soul  within  thee 
From  their  quick-piercing  eyes,  which  dive  at  all  times 
Down  to  thy  thoughts  :  in  thy  aspect  I  note 
A  consequence  of  danger. 

Org.  Give  me  leave, 

Grave  Tecnicus,  without  foredooming  destiny, 
Under  thy  roof  to  ease  my  silent  griefs, 


SCENE  HI.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  229 

By  applying  to  my  hidden  wounds  the  balm 
Of  thy  oraculous  lectures.     If  my  fortune 
Run  such  a  crooked  by-way  as  to  wrest 
My  steps  to  ruin,  yet  thy  learned  precepts 
Shall  call  me  back  and  set  my  footings  straight. 
I  will  not  court  the  world. 

Tec.  Ah,  Orgilus, 

Neglects  in  young  men  of  delights  and  life 
Run  often  to  extremities ;  they  care  not 
For  harms  to  others  who  -contemn  their  own. 

Org.  But  I,  most  learned  artist,  am  not  so  much 
At  odds  with  nature  that  I  grudge  the  thrift 
Of  any  true  deserver ;  nor  doth  malice 
Of  present  hopes  so  check  them  with  despair 
As  that  I  yield  to  thought  of  more  affliction 
Than  what  is  incident  to  frailty:  wherefore 
Impute  not  this  retired  course  of  living 
Some  little  time  to  any  other  cause 
Than  what  I  justly  render, — th'  information 
Of  an  unsettled  mind ;  as  the  effect 
Must  clearly  witness. 

Tec.  Spirit. of  truth  inspire  thee  ! 

On  these  conditions  I  conceal  thy  change, 
And  willingly  admit  thee  for  an  auditor. — 
I'll  to  my  study. 

Org.  I  to  contemplations 

In  these  delightful  walks.  [Exit  Tec. 

Thus  metamorphos'd, 
I  may  without  suspicion  hearken  after 
Penthea's  usage  and  Euphranea's  faith. 
Love,  thou  art  full  of  mystery !  the  deities 
Themselves  are  not  secure10  in  searching  out 

1°  the  deities 

Themselves  are  not  secure]  i.  e.  sure,  certain :  they  cannot  de 
pend  on  the  results  of  their  own  omniscience  in  these  inquiries. 


230  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

The  secrets  of  those  flames,  which,  hidden,  waste 

A  breast  made  tributary  to  the  laws 

Of  beauty :  physic  yet  hath  never  found 

A  remedy  to  cure  a  lover's  wound. — 

Ha !  who  are  those  that  cross  yon  private  walk 

Into  the  shadowing  grove  in  amorous  foldings  ? 

PROPHILUS  and  EupHRANEA11  pass  by  arm  in  arm 
and  whispering. 

My  sister  !  O,  my  sister  !  'tis  Euphranea 
With  Prophilus  :  supported  too  !  I  would 
It  were  an  apparition  !  Prophilus 
Is  Ithocles  his  friend  :  it  strangely  puzzles  me. 

Re-enter  PROPHILUS  and  EUPHRANEA. 

Again  !  help  me,  my  book ;  this  scholar's  habit 
Must  stand  my  privilege  :  my  mind  is  busy, 
Mine  eyes  and  ears  are  open. 

[  Walks  aside,  pretending  to  read, 

Pro.  Do  not  waste 

The  span  of  this  stol'n  time,  lent  by  the  gods 
For  precious  use,  in  niceness.12     Bright  Euphranea, 
Should  I  repeat  old  vows,  or  study  new, 
For  purchase  of  belief  to  my  desires, — 

Org.  \aside\  Desires  ! 

Pro.  My  service,  my  integrity, — 

Org.  [aside}  That's  better. 

Pro.  I  should  but  repeat  a  lesson 

Oft  conn'd  without  a  prompter  but  thine  eyes  : 

11  Prophilus  and  Euphranea,   &c.]   The   4to   has   "Prophilus 
passeth  ouer,  supporting  Euphrania,  and  whispering, "—where  "sup 
porting"  seems  to  mean  "with  his  arm  round  her  waist."  D. 

12  Do  not  waste 
The  span  of  this  stofn  time,  lent  by  the  gods 

For  precious  use,  in  niceness.]  i.e.  in  unnecessary  preciseness, 
in  starting  trivial  and  unimportant  objections. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  231 

My  love  is  honourable. 

Org.  \aside\  So  was  mine 

To  my  Penthea,  chastely  honourable. 

Pro.  Nor  wants  there  more  addition  to  my  wish 
Of  happiness  than  having  thee  a  wife ; 
Already  sure  of  Ithocles,  a  friend 
Firm  and  unalterable. 

Org.  \aside\  But  a  brother 

More  cruel  than  the  grave. 

Euph.  What  can  you  look  for, 

In  answer  to  your  noble  protestations, 
From  an  unskilful  maid,  but  language  suited 
To  a  divided  mind  ? 

Org.  \aside\  Hold  out,  Euphranea  ! 

Euph.  Know,  Prophilus,  I  never  undervalu'd, 
From  the  first  time  you  mention'd  worthy  love, 
Your  merit,  means,  or  person  :  it  had  been 
A  fault  of  judgment  in  me,  and  a  dulness 
In  my  affections,  not  to  weigh  and  thank 
My  better  stars  that  offer'd  me  the  grace 
Of  so  much  blissfulness.     For,  to  speak  truth, 
The  law  of  my  desires  kept  equal  pace 
With  yours ;  nor  have  I  left  that  resolution  : 
But  only,  in  a  word,  whatever  choice 
Lives  nearest  in  my  heart  must  first  procure 
Consent  both  from  my  father  and  my  brother, 
Ere  he  can  own  me  his. 

Org.  \aside\  She  is  forsworn  else. 

Pro.  Leave  me  that  task. 

Euph.  My  brother,  ere  he  parted 

To  Athens,  had  my  oath. 

Org.  \aside\  Yes,  yes,  he  had,  sure. 

Pro.  I  doubt  not,  with  the  means  the  court  supplies, 
But  to  prevail  at  pleasure. 

Org.  \aside\  Very  likely ! 


232  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

Pro.   Meantime,  best,  dearest,   I  may  build  my 

hopes 

On  the  foundation  of  thy  constant  sufferance 
In  any  opposition. 

Euph.  Death  shall  sooner 

Divorce  life  and  the  joys  I  have  in  living 
Than  my  chaste  vows  from  truth. 

Pro.  On  thy  fair  hand 

I  seal  the  like. 

Org.  \aside\   There  is  no  faith  in  woman. 
Passion,  O,  be  contain'd  !  my  very  heart-strings 
Are  on  the  tenters. 

Euph.  We  are  overheard.13 

Cupid  protect  us  !  'twas  a  stirring,  sir, 
Of  some  one  near. 

Pro.  Your  fears  are  needless,  lady ; 

None  have  access  into  these  private  pleasures 
Except  some  near  in  court,  or  bosom-student 
From  Tecnicus  his  oratory,  granted 
By  special  favour  lately  from  the  king 
Unto  the  grave  philosopher. 

Euph.  Methinks 

I  hear  one  talking  to  himself, — I  see  him. 

Pro.  'Tis  a  poor  scholar,  as  I  told  you,  lady. 

Org.  \aside\  I  am  discover'd. — \Half  aloud  to  him 
self,  as  if  studying]  Say  it;  is  it  possible, 
With  a  smooth  tongue,  a  leering  countenance, 
Flattery,  or  force  of  reason — I  come  t'  ye,  sir — 

13  Euph.  We  are  overheard.}  The  410  reads  "Sir,  we  are  over 
heard,"  which  destroys  both  metre  and  rhythm.  From  the  manner 
in  which  this  is  printed  in  the  old  copy,  I  am  almost  persuaded  that 
the  original  stood  thus  ; 

1 '  We  are  overheard,  sir. 
Cupid  protect  us !  'twas  a  stirring,  sure, 
Of  some  one  near." 

[In  the  first  of  these  lines  I  believe  the  true  reading  is  "Sir,  we  are 
o'erheard."  D.] 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  233 

To  turn  or  to  appease  the  raging  sea? 
Answer  to  that. — Your  art !  what  art  ?  to  catch 
And  hold  fast  in  a  net  the  sun's  small  atoms  ? 
No,  no ;  they'll  out,  they'll  out :  ye  may  as  easily. 
Outrun  a  cloud  driven  by  a  northern  blast 
As  fiddle-faddle  so  !     Peace,  or  speak  sense. 

Euph.  Call  you  this  thing  a  scholar?  'las,  he's 
lunatic. 

Pro.  Observe  him,  sweet ;  'tis  but  his  recreation. 

Org.  But  will  you  hear  a  little  ?   You're  so  tetchy, 
You  keep  no  rule  in  argument :  philosophy 
Works  not  upon  impossibilities, 
But  natural  conclusions. — Mew  ! — absurd! 
The  metaphysics  are  but  speculations 
Of  the  celestial  bodies,  or  such  accidents 
As  not  mixt  perfectly,  in  the  air  engender'd, 
Appear  to  us  unnatural ;  that's  all. 
Prove  it ;  yet,  with  a  reverence  to  your  gravity, 
I'll  balk  illiterate  sauciness,  submitting 
My  sole  opinion  to  the  touch  of  writers. 

Pro.  Now  let  us  fall  in  with  him. 

[They  come  forward. 

Org.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

These  apish  boys,  when  they  but  taste  the  grammates14 
And  principles  of  theory,  imagine 
They  can  oppose  their  teachers.     Confidence 
Leads  many  into  errors. 

Pro.  By  your  leave,  sir. 

Euph.  Are  you  a  scholar,  friend  ? 

14  when  they  but  taste  the  grammates]  Orgilus  affects  the  pedant- 
language  of  the  schools.  To  taste  is  to  touch  lightly,  to  merely 
enter  on :  grammates  seems  to  be  a  contemptuous  diminutive  for 
grammar,  as  grammatist  is  for  grammarian. 

"Mew!  —  absurd!"  which  occurs  just  above,  is  a  term  of  the 
schools,  and  is  used  when  false  conclusions  are  illogically  deduced 
from  the  opponent's  premises.  See  Mass.  vol.  iii.  p.  280,  where 
many  [?]  examples  of  the  expression  may  be  found. 


234  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  i. 

Org.  I  am,  gay  creature, 

With  pardon  of  your  deities,  a  mushroom 
On  whom  the  dew  of  heaven  drops  now  and  then ; 
The  sun  shines  on  me  too,  I  thank  his  beams  ! 
Sometime15  I  feel  their  warmth ;  and  eat  and  sleep. 

Pro.  Does  Tecnicus  read  to  thee  ? 

Org.  Yes,  forsooth, 

He  is  my  master  surely;  yonder  door 
Opens  upon  his  study. 

Pro.  Happy  creatures ! 

Such  people  toil  not,  sweet,  in  heats  of  state, 
Nor  sink  in  thaws  of  greatness  :  their  affections 
Keep  order  with  the  limits  of  their  modesty; 
Their  love  is  love  of  virtue. — What's  thy  name  ? 

Org.  Aplotes,  sumptuous  master,  a  poor  wretch. 

Euph.  Dost  thou  want  anything  ? 

Org.  Books,  Venus,  books. 

Pro.  Lady,  a  new  conceit  comes  in  my  thought, 
And  most  available  for  both  our  comforts. 

Euph.  My  lord, — 

Pro.  Whiles  I  endeavour  to  deserve 

Your  father's  blessing  to  our  loves,  this  scholar 
May  daily  at  some  certain  hours  attend, 
What  notice  I  can  write  of  my  success, 
Here  in  this  grove,  and  give  it  to  your  hands ; 
The  like  from  you  to  me :  so  can  we  never, 
Barr'd  of  our  mutual  speech,  want  sure  intelligence, 
And  thus  our  hearts  may  talk  when  our  tongues  cannot. 

Euph.  Occasion  is  most  favourable ;  use  it. 

Pro.  Aplotes,  wilt  thou  wait  us  twice  a-day, 
At  nine  i'  the  morning  and  at  four  at  night, 
Here  in  this  bower,  to  convey  such  letters 
As  each  shall  send  to  other  ?     Do  it  willingly, 

*15  Sometime]  i.e.  Sometimes  (see  my  Glossary  to  Shakespeare}. — 
Gifford  printed  "Sometimes."  D. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  235 

Safely,  and  secretly,  and  I  will  furnish 
Thy  study,  or  what  else  thou  canst  desire. 

Org.  Jove,  make  me  thankful,  thankful,  I  beseech 

thee, 

Propitious  Jove  !     I  will  prove  sure  and  trusty : 
You  will  not  fail  me  books  ? 

Pro.  Nor  aught  besides 

Thy  heart  can  wish.     This  lady's  name's  Euphranea, 
Mine  Prophilus. 

Org.  I  have  a  pretty  memory; 

It  must  prove  my  best  friend.     I  will  not  miss 
One  minute  of  the  hours  appointed. 

Pro.  Write 

The  books  thou  wouldst  have  bought  thee  in  a  note, 
Or  take  thyself  some  money. 

Org.  No,  no  money; 

Money  to  scholars  is  a  spirit  invisible, 
We  dare  not  finger  it :  or  books,  or  nothing. 

Pro.  Books  of  what  sort  thou  wilt :  do  not  forget 
Our  names. 

Org.          I  warrant  ye,  I  warrant  ye. 

Pro.  Smile,  Hymen,  on  the  growth  of  our  desires  ; 
We'll  feed  thy  torches  with  eternal  fires  ! 

[Exeunt  Pro.  and  Euph. 

Org.  Put  out  thy  torches,  Hymen,  or  their  light 
Shall  meet  a  darkness  of  eternal  night ! 
Inspire  me,  Mercury,  with  swift  deceits. 
Ingenious  Fate  has  leapt  into  mine  arms, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  my  brain.16     Mortality 
Creeps  on  the  dung  of  earth,  and  cannot  reach 
The  riddles  which  are  purpos'd  by  the  gods. 
Great  arts  best  write  themselves  in  their  own  stories ; 
They  die  too  basely  who  outlive  their  glories.     \Exit. 

16  brain.~\  Gifford  printed  "brains."  D. 


236  »     THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  A  room  in  BASS  AN  ES'  house. 

Enter  BASSANES  and  PHULAS. 

Bass.  I'll  have  that  window  next  the  street  damm'd- 

up; 

It  gives  too  full  a  prospect  to  temptation, 
And  courts  a  gazer's  glances  :  there's  a  lust 
Committed  by  the  eye,  that  sweats  and  travails, 
Plots,  wakes,  contrives,  till  the  deformed  bear-whelp, 
Adultery,  be  lick'd  into  the  act, 
The  very  act :  that  light  shall  be  damm'd-up ; 
D'ye  hear,  sir  ? 

Phu.  I  do  hear,  my  lord ;  a  mason 

Shall  be  provided  suddenly. 

Bass.  Some  rogue, 

Some  rogue  of  your  confederacy, — factor 
For  slaves  and  strumpets  ! — to  convey  close  packets 
From  this  spruce  springal  and  the  t'other  youngster ; 
That  gaudy  earwig,  or  my  lord  your  patron, 
Whose  pensioner  you  are. — I'll  tear  thy  throat  out, 
Son  of  a  cat,  ill-looking  hound's-head,  rip-up 
Thy  ulcerous  maw,  if  I  but  scent  a  paper, 
A  scroll,  but  half  as  big  as  what  can  cover 
A  wart  upon  thy  nose,  a  spot,  a  pimple, 
Directed  to  my  lady;  it  may  prove 
A  mystical  preparative  to  lewdness. 

Phu.  Care  shall  be  had :  I  will  turn  every  thread 
About  me  to  an  eye. — \Aside\  Here's  a  sweet  life  ! 

Bass.  The  city  housewives,  cunning  in  the  traffic 
Of  chamber  merchandise,  set  all  at  price 
By  wholesale ;  yet  they  wipe  their  mouths  and  simper, 


SCENE  I.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  237 

Cull,1  kiss,  and  cry  "  sweetheart,"  and  stroke  the  head 
Which  they  have  branch'd ;  and  all  is  well  again  ! 
Dull  clods  of  dirt,  who  dare  not  feel  the  rubs 
Stuck  on  the  forehead.2 

Phu.  'Tis  a  villanous  world  ; 

One  cannot  hold  his  own  in't. 

Bass.  Dames  at  court, 

Who  flaunt  in  riots,  run  another  bias  : 
Their  pleasure  heaves  the  patient  ass  that  suffers 
Up  on  the  stilts  of  office,  titles,  incomes ; 
Promotion  justifies  the  shame,  and  sues  for't. 
Poor  honour,  thou  art  stabb'd,  and  bleed'st  to  death 
By  such  unlawful  hire  !     The  country  mistress 
Is  yet  more  wary,  and  in  blushes  hides 
Whatever  trespass  draws  her  troth  to  guilt. 
But  all  are  false  :  on  this  truth  I  am  bold, 
No  woman  but  can  fall,  and  doth,  or  would. — 
Now  for  the  newest  news  about  the  city; 
What  blab  the  voices,  sirrah  ? 

Phu.  O,  my  lord, 

The  rarest,  quaintest,  strangest,  tickling  news 
That  ever— 

Bass.          Hey-day !  up  and  ride  me,  rascal ! 
What  is't  ? 

Phu.        Forsooth,  they  say  the  king  has  mew'd 
All  his  gray  beard,3  instead  of  which  is  budded 
Another  of  a  pure  carnation  colour, 
Speckled  with  green  and  russet. 

1  Cull,}  i.e.  Embrace.     This  form  of  the  word  is  occasionally 
found, — in  Herrick,  for  instance. — Gifford  printed  the  more  usual 
one,  "Coll."  D. 

2  the  forehead.}  The  4to  has  "/^fore-heads." — Qy.  "their  fore 
heads"?  D. 

the  king  has  mew'd 

All  his  gray  beard,}  This  is  falconers'  language,  and  common 
to  all  our  old  writers.  To  mew,  or  rather  mue,  is  to  moult,  to  shed 
the  feathers. 


238  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  n. 

Bass.  Ignorant  block ! 

Phu.  Yes,  truly;  and  'tis  talk'd  about  the  streets, 
That  since  Lord  Ithocles  came  home,  the  lions 
Never  left  roaring,  at  which  noise  the  bears 
Have  danc'd4  their  very  hearts  out. 

Bass.  Dance  out  thine  too. 

Phu.  Besides,  Lord  Orgilus  is  fled  to  Athens 
Upon  a  fiery  dragon,  and  'tis  thought 
He  never  can  return. 

Bass.  Grant  it,  Apollo  ! 

Phu.  Moreover,  please  your  lordship,  'tis  reported 
For  certain,  that  whoever  is  found  jealous 
Without  apparent  proof  that's  wife  is  wanton 
Shall  be  divorc'd  :  but  this  is  but  she-news  ; 
I  had  it  from  a  midwife.     I  have  more  yet. 

Bass.  Antic,  no  more  !  idiots  and  stupid  fools 
Grate  my  calamities.     Why  to  be  fair 
Should  yield  presumption  of  a  faulty  soul — 
Look  to  the  doors. 

Phu.  The  horn  of  plenty  crest  him  ! 

[Aside,  and  exit. 

Bass.  Swarms  of  confusion  huddle  in  my  thoughts 
In  rare  distemper. — Beauty !  O,  it  is 
An  unmatch'd  blessing  or  a  horrid  curse. 
She  comes,  she  comes  !  so  shoots  the  morning  forth, 
Spangled  with  pearls5  of  transparent  dew. — 
The  way  to  poverty  is  to  be  rich, 
As  I  in  her  am  wealthy;  but  for  her, 
In  all  contents  a  bankrupt. 

4  the  lions 

Never  left  roaring,  at  which  noise  the  bears 

Have  danc'd,  &c.]  This  must  indeed  have  been  "tickling 
news."  The  poet,  however,  was  thinking  of  a  spot  much  nearer 
home  than  Sparta. 

5  Spangled  -with  pearls]  See  [note]  p.  18. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


239 


Enter  PENTHEA  and  GRAUSIS. 

Lov'd  Penthea ! 
How  fares  my  heart's  best  joy? 

Grau.  In  sooth,  not  well, 

She  is  so  over-sad. 

Bass.  Leave  chattering,  magpie. — 

Thy  brother  is  return'd,  sweet,  safe,  and  honour'd 
With  a  triumphant  victory;  thou  shalt  visit  him  : 
We  will  to  court,  where,  if  it  be  thy  pleasure, 
Thou  shalt  appear  in  such  a  ravishing  lustre 
Of  jewels  above  value,  that  the  dames 
Who  brave  it  there,  in  rage  to  be  outshin'd, 
Shall  hide  them  in  their  closets,  and  unseen 
Fret  in  their  tears  ;  whiles  every  wondering  eye 
Shall  crave  none  other  brightness  but  thy  presence. 
Choose  thine  own  recreations ;  be  a  queen 
Of  what  delights  thou  fanciest  best,  what  company, 
What  place,  what  times ;  do  anything,  do  all  things 
Youth  can  command,  so  thou  wilt  chase  these  clouds 
From  the  pure  firmament  of  thy  fair  looks. 

Grau.  Now  'tis  well  said,  my  lord. — What,  lady  ! 

laugh, 
Be  merry ;  time  is  precious. 

Bass.  \aside\  Furies  whip  thee  ! 

Pen.  Alas,  my  lord,  this  language  to  your  hand 
maid 

Sounds  as  would  music  to  the  deaf;  I  need 
No  braveries  nor  cost  of  art  to  draw 
The  whiteness  of  my  name  into  oifence  : 
Let  such,  if  any  such  there  are,  who  covet 
A  curiosity  of  admiration, 
By  laying-out  their  plenty  to  full  view, 
Appear  in  gaudy  outsides  ;  my  attires 
Shall  suit  the  inward  fashion  of  my  mind ; 


240  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  II. 

From  which,  if  your  opinion,  nobly  plac'd, 
Change  not  the  livery  your  words  bestow, 
My  fortunes  with  my  hopes  are  at  the  highest. 

Bass.  This  house,  methinks,  stands  somewhat  too 

much  inward, 

It  is  too  melancholy  ;  we'll  remove 
Nearer  the  court :  or  what  thinks  my  Penthea 
Of  the  delightful  island  we  command  ? 
Rule  me  as  thou  canst  wish. 

Pen.  I  am  no  mistress  : 

Whither  you  please,  I  must  attend ;  all  ways 
Are  alike  pleasant  to  me. 

Grau.  Island  !  prison  ; 

A  prison  is  as  gaysome  :  we'll  no  islands ; 
Marry,  out  upon  'em  !  whom  shall  we  see  there  ? 
Sea-gulls,  and  porpoises,  and  water-rats, 
And  crabs,  and  mews,  and  dog-fish ;  goodly  gear 
For  a  young  lady's  dealing, — or  an  old  one's  ! 
On  no  terms  islands  ;  I'll  be  stew'd  first. 

Bass,  [aside  to  Grau.']  Grausis, 

You  are  a  juggling  bawd. — This  sadness,  sweetest, 
Becomes  not  youthful  blood. — [Aside  to  Grau.~\    I'll 

have  you  pounded. — 

For  my  sake  put  on  a  more  cheerful  mirth ; 
Thou'lt  mar  thy  cheeks,  and  make  me  old  in  griefs. — 
[Aside  to  Grait.]  Damnable  bitch-fox  ! 

Grau.  I  am  thick  of  hearing, 

Still,  when  the  wind  blows  southerly. — What  think  ye, 
If  your  fresh  lady  breed  young  bones,  my  lord  ! 
Would  not  a  chopping  boy  d'ye  good  at  heart  ? 
But,  as  you  said — 

Bass,  [aside  to  Grau.~\  I'll  spit  thee  on  a  stake, 
Or  chop  thee  into  collops ! 

Grau.  Pray,  speak  louder. 

Sure,  sure  the  wind  blows  south  still. 


SCENE  I.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  241 

Pen.  Thou  prat'st  madly. 

Bass.  Tis  very  hot ;  I  sweat  extremely. 

Re-enter  PHULAS. 

Now? 

Phu.  A  herd  of  lords,  sir. 

Bass.  Ha ! 

Phu.  A  flock  of  ladies. 

Bass.  Where? 

Phu.  Shoals  of  horses. 

Bass.  Peasant,  how  ? 

Phu.  Caroches 

In  drifts  ;  th'  one  enter,  th'  other  stand  without,  sir  : 
And  now  I  vanish.  \Exit. 

Enter  PROPHILUS,  HEMOPHIL,  GRONEAS,  CHRISTALLA, 
and  PHILEMA. 

Pro.  Noble  Bassanes  ! 

Bass.  Most  welcome,  Prophilus ;  ladies,  gentlemen, 
To  all  my  heart  is  open  ;  you  all  honour  me, — 
\Aside\  A  tympany  swells  in  my  head  already, — 
Honour  me  bountifully. — \Aside\  How  they  flutter, 
Wagtails  and  jays  together  ! 

Pro.  From  your  brother, 

By  virtue  of  your  love  to  him,  I  require 
Your  instant  presence,  fairest. 

Pen.  He  is  well,  sir  ? 

Pro.  The  gods  preserve  him  ever !      Yet,  dear 

beauty, 

I  find  some  alteration  in  him  lately, 
Since  his  return  to  Sparta. — My  good  lord, 
I  pray,  use  no  delay. 

Bass.  We  had  not  needed 

An  invitation,  if  his  sister's  health 
Had  not  fall'n  into  question. — Haste,  Penthea, 

VOL.  I.  R 


242  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  n. 

Slack  not  a  minute. — Lead  the  way,  good  Prophilus; 
I'll  follow  step  by  step. 

Pro.  Your  arm,  fair  madam. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Bass,  and  Grau. 

Bass.  One  word  with  your  old  bawdship  :  th'  hadst 

been  better 

Rail'd  at  the  saints  thouworshipp'st6  than  have  thwarted 
My  will :  I'll  use  thee  cursedly. 

Grau.  You  dote, 

You  are  beside  yourself.     A  politician 
In  jealousy?  no,  you're  too  gross,  too  vulgar. 
Pish,  teach  not  me  my  trade ;  I  know  my  cue  : 
My  crossing  you  sinks  me  into  her  trust, 
By  which  I  shall  know  all ;  my  trade's  a  sure  one. 

Bass.  Forgive  me,  Grausis,  'twas  consideration 
I  relish'd  not ;  but  have  a  care  now. 

Grau.  Fear  not, 

I  am  no  new-come-to't. 

Bass.  Thy  life's  upon  it, 

And  so  is  mine.     My  agonies  are  infinite.        \Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  The  palace.    ITHOCLES'  apartment. 

Enter  ITHOCLES. 

Ith.  Ambition !  'tis  of  viper's  breed  ;  it  gnaws 
A  passage  through  the  womb  that  gave  it  motion. 
Ambition,  like  a  seeled  dove,  mounts  upward, 

«  th'  hadst  been  better}  Altered  by  Gifford  to  "  thou  hadst  better." 
("  Thou  hadst  been  better  have  been  born  a  dog,"  &c.  Shakespeare's 
Othello,  act  iii.  sc.  3.)  D. 

Rail'd  at  the  saints  thou  worshipp'st,  &c.]  So  I  venture  to  give 
the  text.  The  4*0  reads  "the  sinnes  thou  worshipp'st;"  which  is 
manifestly  wrong,  because  pure  nonsense.  If  I  am  asked  where 
Grausis  found  her  saints,  I  can  only  reply,  where  Phulas  found  his 
dancing  bears. 


SCENE  n.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  243 

Higher  and  higher  still,7  to  perch  on  clouds, 
But  tumbles  headlong  down  with  heavier  ruin. 
So  squibs  and  crackers  fly  into  the  air, 
Then,  only  breaking  with  a  noise,  they  vanish 
In  stench  and  smoke.     Morality,  applied 
To  timely  practice,  keeps  the  soul  in  tune, 
At  whose  sweet  music  all  our  actions  dance  : 
But  this  is  formpd]  of  books  and  school-tradition ; 
It  physics  not  the  sickness  of  a  mind 
Broken  with  griefs  :  strong  fevers  are  not  eas'd 
With  counsel,  but  with  best  receipts  and  means; 
Means,  speedy  means  and  certain  ;  that's  the  cure. 

Enter  ARMOSTES  and  CROTOLON. 

Arm.  You  stick,  Lord  Crotolon,  upon  a  point 
Too  nice  and  too  unnecessary  ;  Prophilus 
Is  every  way  desertful.     I  am  confident 
Your  wisdom  is  too  ripe  to  need  instruction 
From  your  son's  tutelage. 

Crof.  Yet  not  so  ripe, 

My  Lord  Armostes,  that  it  dares  to  dote 
Upon  the  painted  meat8  of  smooth  persuasion, 
Which  tempts  me  to  a  breach  of  faith. 

Ith.  Not  yet 

Resolv'd,  my  lord  ?     Why,  if  your  son's  consent 
Be  so  available,  we'll  write  to  Athens 

7  Ambition,  like  a  seeled  dove,  mounts  upward, 

Higher  and  higher  still,  &c.]  To  seel  is  to  blind  by  sewing-up 
the  eyelids.  There  is  a  similar  allusion  to  that  in  the  text  in  the 
Arcadia;  "Now  she  brought  them  to  see  a  seeled  dove,  who  the 
blinder  she  was  the  higher  she  strove  to  reach."  It  is  told  in  the 
Gentleman's  Recreation  that  this  wanton  piece  of  cruelty  is  some 
times  resorted  to  for  sport!  The  poor  dove,  in  the  agonies  of  pain, 
soars,  like  the  lark,  as  soon  as  dismissed  from  the  hand,  almost  per 
pendicularly,  and  continues  mounting  till  strength  and  life  are  totally 
exhausted,  when  she  drops  at  the  feet  of  her  inhuman  persecutors. 

8  Upon  the  painted  meat]  So  the  old  copy :  the  author's  word 
was  not  improbably  "painted  bait." 


244  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  11. 

For  his  repair  to  Sparta :  the  king's  hand 

Will  join  with  our  desires  ;  he  has  been  mov'd  to't. 

Arm.  Yes,  and  the  king  himself  impdrtun'd  Cro- 

tolon 
For  a  dispatch. 

Crot.  Kings  may  command  ;  their  wills 

Are  laws  not  to  be  question'd. 

Ith.  By  this  marriage 

You  knit  an  union  so  devout,  so  hearty, 
Between  your  loves  to  me  and  mine  to  yours, 
As  if  mine  own  blood  had  an  interest  in  it ; 
For  Prophilus  is  mine,  and  I  am  his. 

Crot.  My  lord,  my  lord ! — 

Ith.  What,  good  sir?  speak  your  thought. 

Crot.  Had  this  sincerity  been  real  once, 
My  Orgilus  had  not  been  now  unwiv'd, 
Nor  your  lost  sister  buried  in  a  bride-bed  : 
Your  uncle  here,  Armostes,  knows  this  truth  ; 
For  had  your  father  Thrasus  liv'd, — but  peace 
Dwell  in  his  grave  !  I've  done. 

Arm.  You're  bold  and  bitter. 

Ith.  \aside]  Represses  home  the  injury;  it  smarts. — 
No  reprehensions,  uncle;  I  deserve  'em. 
Yet,  gentle  sir,  consider  what  the  heat 
Of  an  unsteady  youth,  a  giddy  brain, 
Green  indiscretion,  flattery  of  greatness, 
Rawness  of  judgment,  wilfulness  in  folly, 
Thoughts  vagrant  as  the  wind  and  as  uncertain, 
Might  lead  a  boy  in  years  to  : — 'twas  a  fault, 
A  capital  fault ;  for  then  I  could  not  dive 
Into  the  secrets  of  commanding  love ; 
Since  when  experience,  by  th'  extremes9  in  others, 
Hath  forc'd  me  to  collect — and,  trust  me,  Crotolon, 

9  th'  extremes]  The  410  has  "the  extremities."  D. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


245 


I  will  redeem  those  wrongs  with  any  service 
Your  satisfaction  can  require  for  current. 

Arm.  Th'  acknowledgment10  is  satisfaction : 
What  would  you  more  ? 

Crot.  I'm  conquer'd  :  if  Euphranea 

Herself  admit  the  motion,  let  it  be  so  ; 
I  doubt  not  my  son's  liking. 

Ith.  Use  my  fortunes, 

Life,  power,  sword,  and  heart, — all  are  your  own. 

Arm.  The  princess,  with  your  sister. 

Enter  CALANTHA,  PENTHEA,  EUPHRANEA,  CHRISTALLA, 
PHILEMA,  GRAUSIS,  BASSANES,  and  PROPHILUS. 

Cal.  I  present  ye 

A  stranger  here  in  court,  my  lord;  for  did  not 
Desire  of  seeing  you  draw  her  abroad, 
We  had  not  been  made  happy  in  her  company. 

Ith.  You  are  a  gracious  princess. — Sister,  wedlock 
Holds  too  severe  a  passion  in  your  nature, 
Which  can  engross  all  duty  to  your  husband, 
Without  attendance  on  so  dear  a  mistress. — 
\To  Bass^\  Tis  not  my  brother's  pleasure,  I  presume, 
T'  immure  her  in  a  chamber. 

Bass.  Tis  her  will ; 

She  governs  her  own  hours.      Noble  Ithocles, 
We  thank  the  gods  for  your  success  and  welfare  : 
Our  lady  has  of  late  been  indispos'd, 
Else  we  had  waited  on  you  with  the  first. 

Ith.  How  does  Penthea  now? 

Pen.  You  best  know,  brother, 

From  whom  my  health  and  comforts  are  deriv'd. 

Bass,  [aside]  I  like  the  answer  well ;  'tis  sad  and 

modest. 
There  may  be  tricks  yet,  tricks. — Have  an  eye,  Grausis ! 

10  Tfi  acknowledgment]  The4tohas  "  thy  acknowledgement."  D. 


246  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  11. 

Cat.  Now,  Crotolon,  the  suit  we  join'd  in  must  not 
Fall  by  too  long  demur. 

Crot.  'Tis  granted,  princess, 

For  my  part. 

Arm.          With  condition,  that  his  son 
Favour  the  contract 

Cal.  Such  delay  is  easy. — 

The  joys  of  marriage  make  thee,  Prophilus, 
A  proud  deserver  of  Euphranea's  love, 
And  her  of  thy  desert ! 

Pro.  Most  sweetly  gracious  ! 

Bass.  The  joys  of  marriage  are  the  heaven  on  earth, 
Life's  paradise,  great  princess,  the  soul's  quiet, 
Sinews  of  concord,  earthly  immortality, 
Eternity  of  pleasures; — no  restoratives 
Like  to  a  constant  woman  ! — [Aside]  But  where  is  she  ? 
'Twould  puzzle  all  the  gods  but  to  create 
Such  a  new  monster. — I  can  speak  by  proof, 
For  I  rest  in  Elysium  ;  'tis  my  happiness. 

Crot.  Euphranea,how  are  you  resolv'd,  speak  freely, 
In  your  affections  to  this  gentleman  ? 

Euph.  Nor  more  nor  less  than  as  his  love  assures 

me; 

Which — -if  your  liking  with  my  brother's  warrants — 
I  cannot  but  approve  in  all  points  worthy. 

Crot.  So,  so  ! — [To  Pro.]  I  know  your  answer. 

Ith.  'T  had  been  pity 

To  sunder  hearts  so  equally  consented. 

Enter  HEMOPHIL. 
Hem.  The  king,   Lord  Ithocles,  commands  your 

presence ; — 
And,  fairest  princess,  yours. 

Cal.  We  will  attend  him. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


247 


Enter  GRONEAS. 

Gron.  Where  are  the  lords?  all  must  unto  the  king 
Without  delay :  the  Prince  of  Argos — 

Col.  Well,  sir  ? 

Gron.  Is  coming  to  the  court,  sweet  lady. 

Cal.  How ! 

The  Prince  of  Argos  ? 

Gron.  'Twas  my  fortune,  madam, 

T  enjoy  the  honour  of  these  happy  tidings. 

Ith.  Penthea!— 

Pen.  Brother? 

Ith.  Let  me  an  hour  hence 

Meet  you  alone  within  the  palace-grove ; 
I  have  some  secret  with  you. — Prithee,  friend, 
Conduct  her  thither,  and  have  special  care 
The  walks  be  clear'd  of  any  to  disturb  us. 

Pro.  I  shall. 

Bass.  \aside\     How's  that  ? 

Ith.  Alone,  pray  be  alone. — 

I  am  your  creature,  princess. — On,  my  lords  ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  Bass. 

Bass.  Alone  !  alone  !  what  means  that  word  alone  ? 
Why  might  not  I  be  there? — hum! — he's  her  brother. 
Brothers  and  sisters  are  but  flesh  and  blood, 
And  this  same  whoreson  court-ease  is  temptation 
To  a  rebellion  in  the  veins ; — besides, 
His  fine  friend  Prophilus  must  be  her  guardian  : 
Why  may  not  he  dispatch  a  business  nimbly 
Before  the  other  come  ? — or — pandering,  pandering 
For  one  another, — be't  to  sister,  mother, 
Wife,  cousin,  anything, — 'mongst  youths  of  mettle 
Is  in  request ;  it  is  so — stubborn  fate  ! 
But  if  I  be  a  cuckold,  and  can  know  it, 
I  will  be  fell,  and  fell. 


248  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  11. 

Re-enter  GRONEAS. 

Gron.  My  lord,  you're  call'd  for. 

Bass.  Most  heartily  I  thank  ye.  Where's  my  wife, 
pray? 

Gron.  Retired  amongst  the  ladies. 

Bass.  Still  I  thank  ye. 

There's  an  old  waiter  with  her;  saw  you  her  too? 

Gron.  She  sits  i'  th'  presence-lobby  fast  asleep,  sir. 

Bass.  Asleep!  asleep,11  sir! 

Gron.  Is  your  lordship  troubled  ? 

You  will  not  to  the  king  ? 

Bass.  Your  humblest  vassal. 

Gron.  Your  servant,  my  good  lord. 

Bass.  I  wait  your  footsteps. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.    The  gardens  of  the  palace.     A  grove. 

Enter  PROPHiLUS  and  PENTHEA. 

Pro.  In  this  walk,  lady,  will  your  brother  find  you 
And,  with  your  favour,  give  me  leave  a  little 
To  work  a  preparation.     In  his  fashion 
I  have  observ'd  of  late  some  kind  of  slackness 
To  such  alacrity  as  nature  [once] 
And  custom  took  delight  in  ;  sadness  grows 
Upon  his  recreations,  which  he  hoards 
In  such  a  willing  silence,  that  to  question 
The  grounds  will  argue  [little]  skill  in  friendship, 
And  less  good  manners. 

Pen.  Sir,  I'm  not  inquisitive 

Of  secrecies  without  an  invitation. 

Pro.  With  pardon,  lady,  not  a  syllable 

11  asleep,]  The  4to  has  "sleepe."  D. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  249 

Of  mine  implies  so  rude  a  sense ;  the  drift — 

Enter  ORGILUS,  disguised  as  before. 

[To  Org.]  Do  thy  best 

To  make  this  lady  merry  for  an  hour. 

Org.  Your  will  shall  be  a  law,  sir.  [Exit  Pro. 

Pen.  Prithee,  leave  me  ; 

I  have  some  private  thoughts  I  would  account  with  ; 
Use  thou  thine  own. 

Org.  Speak  on,  fair  nymph  ;  our  souls 

Can  dance  as  well  to  music  of  the  spheres 
As  any's  who  have  feasted  with  the  gods. 

Pen.  Your  school-terms  are  too  troublesome. 

Org.  What  heaven 

Refines  mortality  from  dross  of  earth 
But  such  as  uncompounded  beauty  hallows 
With  glorified  perfection  ? 

Pen.  Set  thy  wits 

In  a  less  wild  proportion. 

Org.  Time  can  never 

On  the  white  table  of  unguilty  faith 
Write  counterfeit  dishonour ;  turn  those  eyes, 
The  arrows  of  pure  love,  upon  that  fire, 
Which  once  rose  to  a  flame,  perfum'd  with  vows 
As  sweetly  scented  as  the  incense  smoking 
On  Vesta's  altars,  *****     *i2 


12  as  the  incense  smoking 

On  Vesta's  altars,  *  *  *  *  *  *  &c.]  It  is  greatly  to  be 
regretted  that  this  apparently  fine  passage  should  have  been  so  irre 
parably  mutilated  at  the  press.  I  have  endeavoured  to  remedy  the 
transpositions ;  but  who  can  hope  to  restore  what  was  dropped  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  Ford  calls  virgin  tears  the  holiest  odours ;  and  the 
expression  is  beautiful  and  every  way  worthy  of  him.  In  the  old 
copy,  however,  this,  and  indeed  every  other  merit,  is  lost.  It  reads, 

"  as  the  incense  smoking 
The  holiest  artars,  virgin  tears  (like 
On  Vesta's  odours)  sprinkled  dews  to  feed  'em, 
And  to  increase,"  &c. 


250  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  n. 

*  *     *  the  holiest  odours,  virgins'  tears, 

*  *     *     *  sprinkled,  like  dews,  to  feed  them 
And  to  increase  their  fervour. 

Pen.  Be  not  frantic. 

Org.  All  pleasures  are  but  mere  imagination, 
Feeding  the  hungry  appetite  with  steam 
And  sight  of  banquet,  whilst  the  body  pines, 
Not  relishing  the  real  taste  of  food  : 
Such  is  the  leanness  of  a  heart  divided 
From  intercourse  of  troth-contracted  loves ; 
No  horror  should  deface  that  precious  figure 
Seal'd  with  the  lively  stamp  of  equal  souls. 

Pen.  Away !  some  Fury  hath  bewitch'd  thy  tongue : 
The  breath  of  ignorance,  that  flies  from  thence, 
Ripens  a  knowledge  in  me  of  afflictions 
Above  all  sufferance. — Thing  of  talk,  begone  ! 
Begone,  without  reply ! 

Org.  Be  just,  Penthea, 

In  thy  commands  ;  when  thou  send'st  forth  a  doom 
Of  banishment,  know  first  on  whom  it  lights. 
Thus  I  take  off  the  shroud,  in  which  my  cares 
Are  folded  up  from  view  of  common  eyes. 

[Throws  off  his  scholar's  dress. 
What  is  thy  sentence  next  ? 

Pen.  Rash  man  !  thou  lay'st 

A  blemish  on  mine  honour,  with  the  hazard 
Of  thy  too-desperate  life  :  yet  I  profess, 
By  all  the  laws  of  ceremonious  wedlock, 
I  have  not  given  admittance  to  one  thought 
Of  female  change  since  cruelty  enforc'd 
Divorce  betwixt  my  body  and  my  heart. 
Why  would  you  fall  from  goodness  thus  ? 

Org.  O,  rather 

Examine  me,  how  I  could  live  to  say 
I  have  been  much,  much  wrong'd.     'Tis  for  thy  sake 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  251 

I  put  on  this  imposture  :  dear  Penthea, 
If  thy  soft  bosom  be  not  turn'd  to  marble, 
Thou'lt  pity  our  calamities  ;  my  interest 
Confirms  me  thou  art  mine  still. 

Pen.  Lend  your  hand ; 

With  both  of  mine  I  clasp  it  thus,  thus  kiss  it, 
Thus  kneel  before  ye.  [Pen.  kneels. 

Org.  You  instruct  my  duty.     [Org.  kneels. 

Pen.  We  may  stand  up.  [They  rise.]  Have  you  aught 

else  to  urge 

Of  new  demand  ?  as  for  the  old,  forget  it ; 
Tis  buried  in  an  everlasting  silence, 
And  shall  be,  shall  be  ever  :  what  more  would  ye  ? 

Org.  I  would  possess  my  wife  ;  the  equity 
Of  very  reason  bids  me. 

Pen.  Is  that  all  ? 

Org.  Why,  'tis  the  all  of  me,  myself. 

Pen.  Remove 

Your  steps  some  distance  from  me  : — at  this  space 
A  few  words  I  dare  change  ;  but  first  put  on 
Your  borrow'd  shape.13 

Org.  You  are  obey'd ;  'tis  done. 

[He  resumes  his  disguise. 

Pen.  How,  Orgilus,  by  promise  I  was  thine 
The  heavens  do  witness ;  they  can  witness  too 
A  rape  done  on  my  truth  :  how  I  do  love  thee 
Yet,  Orgilus,  and  yet,  must  best  appear 
In  tendering  thy  freedom ;  for  I  find 
The  constant  preservation  of  thy  merit, 
By  thy  not  daring  to  attempt  my  fame 
With  injury  of  any  loose  conceit, 

13  but  first  put  on 

Your  borrow'd  shape.]  This,  as  I  have  elsewhere  observed,  is 
the  green-room  term  for  a  dress  of  disguise.  In  the  opening  of  the 
next  act,  Orgilus,  who  had  resumed  his  usual  habit,  is  said  to  appear 
in  his  own  shape. 


252  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  n. 

Which  might  give  deeper  wounds  to  discontents. 
Continue  this  fair  race  :  then,  though  I  cannot 
Add  to  thy  comfort,  yet  I  shall  more  often 
Remember  from  what  fortune  I  am  fall'n, 
And  pity  mine  own  ruin. — Live,  live  happy, — 
Happy  in  thy  next  choice,  that  thou  mayst  people 
This  barren  age  with  virtues  in  thy  issue  ! 
And  O,  when  thou  art  married,  think  on  me 
With  mercy,  not  contempt !  I  hope  thy  wife, 
Hearing  my  story,  will  not  scorn  my  fall. — 
Now  let  us  part. 

Org.  Part !  yet  advise  thee  better  : 

Penthea  is  the  wife  to  Orgilus, 
And  ever  shall  be. 

Pen.  Never  shall  nor  will. 

Org.  How! 

Pen.  Hear  me ;  in  a  word  I'll  tell  thee  why. 

The  virgin-dowry  which  my  birth  bestow'd 
Is  ravish'd  by  another  ;  my  true  love 
Abhors  to  think  that  Orgilus  deserv'd 
No  better  favours  than  a  second  bed. 

Org.  I  must- not  take  this  reason. 

Pen.  To  confirm  it ; 

Should  I  outlive  my  bondage,  let  me  meet 
Another  worse  than  this  and  less  desir'd, 
If,  of  all  men14  alive,  thou  shouldst  but  touch 
My  lip  or  hand  again  ! 

Org.  Penthea,  now 

I  tell  ye,  you  grow  wanton  in  my  sufferance  : 
Come,  sweet,  thou'rt  mine. 

Pen.  Uncivil  sir,  forbear! 

Or  I  can  turn  affection  into  vengeance ; 
Your  reputation,  if  you  value  any, 

14  all  men]  The  4to  has  "  all  the  men."  D. 


SCENE ,iii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  253 

Lies  bleeding  at  my  feet.     Unworthy  man, 

If  ever  henceforth  thou  appear  in  language, 

Message,  or  letter,  to  betray  my  frailty, 

I'll  call  thy  former  protestations  lust, 

And  curse  my  stars  for  forfeit  of  my  judgment. 

Go  thou,  fit  only  for  disguise,  and  walks, 

To  hide  thy  shame  :  this  once  I  spare  thy  life. 

I  laugh  at  mine  own  confidence  ;  my  sorrows 

By  thee  are  made  inferior  to  my  fortunes. 

If  ever  thou  didst  harbour  worthy  love, 

Dare  not  to  answer.     My  good  Genius  guide  me, 

That  I  may  never  see  thee  more  ! — Go  from  me  ! 

Org.  I'll15  tear  my  veil  of  politic  French  off, 
And  stand  up  like  a  man  resolv'd  to  do : 
Action,  not  words,  shall  show  me. — O  Penthea  ! 

[Exit. 

Pen.  He  sigh'd  my  name,  sure,  as  he  parted  from 

me: 

I  fear  I  was  too  rough.     Alas,  poor  gentleman  ! 
He  look'd  not  like  the  ruins  of  his  youth, 
But  like  the  ruins  of  those  ruins.     Honour, 
How  much  we  fight  with  weakness  to  preserve  thee  ! 

[  Walks  aside. 

Enter  BASSANES  and  GRAUSIS. 
Bass.  Fie  on  thee !  damn  thee,  rotten  maggot,  damn 

thee! 

Sleep?  sleep  at  court?  and  now?  Aches,16  convulsions, 
Imposthumes,  rheums,  gouts,  palsies,  clog  thy  bones 
A  dozen  years  more  yet ! 

Grau.  Now  you're  in  humours. 

IB  /•//]  The4tohas  "I'e."  D. 

16  Aches, ~\  A  dissyllable, — the  word  being  pronounced  in  our 
author's  days,  and  long  after,  "aitches:"  see  my  Gloss,  to  Shake 
speare.  D. 


254  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  n. 

Bass.  She's  by  herself,  there's  hope  of  that ;  she's 

sad  too ; 

She's  in  strong  contemplation  ;  yes,  and  fix'd  : 
The  signs  are  wholesome. 

Grau.  Very  wholesome,  truly. 

Bass.  Hold  your  chops,  nightmare ! — Lady,  come ; 

your  brother 
Is  carried  to  his  closet ;  you  must  thither. 

Pen.  Not  well,  my  lord  ? 

Bass.  A  sudden  fit ;  'twill  off; 

Some  surfeit  or  disorder. — How  dost,  dearest  ? 

Pen.  Your  news  is  none  o'  th'  best. 

Re-enter  PROPHILUS. 

Pro.  The  chief  of  men, 

The  excellentest  Ithocles,  desires 
Your  presence,  madam. 

Bass.  We  are  hasting  to  him. 

Pen.  In  vain  we  labour  in  this  course  of  life 
To  piece  our  journey  out  at  length,  or  crave 
Respite  of  breath ;  our  home  is  in  the  grave. 

Bass.  Perfect  philosophy ! 

Pen.  Then  let  us  care17 

To  live  so,  that  our  reckonings  may  fall  even 
When  we're  to  make  account. 

Pro.  He  cannot  fear 

Who  builds  on  noble  grounds  :  sickness  or  pain 
Is  the  deserver's  exercise ;  and  such 
Your  virtuous  brother  to  the  world  is  known. 
Speak  comfort  to  him,  lady;  be  all  gentle  : 

17  Pen.  Then  let  us  care,  &c.]  The  old  copy  gives  this  to  Bas- 
sanes ;  but  it  is  evidently  the  continuation  of  Penthea's  ideas  in  the 
former  speech,  and  to  her  therefore  I  have  restored  it.  The  answer 
of  Prophilus,  which  is  directed  to  Penthea,  proves  the  necessity  of 
the  alteration. 


SCENEI.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  255 

Stars  fall  but  in  the  grossness  of  our  sight; 
A  good  man  dying,  th'  earth  doth  lose  a  light. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  The  study  ^TECNICUS. 

Enter  TECNICUS,  and  ORGILUS  in  his  usual  dress. 

Tec.  Be  well  advis'd ;  let  not  a  resolution 
Of  giddy  rashness  choke  the  breath  of  reason. 

Org.  It  shall  not,  most  sage  master. 

Tec.  I  am  jealous ; 

For  if  the  borrow'd  shape  so  late  put  on 
Inferr'd  a  consequence,  we  must  conclude 
Some  violent  design  of  sudden  nature 
Hath  shook  that  shadow  off,  to  fly  upon 
A  new-hatch'd  execution.     Orgilus, 
Take  heed  thou  hast  not,  under  our  integrity, 
Shrouded  unlawful  plots ;  our  mortal  eyes 
Pierce  not  the  secrets  of  your  heart,2  the  gods 
Are  only  privy  to  them. 

Org.  Learned  Tecnicus, 

Such  doubts  are  causeless ;  and,  to  clear  the  truth 
From  misconceit,  the  present  state  commands  me. 
The  Prince  of  Argos  comes  himself  in  person 
In  quest  of  great  Calantha  for  his  bride, 
Our  kingdom's  heir ;  besides,  mine  only  sister, 
Euphranea,  is  dispos'd  to  Prophilus ; 
Lastly,  the  king  is  sending  letters  for  me 

1  lam  jealous;]  i.e.  I  wn.  fearful,  suspicious,  of  it:  a  Scotticism  ; 
and  probably  once  common  to  most  of  our  remote  provinces. 

2  heart,}  The  4to  has  "hearts."  D. 


256  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

To  Athens,  for  my  quick  repair  to  court : 
Please  to  accept  these  reasons. 

Tec.  Just  ones,  Orgilus, 

Not  to  be  contradicted  :  yet  beware 
Of  an  unsure  foundation ;  no  fair  colours 
Can  fortify  a  building  faintly  jointed. 
I  have  observ'd  a  growth  in  thy  aspect 
Of  dangerous  extent,  sudden,  and — look  to't — 
I  might  add,  certain — 

Org.  My  aspect !  could  art 

Run  through  mine  inmost  thoughts,  it  should  not  sift 
An  inclination  there  more  than  what  suited 
With  justice  of  mine  honour. 

Tec,  I  believe  it. 

But  know  then,  Orgilus,  what  honour  is  : 
Honour  consists  not  in  a  bare  opinion 
By  doing  any  act  that  feeds  content, 
Brave  in  appearance,  'cause  we  think  it  brave ; 
Such  honour  comes  by  accident,  not  nature, 
Proceeding  from  the  vices  of  our  passion, 
Which  makes  our  reason  drunk  :  but  real  honour 
Is  the  reward  of  virtue,  and  acquir'd 
By  justice,  or  by  valour  which  for  basis 
Hath  justice  to  uphold  it.     He  then  fails 
In  honour,  who  for  lucre  or  revenge3 
Commits  thefts,  murders,4  treasons,  and  adulteries, 
With  suchlike,  by  intrenching  on  just  laws, 
Whose  sovereignty  is  best  preserv'd  by  justice. 
Thus,  as  you  see  how  honour  must  be  grounded 
On  knowledge,  not  opinion, — for  opinion 
Relies  on  probability  and  accident, 
But  knowledge  on  necessity  and  truth, — 


3  -who  for  lucre  or  revenge}  The  4to  has  "for  lucre  of  revenge. 
The  context  shows  that  this  can  scarcely  be  the  genuine  reading. 

4  murders,]  Gifford  printed  "murther."  D. 


SCENE  I.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  257 

I  leave  thee  to  the  fit  consideration 

Of  what  becomes  the  grace  of  real  honour, 

Wishing  success  to  all  thy  virtuous  meanings. 

Org.   The   gods    increase   thy  wisdom,  reverend 

oracle, 
And  in  thy  precepts  make  me  ever  thrifty ! 

Tec.  I  thank  thy  wish.  [Exit  Org. 

Much  mystery  of  fate 
Lies  hid 'in  that  man's  fortunes ;  curiosity 
May  lead  his  actions  into  rare  attempts  :— 
But  let  the  gods  be  moderators  still ; 
No  human  power  can  prevent  their  will. 

Enter  ARMOSTES  with  a  casket. 

From  whence  come  ye  ? 

Arm.  From  King  Amyclas, — pardon 

My  interruption  of  your  studies. — Here, 
In  this  seal'd  box,  he  sends  a  treasure  [to  you], 
Dear  to  him  as  his  crown  :  he  prays  your  gravity, 
You  would  examine,  ponder,  sift,  and  bolt 
The  pith  and  circumstance  of  every  tittle 
The  scroll  within  contains. 

Tec.  What  is't,  Armostes  ? 

Arm.  It  is  the  health  of  Sparta,  the  king's  life, 
Sinews  and  safety  of  the  commonwealth ; 
The  sum  of  what  the  oracle  deliver'd 
When  last  he  visited  the  prophetic  temple 
At  Delphos  :  what  his  reasons  are,  for  which, 
After  so  long  a  silence,  he  requires 
You[r]  counsel  now,  grave  man,  his  majesty 
Will  soon  himself  acquaint  you  with. 

Tec.  Apollo  {He  takes  the  casket. 

Inspire  my  intellect ! — The  Prince  of  Argos 
Is  entertain'd? 

Arm.  He  is ;  and  has  demanded 

VOL.  i.  s 


258  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

Our  princess  for  his  wife ;  which  I  conceive 
One  special  cause  the  king  importunes  you 
For  resolution  of  the  oracle. 

Tec.  My  duty  to  the  king,  good  peace  to  Sparta, 
And  fair  day  to  Armostes  ! 

Arm.  Like  to  Tecnicus  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.   The  palace.     ITHOCLES'  apartment. 

Soft  music.  A  song  within,  during  which  PROPHILUS,  BASSANES, 
PENTHEA,  and  GRAUSIS  pass  over  the  stage.  BASSANES  and 
GRAUSIS  re-enter  softly,  and  listen  in  different  places. 

SONG. 

Can  you  paint  a  thought  ?  or  number 
Every  fancy  in  a  slumber  ? 
Can  you  count  soft  minutes  roving 
From  a  diaVs  point  by  moving  1 
Can  you  grasp  a  sigh  ?  or,  lastly, 
Rob  a  virgin's  honour  chastly  ? 
No,  O,  no!  yet  you  may 

Sooner  do  both  that  and  this, 
This  and  that,  and  never  miss, 
Than  by  any  praise  display 

Beauty's  beauty;  such  a  glory, 
As  beyond  all  fate,  all  story, 
All  arms,  all  arts, 
All  loves,  all  hearts, 
Greater  than  those  or  they, 
Do,  shall,  and  must  obey. 

Bass.  All  silent,  calm,  secure. — Grausis,  no  creak 
ing? 
No  noise  ?  dost  [thou]  hear  nothing  ? 


SCENE  II.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  259 

Grau.  Not  a  mouse, 

Or  whisper  of  the  wind. 

Bass.  The  floor  is  matted ; 

The  bedposts  sure  are  steel  or  marble. — Soldiers 
Should  not  affect,  methinks,  strains  so  effeminate  : 
Sounds  of  such  delicacy  are  but  fawnings 
Upon  the  sloth  of  luxury,  they  heighten 
Cinders  of  covert  lust  up  to  a  flame. 

Grau.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? — speak  low ; 

that  gabbling 
Of  yours  will  but  undo  us. 

Bass.  Chamber-combats 

Are  felt,  not  heard. 

Pro.  \within\     He  wakes. 

Bass.  What's  that? 

Ith.  [within}  Who's  there  ? 

Sister  ? — All  quit  the  room  else. 

Bass.  'Tis  consented ! 

Re-enter  PROPHILUS. 

Pro.  Lord  Bassanes,  your  brother  would  be  private, 
We  must  forbear ;  his  sleep  hath  newly  left  him. 
Please  ye  withdraw. 

Bass.  By  any  means ;  'tis  fit. 

Pro.  Pray,  gentlewoman,  walk  too. 

Grau.  Yes,  I  will1,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

The  Scene  opens;  ITHOCLES  is  discovered  in  a  chair , 
and  PENTHEA  beside  him. 

Ith.  Sit  nearer,  sister,  to  me ;  nearer  yet : 
We  had  one  father,  in  one  womb  took  life, 
Were  brought  up  twins  together,  yet  have  liv'd 
At  distance,  like  two  strangers  :  I  could  wish 
That  the  first  pillow  whereon  I  was  cradled 
Had  prov'd  to  me  a  grave. 


260  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

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, 
From  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  love-blest5  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 

Of  country  toil  drinks  the  untroubled  streams6 
With  leaping  kids  and  with  the  bleating  lambs, 
And  so  allays  her  thirst  secure ;  whiles  I 
Quench  my  hot  sighs  with  fleetings  of  my  tears. 

Ith.  The  labourer  doth  eat  his  coarsest  bread, 
Earn'd  with  his  sweat,  and  lies7  him  down  to  sleep ; 

5  love-bles(\  The  4to  has  "loner-blest."  D. 

6  The  handmaid  to  the  wages 

Of  country  toil  drinks  the  untroubled  streams]  There  is  a  slight 
confusion  in  the  old  copy,  arising  from  two  of  the  words  being  shrffled 
out  of  their  place ;  it  reads, 

' '  the  handmaid  to  the  wages 
The  untroubled  of  country  toil,  drinks  streams." 

7  lies]  Gifford  printed  "lays."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  26l 

While8  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, 

Rid  me  from  living  with  a  jealous  husband ; 
Then  we  will  join  in  friendship,  be  again 
Brother  and  sister. — Kill  me,  pray ;  nay,  will  ye  ? 

Ith.  How  does  thy  lord  esteem  thee  ? 

Pen.  Such  an  one 

As  only  you  have  made  me  ;  a  faith-breaker, 
A  spotted  whore  : — forgive  me,  I  am  one — 
In  act,9  not  in  desires,  the  gods  must  witness. 

Ith.  Thou  dost  belie  thy  friend. 

Pen.  I  do  not,  Ithocles  ; 

For  she  that's  wife  to  Orgilus,  and  lives 
In  known  adultery  with  Bassanes, 
Is  at  the  best  a  whore.     Wilt  kill  me  now  ? 
The  ashes  of  our  parents  will  assume 
Some  dreadful  figure,  and  appear  to  charge 
Thy  bloody  guilt,  that  hast  betray'd  their  name 
To  infamy  in  this  reproachful  match. 

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  worshipp'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.  O,  no  more  ! 

8  Wkile\  The  4to  has  "Which."  D. 

9  act,]  The  4(0  has  "art."  D. 


262  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

Ith.  Death  waits  to  waft  me  to  the  Stygian  banks, 
And  free  me  from  this  chaos  of  my  bondage ; 
And9  till  thou  wilt  forgive,  I  must  endure. 

Pen.  Who  is  the  saint  you  serve  ? 

Ith.  Friendship,  or  [nearness] 

Of  birth10  to  any  but  my  sister,  durst  not 
Have  mov'd  that  question ;  'tis  a  secret,  sister, 
I  dare  not  murmur  to  myself. 

Pen.  Let  me, 

By  your  new  protestations  I  conjure  ye, 
Partake  her  name. 

Ith.  Her  name  ? — 'tis — 'tis — I  dare  not. 

Pen.  All  your  respects  are  forg'd. 

Ith.  They  are  not.— Peace  ! 

Calantha  is — the  princess11 — the  king's  daughter — 
Sole  heir  of  Sparta. — Me,  most  miserable  ! 
Do  I  now  love  thee  ?  for  my  injuries 
Revenge  thyself  with  bravery,  and  gossip 
My  treasons  to  the  king's  ears,  do  : — Calantha 

9  Atuf]Qy.  "But"?  D. 
10  Friendship,  or  [nearness] 

Of  birth,  &c.]  A  word  has  been  dropt  here,  and  I  have  taken 
that  which  has  been  suggested,  though  doubtful  of  its  genuineness ; 
the  pointing  too  seems  defective.  Ithocles  appears  to  allude  to  Pro- 
philus  in  the  first  instance.  In  the  next  line,  for  "as  a  secret,"  I 
read,  with  more  confidence,  "  'tis  a  secret."  [In  the  third  line  Gifford, 
by  some  mistake,  printed  "this  question."  D.] 
u  Peace! 

Calantha  is — the  princess,  &c.]  "  I  have  ventured,"  Mr.  Weber 
says,  "  to  make  an  alteration  here  [viz.  "Calantha  'tis:  the  princess," 
&c.].  The  old  copy  reads,  '  Calantha  is  the  princess,'  &c.,  which  is 
neither  unknown  to  Penthea  nor  to  the  reader."  Pity  that  such 
sagacity  should  be  thrown  away !  Penthea  had  pressed  her  brother 
for  the  name  of  his  mistress,  which,  after  repeated  attempts,  he  de 
clares  he  dares  not  utter :  on  which  she  taxes  him  with  want  of  affec 
tion  to  herself ;  and  he  then,  with  all  the  delicacy  of  respectful  feeling, 
after  an  injunction  of  silence,  replies,  as  in  the  text, 

' '  Peace ! 

Calantha  is-— the  princess — the  king's  daughter — 
Sole  heir  of  Sparta  :"— 

(her  claims  progressively  rising  in  dignity)  —  to  show  the  hopeless 
nature  of  his  love.  What  now  becomes  of  Mr.  Weber's  poor  vul 
garism — "Calantha  'tis"? 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  263 

Knows  it  not  yet,  nor  Prophilus,  my  nearest. 

Pen.  Suppose  you  were  contracted  to  her,  would  it 

not 

Split  even  your  very  soul  to  see  her  father 
Snatch  her  out  of  your  arms  against  her  will, 
And  force  her  on  the  Prince  of  Argos? 

Ith.  Trouble  not 

The  fountains  of  mine  eyes  with  thine  own  story ; 
I  sweat  in  blood  for't. 

Pen.  We  are  reconcil'd. 

Alas,  sir,  being  children,  but  two  branches 
Of  one  stock,  'tis  not  fit  we  should  divide  : 
Have  comfort,  you  may  find  it. 

Ith.  Yes,  in  thee ; 

Only  in  thee,  Penthea  mine. 

Pen.  If  sorrows 

Have  not  too  much  dull'd  my  infected  brain, 
I'll  cheer  invention  for  an  active  strain. 

1th.  Mad  man !   why  have  I  wrong'd  a  maid  so 
excellent ! 

BASSANES  rushes  in  with  a  poniard^  followed  by  PRO 
PHILUS,  GRONEAS,  HEMOPHIL,  and  GRAUSIS. 

Bass.  I  can  forbear  no  longer;  more,  I  will  not : 
Keep  off  your  hands,  or  fall  upon  my  point. — 
Patience  is  tir'd  ;  for,  like  a  slow-pac'd  ass, 
Ye  ride  my  easy  nature,  and  proclaim 
My  sloth  to  vengeance  a  reproach  and  property. 

Ith.  The  meaning  of  this  rudeness  ? 

Pro.  He's  distracted. 

Pen.  O,  my  griev'd  lord  ! — 

Gau.  Sweet  lady,  come  not  near  him  ; 

He  holds  his  perilous  weapon  in  his  hand 
To  prick  he  cares  not  whom  nor  where, — see,  see, 
see! 


264  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

£ass.  My  birth  is  noble :  though  the  popular  blast 
Of  vanity,  as  giddy  as  thy  youth, 
Hath  rear'd  thy  name  up  to  bestride  a  cloud, 
Or  progress12  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun, 
I  am  no  clod  of  trade,  to  lackey  pride, 
Nor,  like  your  slave  of  expectation,  wait 
The  baudy  hinges  of  your  doors,  or  whistle 
For  mystical  conveyance  to  your  bed-sports. 

Gron.  Fine  humours  !  they  become  him. 

Hem.  How  he  stares, 

Struts,  puffs,  and  sweats  !  most  admirable  lunacy ! 

1th.  But  that  I  may  conceive  the  spirit  of  wine 
Has  took  possession  of  your  soberer  custom, 
I'd  say  you  were  unmannerly. 

Pen.  Dear  brother  ! — 

Bass.  Unmannerly  ! — mew,  kitling  ! — smooth  for 
mality 

Is  usher  to  the  rankness  of  the  blood, 
But  impudence  bears  up  the  train.     Indeed,  sir, 
Your  fiery  mettle,  or  your  springal  blaze 
Of  huge  renown,  is  no  sufficient  royalty 
To  print  upon  my  forehead  the  scorn,  "  cuckold." 

1th.  His  jealousy  has13  robb'd  him  of  his  wits  ; 
He  talks  he  knows  not  what. 

Bass.  Yes,  and  he  knows 

To  whom  he  talks ;  to  one  that  franks  his  lust 
In  swine-security14  of  bestial  incest. 

12  progress}  This  passage  is  not  without  curiosity  as  tending  to 
prove  that  some  of  the  words  now  supposed  to  be  Americanisms 
were  in  use  among  our  ancestors,  and  crossed  the  Atlantic  with 
them.     It  is  not  generally  known  that  Ford's  county  (Devonshire) 
supplied  a  very  considerable  number  of  the  earlier  settlers  in  the 
Colonies. 

13  has}  Gifford  printed  "hath."  D. 

14  to  one  that  franks  his  Lust 

In  swine-security,  &c.]  In  this  coarse  speech  Bassanes  alludes 
to  the  small  enclosures  (franks,  as  distinguished  from  styes)  in  which 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  265 

Ith.  Ha,  devil ! 

Bass.  I  will  haloo't ;  though  I  blush  more 

To  name  the  filthiness  than  thou  to  act  it. 

Ith.  Monster  !  [Draws  his  sword. 

Pro.  Sir,  by  our  friendship — 

Pen.  By  our  bloods — 

Will  you  quite  both  undo  us,  brother? 

Grau.  Out  on  him  ! 

These  are  his  megrims,  firks,  and  melancholies. 

Hem.  Well  said,  old  touch-hole. 

Gron.  Kick  him  out  at  doors. 

Pen.  With  favour,  let  me  speak. — My  lord,  what 

slackness 

In  my  obedience  hath  deserv'd  this  rage  ? 
Except  humility  and  silent15  duty 
Have  drawn  on  your  unquiet,  my  simplicity 
Ne'er  studied  your  vexation. 

Bass.  Light  of  beauty, 

Deal  not  ungently  with  a  desperate  wound  ! 
No  breach  of  reason  dares  make  war  with  her 
Whose  looks  are  sovereignty,  whose  breath  is  balm : 


boars  were  fattened.  As  these  animals  were  dangerous  when  full- 
fed,  it  was  necessary  to  shut  them  up  alone.  The  distinction  is  not 
always  observed  by  our  old  dramatists  ;  but  in  general  the  extreme 
of  grossness  and  sensuality  is  conveyed  by  the  words  franked  up. — 
It  is  not  easy  to  comprehend  the  character  of  Bassanes  as  the  poet 
has  drawn  him ;  and,  in  truth,  it  may  almost  be  doubted  whether, 
when  he  sat  down  to  write,  he  had  fully  embodied  in  his  own  mind 
the  person  he  intended  to  produce.  The  gloomy  discontent  of  Pen- 
thea  at  her  ill-assorted  marriage  is  evidently  not  calculated  to  tran- 
quillise  the  suspicious  terrors  of  her  doting  husband ;  and  his  sudden 
transitions  from  the  most  frantic  jealousy  to  all  the  impotence  of 
childish  fondness,  from  wanton  outrage  to  whining  and  nauseous  re 
pentance,  may  not  therefore  be  thought  altogether  unnatural :  but 
Ford  has  also  represented  him  as  shrewd,  sentimental,  and  even  im 
passioned  ;  at  one  period  with  a  mind  habitually  weak  and  urisound, 
and  at  another  with  a  vigorous  understanding,  broken  indeed  and 
disjointed,  but  occasionally  exhibiting  in  its  fragments  traits  of  its 
original  strength. 

15  silent}  The  4to  has  "sinlent."  D. 


266  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

O,  that  I  could  preserve  thee  in  fruition 
As  in  devotion  ! 

Pen.  Sir,  may  every  evil 

Lock'd  in  Pandora's  box  shower,  in  your  presence, 
On  my  unhappy  head,  if,  since  you  made  me 
A  partner  in  your  bed,  I  have  been  faulty 
In  one  unseemly  thought  against  your  honour  ! 

Ith.  Purge  not  his  griefs,  Penthea. 

Bass.  Yes,  say  on, 

Excellent  creature ! — {To  Ith.']  Good,  be  not  a  hin 
drance 

To  peace  and  praise  of  virtue. — O,  my  senses 
Are  charm'd  with  sounds  celestial  ! — On,  dear,  on : 
I  never  gave  you  one  ill  word ;  say,  did  I  ? 
Indeed  I  did  not. 

Pen.  Nor,  by  Juno's  forehead, 

Was  I  e'er  guilty  of  a  wanton  error. 

Bass.  A  goddess  !  let  me  kneel. 

Grau.  Alas,  kind  animal ! 

Ith.  No ;  but  for  penance. 

Bass.  Noble  sir,  what  is  it  ? 

With  gladness  I  embrace  it ;  yet,  pray  let  not 
My  rashness  teach  you  to  be  too  unmerciful. 

Ith.  When  you  shall  show  good  proof  that  manly 

wisdom, 

Not  oversway'd  by  passion  or  opinion, 
Knows  how  to  lead  [your]  judgment,  then  this  lady, 
Your  wife,  my  sister,  shall  return  in  safety 
Home,  to  be  guided  by  you  ;  but,  till  first 
I  can  out  of  clear  evidence  approve  it, 
She  shall  be  my  care. 

Bass.  Rip  my  bosom  up, 

I'll  stand  the  execution  with  a  constancy  • 
This  torture  is  insufferable. 

Ith.  Well,  sir, 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  267 

I  dare  not  trust  her  to  your  fury. 

Bass.  But 

Penthea  says  not  so. 

Pen.  She  needs  no  tongue 

To  plead  excuse  who  never  purpos'd  wrong. 

{Exit  with  Ith.  and  Pro. 

Hem.  Virgin  of  reverence  and  antiquity, 
Stay  you  behind. 

\To  Grau.  who  is  following  Pen. 

Groji.  The  court  wants  not  your  diligence. 

\Exeunt  Hem.  and  Gron. 

Grau.  What  will  you  do,  my  lord?  my  lady's  gone; 
I  am  denied  to  follow. 

Bass.  I  may  see  her, 

Or  speak  to  her  once  more  ? 

Grau.  And  feel  her  too,  man ; 

Be  of  good  cheer,  she's  your  own  flesh  and  bone. 

Bass.  Diseases  desperate  must  find  cures  alike. 
She  swore  she  has  been  true. 

Grau.  True,  on  my  modesty. 

Bass.  Let  him  want  truth  who  credits  not  her 

vows  ! 

Much  wrong  I  did  her,  but  her  brother  infinite ; 
Rumour  will  voice  me  the  contempt  of  manhood, 
Should  I  run  on  thus  :  some  way  I  must  try 
To  outdo  art,  and  jealousy  decry.16 

\Exeunt. 

16  To  outdo  art,  and  jealousy  decry.']  The  old  copy  reads,  "To 
outdo  art,  and  cry  a  jealousy. "  This  is  undoubtedly  corrupt.  I  have, 
I  believe,  by  a  slight  transposition  of  the  dislocated  words,  restored 
the  meaning,  if  not  the  expression,  of  the  author. 


268  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

SCENE  III.   A  room  in  the  palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  AMYCLAS,  NEARCHUS  leading  CALANTHA,  AR- 
MOSTES,  CROTOLON,  EUPHRANEA,  CHRISTALLA,  PHILEMA, 
and  AMELUS. 

Amyc.   Cousin  of  Argos,  what  the  heavens  have 

pleas'd, 

In  their  unchanging  counsels,  to  conclude 
For  both  our  kingdoms'  weal,  we  must  submit  to  : 
Nor  can  we  be  unthankful  to  their  bounties, 
Who,  when  we  were  even  creeping  to  our  grave,16 
Sent  us  a  daughter,  in  whose  birth  our  hope 
Continues  of  succession.     As  you  are 
In  title  next,  being  grandchild  to  our  aunt, 
So  we  in  heart  desire  you  may  sit  nearest 
Calantha's  love ;  since  we  have  ever  vow'd 
Not  to  enforce  affection  by  our  will, 
But  by  her  own  choice  to  confirm  it  gladly. 

Near.  You  speak  the  nature  of  a  right  just  father. 
I  come  not  hither  roughly  to  demand 
My  cousin's  thraldom,  but  to  free  mine  own  : 
Report  of  great  Calantha's  beauty,  virtue, 
Sweetness,  and  singular  perfections,  courted 
All  ears  to  credit  what  I  find  was  publish'd 
By  constant  truth ;  from  which,  if  any  service 
Of  my  desert  can  purchase  fair  construction, 
This  lady  must  command  it. 

Cal.  Princely  sir, 

So  well  you  know  how  to  profess  observance, 
That  you  instruct  your  hearers  to  become 
Practitioners  in  duty  ;  of  which  number 
I'll  study  to  be  chief. 

Near.  Chief,  glorious  virgin, 

In  my  devotion,17  as  in  all  men's  wonder. 

16  graved]  The  4to  has  "graues;"  and  so  Gifford.   D. 

17  devotion,}  The  4to  has  "devotions."  D. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  269 

Amyc.  Excellent  cousin,  we  deny  no  liberty  ; 
Use  thine  own  opportunities. — Armostes, 
We  must  consult  with  the  philosophers  ; 
The  business  is  of  weight. 

Arm.  Sir,  at  your  pleasure. 

Amyc.  You  told  me,  Crotolon,  your  son's  return'd 
From  Athens  :  wherefore  comes  he  not  to  court, 
As  we  commanded  ? 

Crot.  He  shall  soon  attend 

Your  royal  will,  great  sir. 

Amyc.  The  marriage 

Between  young  Prophilus  and  Euphranea 
Tastes  of  too  much  delay. 

Crot.  My  lord, — 

Amyc.  Some  pleasures 

At  celebration  of  it  would  give  life 
To  th'  entertainment  of  the  prince  our  kinsman ; 
Our  court  wears  gravity  more  than  we  relish. 

Arm.  Yet  the  heavens  smile  on  all  your  high  at 
tempts, 
Without  a  cloud. 

Crot.  So  may  the  gods  protect  us  ! 

Cal.  A  prince  a  subject  ? 

Near.  Yes,  to  beauty's  sceptre ; 

As  all  hearts  kneel,  so  mine. 

Cal.  You  are  too  courtly. 

Enter  ITHOCLES,  ORGILUS,  and  PROPHILUS. 

Ith.  Your  safe  return  to  Sparta  is  most  welcome  : 
I  joy  to  meet  you  here,  and,  as  occasion 
Shall  grant  us  privacy,  will  yield  you  reasons 
Why  I  should  covet  to  deserve  the  title 
Of  your  respected  friend ;  for^  without  compliment, 
Believe  it,  Orgilus,  'tis  my  ambition. 


270  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

Org.  Your  lordship  may  command  me,  your  poor 
servant. 

Ith.  \aside\  So  amorously  close  !18 — so  soon  ! — my 
heart ! 

Pro.  What  sudden  change  is  next  ? 

Ith.  Life  to  the  king  ! 

To  whom  I  here  present  this  noble  gentleman, 
New  come  from  Athens  :  royal  sir,  vouchsafe 
Your  gracious  hand  in  favour  of  his  merit. 

\The  King  gives  Org.  his  hand  to  kiss. 

Crot.  \aside\  My  son  preferr'd  by  Ithocles  ! 

Amyc.  Our  bounties 

Shall  open  to  thee,  Orgilus  ;  for  instance, — 
Hark  in 'thine  ear, — if,  out  of  those  inventions 
Which  flow  in  Athens,  thou  hast  there  engross'd 
Some  rarity  of  wit,19  to  grace  the  nuptials 
Of  thy  fair  sister,  and  renown  our  court 
In  th'  eyes  of  this  young  prince,  we  shall  be  debtor 
To  thy  conceit :  think  on't. 

Org.  Your  highness  honours  me. 

Near.  My  tongue  and  heart  are  twins. 

Cal.  A  noble  birth, 

Becoming  such  a  father. — Worthy  Orgilus, 
You  are  a  guest  most  wish'd  for. 

Org.  May  my  duty 

Still  rise  in  your  opinion,  sacred  princess  ! 

Ith.  Euphranea's  brother,  sir ;  a  gentleman 
Well  worthy  of  your  knowledge. 

Near.  We  embrace  him, 

18  close.']  The  410  has  "close,  close."  D. 

if  thou  hast  there  engross'd 

Some  rarity  of  wit,  &c.]  i.  e.  if  thou  hast  possessed  thyself  of, 
mastered,  so  as  to  bring  away : — the  king  seems  inclined  rather  to 
tax  the  memory  of  Orgilus  than  his  imagination.  It  [engross]  occurs 
in  the  very  same  sense  in  Love's  Sacrifice,  act  iv.  sc.  i. 


SCENE  iv.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  271 

Proud  of  so  dear  acquaintance. 

Amyc.  All  prepare 

For  revels  and  disport ;  the  joys  of  Hymen, 
Like  Phoebus  in  his  lustre,  put  to  flight 
All  mists  of  dulness,  crown  the  hours  with  gladness  : 
No  sounds  but  music,  no  discourse  but  mirth  ! 

Cal.  Thine  arm,  I  prithee,  Ithocles. — Nay,  good 
My  lord,  keep  on  your  way ;  I  am  provided. 

Near.  I  dare  not  disobey. 

Ith.  Most  heavenly  lady  ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.  A  room  in  the  house  of  CROTOLON. 

Enter  CROTOLON  and  ORGILUS. 

Crot.  The  king  hath  spoke  his  mind. 

Org.  His  will  he  hath  ; 

But  were  it  lawful  to  hold  plea  against 
The  power  of  greatness,  not  the  reason,  haply 
Such  undershrubs  as  subjects  sometimes  might 
Borrow  of  nature  justice,  to  inform 
That  license  sovereignty  holds  without  check 
Over  a  meek  obedience. 

Crot.  How  resolve  you 

Touching  your  sister's  marriage  ?     Prophilus 
Is  a  deserving  and  a  hopeful  youth. 

Org.  I  envy  not  his  merit,  but  applaud  it ; 
Could  wish20  him  thrift  in  all  his  best  desires, 
And  with  a  willingness  inleague  our  blood 
With  his,  for  purchase  of  full  growth  in  friendship. 
He  never  touch'd  on  any  wrong  that  malic'd 
The  honour  of  our  house  nor  stirr'd  our  peace  ; 
Yet,  with  your  favour,  let  me  not  forget 

20  -wish]  The  4to  has  "with."  D. 


272  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  HI. 

Under  whose  wing  he  gathers  warmth  and  comfort, 
Whose  creature  he  is  bound,  made,  and  must  live  so. 

Crot.  Son,  son,  I  find  in  thee  a  harsh  condition  ;21 
No  courtesy  can  win  it,  'tis  too  rancorous. 

Org.  Good  sir,  be  not  severe  in  your  construction; 
I  am  no  stranger  to  such  easy  calms 
As  sit  in  tender  bosoms  :  lordly  Ithocles 
Hath  grac'd  my  entertainment  in  abundance ; 
Too  humbly  hath  descended  from  that  height 
Of  arrogance  and  spleen  which  wrought  the  rape 
On  griev'd  Penthea's  purity ;  his  scorn 
Of  my  untoward  fortunes  is  reclaim'd 
Unto  a  courtship,  almost  to  a  fawning  : — 
I'll  kiss  his  foot,  since  you  will  have  it  so. 

Crot.  Since  I  will  have  it  so  !  friend,  I  will  have  it 

so, 

Without  our  ruin  by  your  politic  plots, 
Or  wolf  of  hatred  snarling  in  your  breast. 
You  have  a  spirit,  sir,  have  ye  ?  a  familiar 
That  posts  i'  th'  air  for  your  intelligence  ? 
Some  such  hobgoblin  hurried  you  from  Athens, 
For  yet  you  come  unsent  for. 

Org.  If  unwelcome, 

I  might  have  found  a  grave  there. 

Crot.  Sure,  your  business 

Was  soon  dispatch'd,  or  your  mind  alter'd  quickly. 

Org.  'Twas  care,  sir,  of  my  health  cut  short  my 

journey; 
For  there  a  general  infection 

21  I  find  in  thee  a  harsh  condition,]  i.e.  temper,  disposition.  The 
word  occurs  in  the  same  sense  in  all  our  old  writers,  and  in  none 
more  frequently  than  Ford.  The  line  above, 

"  I  envy  not  his  merit,  but  applaud  it," 

is  a  close  translation  of  Virgil's  "  Non  equidem  invideo,  miror  magis. " 
The  deep  dissimulation,  the  deadly  resentment  of  Orgilus  are  power 
fully  marked  in  this  scene. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  273 

Threatens  a  desolation. 

Crot.  And  I  fear 

Thou  hast  brought  back  a  worse  infection  with  thee, — 
Infection  of  thy  mind  ;  which,  as  thou  say'st, 
Threatens  the  desolation  of  our  family. 

Org.  Forbid  it,  our  dear  Genius  !  I  will  rather 
Be  made  a  sacrifice  on  Thrasus'  monument, 
Or  kneel  to  Ithocles  his  son  in  dust, 
Than  woo  a  father's  curse.     My  sister's  marriage 
With  Prophilus  is  from  my  heart  confirm'd ; 
May  I  live  hated,  may  I  die  despis'd, 
If  I  omit  to  further  it  in  all 
That  can  concern  me  ! 

Crot.  I  have  been  too  rough. 

My  duty  to  my  king  made  me  so  earnest; 
Excuse  it,  Orgilus. 

Org.  Dear  sir  ! — 

Crot.  Here  comes 

Euphranea,  with  Prophilus  and  Ithocles. 

Enter  PROPHILUS,  EUPHRANEA,  ITHOCLES,  GRONEAS, 
and  HEMOPHIL. 

Org.  Most  honoured  ! — ever  famous  ! 

Ith.  Your  true  friend ; 

On  earth  not  any  truer. — With  smooth  eyes 
Look  on  this  worthy  couple ;  your  consent 
Can  only  make  them  one. 

Org.  They  have  it.— Sister, 

Thou  pawn'dst  to  me  an  oath,  of  which  engagement 
I  never  will  release  thee,  if  thou  aim'st 
At  any  other  choice  than  this. 

Euph.  Dear  brother, 

At  him,  or  none. 

Crot.  To  which  my  blessing's  added. 

Org.  Which,  till  a  greater  ceremony  perfect, — 

VOL.  I.  T 


274  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  HI. 

Euphranea,  lend  thy  hand, — here,  take  her,  Prophilus : 
Live  long  a  happy  man  and  wife  ;  and  further, 
That  these  in  presence  may  conclude  an  omen, 
Thus  for  a  bridal  song  I  close  my  wishes  : 

Comforts  lasting,  loves  increasing, 
Like  soft  hours  never  ceasing  ; 
Plenty's  pleasure,  peace  complying, 
Without  jars,  or  tongues  envying  ; 
Hearts  by  holy  union  wedded, 
More  than  theirs  by  custom  bedded ; 
Fruitful  issues  ;  life  so  grafd, 
Not  by  age  to  be  defaced, 
Budding,  as  the  year  ensu'th, 
Every  spring  another  youth  : 
All  what  thought  can  add  beside 
Crown  this  bridegroom  and  this  bride  ! 

Pro.  You  have  seal'd  joy  close  to  my  soul. — Eu 
phranea, 
Now  I  may  call  thee  mine. 

Ith.  I  but  exchange 

One  good  friend  for  another. 

Org.  If  these  gallants 

Will  please  to  grace  a  poor  invention 
By  joining  with  me  in  some  slight  device, 
I'll  venture  on  a  strain  my  younger  days 
Have  studied  for  delight. 

Hem,  With  thankful  willingness 

I  offer  my  attendance. 

Gron.  No  endeavour 

Of  mine  shall  fail  to  show  itself. 

Ith.  We  will 

All  join  to  wait  on  thy  directions,  Orgilus. 

Org.  O,  my  good  lord,  your  favours  flow  towards 
A  too  unworthy  worm  ; — but  as  you  please  ; 


SCENE  v.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  275 

I  am  what  you  will  shape  me. 

Ith.  A  fast  friend. 

Crot.  I  thank  thee,  son,  for  this  acknowledgment ; 
It  is  a  sight  of  gladness. 

Org.  But  my  duty.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.  CALANTHA'S  apartment  in  the  palace. 
Enter  CALANTHA,  PENTHEA,  CHRISTALLA,  and  PHILEMA. 

Cal.  Whoe'er  would  speak  with  us,  deny  his  en 
trance  ; 
Be  careful  of  our  charge. 

Chris.  We  shall,  madam.22 

Cal.  Except  the  king  himself,  give  none  admit 
tance  ; 
Not  any. 

Phil.     Madam,  it  shall  be  our  care. 

\_Exeunt  Chris,  and  Phil. 

Cal.  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  even  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. 

Cal.  You  feed  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 

32   We  shall,  madam.'}  Qy.  "Madam,  we  shall"?  D. 


276  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  in. 

By  varied  pleasures,  sweeten'd  in  the  mixture, 

But  tragical  in  issue  :  beauty,  pomp, 

With  every  sensuality  our  giddiness 

Doth  frame  an  idol,  are  unconstant  friends, 

When  any  troubled  passion  makes  assault 

On  the  unguarded  castle  of  the  mind. 

Cal.  Contemn  not  your  condition  for  the  proof 
Of  bare  opinion  only  :  to  what  end 
Reach  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 

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  comer  in  the  earth. — 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  princess, 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal.  Speak ;  I  enjoy  it.23 

Pen.  Vouchsafe,  then,  to  be  my  executrix, 
And  take  that  trouble  on  ye  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  I  bequeath  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.  [  Weeps. 

Pen.  \aside\  Her  fair  eyes 

Melt  into  passion. — Then  I  have  assurance 
Encouraging  my  boldness.     In  this  paper 

23  / enjoy  it.]  I  take  pleasure  in  it.     [Qy.  "/enjoin  //" ?  D.] 


SCENE  v.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  277 

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  bequeath.  The  first  is 
My  Youth  ;  for  though  I  am  much  old  in  griefs, 
In  years  I  am  a  child. 

CaL  To  whom  that  [jewel]? 

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, 
Rather  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  bequeath 
To  Memory,  and  Time's  old  daughter,  Truth. 
If  ever  my  unhappy  name  find  mention 
When  I  am  fall'n  to  dust,  may  it  deserve 
Beseeming  charity  without  dishonour  ! 

CaL  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  agone  since  first  I  lost  my  heart : 


278  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  u 

Long  I  have24  liv'd  without  it,  else  for  certain 
I  should  have  given  that  too ;  but  instead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 
By  service  bound  and  by  affection  vow'd, 
I  do  bequeath,  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  appeafd 
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  ye. — 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  dar'st 
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 
Of  this  pursuit :  but  if  you  please  to  kill  him, 
Lend  him  one  angry  look  or  one  harsh  word, 

24  I  have]  Gifford  printed  "have  I."  D. 


SCENE  I.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  279 

And  you  shall  soon  conclude  how  strong  a  power 
Your  absolute  authority  holds  over 
His  life  and  end. 

Cal.  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 

How  still  I  have  a  father. 

Pen.  But  remember 

I  am  a  sister,  though  to  me  this  brother 
Hath  been,  you  know,  unkind,  O,  most  unkind ! 

Cal.  Christalla,  Philema,  where  are  ye  ? — Lady, 
Your  check  lies  in  my  silence. 

Re-enter  CHRISTALLA  and  PHILEMA. 

pfal  '  Madam,  here. 

Cal.  I  think  ye  sleep,  ye  drones :  wait  on  Penthea 
Unto  her  lodging. — [Aside]  Ithocles  ?  wrong'd  lady  ! 

Pen.  My  reckonings  are  made  even  ;  death  or  fate 
Can  now  nor  strike  too  soon  nor  force  too  late. 

{Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  The  palace.     ITHOCLES'  apartment. 

Enter  ITHOCLES  and  ARMOSTES. 

Ith.  Forbear  your  inquisition  :  curiosity 
Is  of  too  subtle  and  too  searching  nature, 
In  fears  of  love  too  quick,  too  slow  of  credit. — 
I  am  not  what  you  doubt  me. 

Arm.  Nephew,  be,  then, 

As  I  would  wish ; — all  is  not  right. — Good  heaven 
Confirm  your  resolutions  for  dependence 


280  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

On  worthy  ends,  which  may  advance  your  quiet ! 

Ith.  I  did  the  noble  Orgilus  much  injury, 
But  griev'd  Penthea  more  :  I  now  repent  it, — 
Now,  uncle,  now;  this  "now"  is  now  too  late. 
So  provident  is  folly  in  sad  issue, 
That  after-wit,  like  bankrupts'  debts,  stand  [s]  tallied, 
Without  all  possibilities  of  payment. 
Sure,  he's  an  honest,  very  honest  gentleman ; 
A  man  of  single  meaning.1 

Arm.  I  believe  it : 

Yet,  nephew,  'tis  the  tongue  informs  our  ears ; 
Our  eyes  can  never  pierce  into  the  thoughts, 
For  they  are  lodg'd  too  inward : — but  I  question 
No  truth  in  Orgilus. — The  princess,  sir. 

Ith.  The  princess  !  ha  ! 

Arm.  With  her  the  Prince  of  Argos. 

Enter  NEARCHUS,  leading  CALANTHA  ;  AMELUS, 
CHRISTALLA,  PHILEMA. 

Near.  Great  fair  one,  grace  my  hopes  with  any 

instance 

Of  livery,2  from  th'  allowance  of  your  favour ; 
This  little  spark— 

[Attempts  to  take  a  ring  from  her  finger. 
Cal.  A  toy! 

Near.  Love  feasts  on  toys, 

For  Cupid  is  a  child  ; — vouchsafe  this  bounty  : 
It  cannot  be  denied.3 

1  A  man  of  single  meaning.]  i.e.  plain,  open,  sincere,  unre 
served.  It  appears,  notwithstanding  the  disavowal  of  Armostes,  that 
he  did  not  altogether  adopt  the  fatal  error  of  his  nephew. 

grace  my  hopes  with  any  instance 

Of  livery]  i.  e.  favour  me  with  some  badge,  some  ornament 
from  your  person,  to  show  that  you  have  condescended  to  enrol  me 
among  your  servants.  This  was  the  language  of  courtship,  and  was 
derived  from  the  practice  of  distinguishing  the  followers  and  retainers 
of  great  families  by  the  badge  or  crest  of  the  house. 

3  be  denied.}  The  4to  has  "beny'd."  D. 


SCENE  i.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  281 

CaL  You  shall  not  value, 

Sweet  cousin,  at  a  price,  what  I  count  cheap ; 
So  cheap,  that  let  him  take  it  who  dares  stoop  fort, 
And  give  it  at  next  meeting  to  a  mistress  : 
She'll  thank  him  for't,  perhaps. 

[Casts  the  ring  before  Rhodes,  who  takes  it  up. 

Ame.  The  ring,  sir,  is 

The  princess's;  I  could  have  took  it  up. 

Ith.  Learn   manners,    prithee.  —  To   the  blessed 

owner, 
Upon  my  knees —        [Kneels  and  offers  it  to  Calantha. 

Near.  You're  saucy. 

CaL  This  is  pretty ! 

I  am,  belike,  "  a  mistress" — wondrous  pretty  ! — 
Let  the  man  keep  his  fortune,  since  he  found  it ; 
He's  worthy  on't. — On,  cousin ! 

[Exeunt  Near.  CaL  Chris,  and  Phil. 

Ith.  [to  Ante.]  Follow,  spaniel ; 

I'll  force  ye  to  a  fawning  else. 

Ame.  You  dare  not.      [Exit. 

Arm.  My  lord,  you  were  too  forward. 

Ith.  Look  ye,  uncle, 

Some  such  there  are  whose  liberal  contents 
Swarm  without  care  in  every  sort  of  plenty; 
Who  after  full  repasts  can  lay  them  down 
To  sleep ;  and  they  sleep,  uncle :  in  which  silence 
Their  very  dreams  present  'em  choice  of  pleasures, 
Pleasures — observe  me,  uncle — of  rare  object ; 
Here  heaps  of  gold,  there  increments  of  honours, 
Now  change  of  garments,  then  the  votes  of  people ; 
Anon  varieties  of  beauties,  courting, 
In  flatteries  of  the  night,  exchange  of  dalliance : 
Yet  these  are  still  but  dreams.     Give  me  felicity 
Of  which  my  senses  waking  are  partakers, 
A  real,  visible,  material  happiness  ; 


282  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

And  then,  too,  when  I  stagger  in  expectance 
Of  the  least  comfort  that  can  cherish  life. — 
I  saw  it,  sir,  I  saw  it ;  for  it  came 
From  her  own  hand. 

Arm.  The  princess  threw  it  t'ye. 

Ith.  True;  and  she  said — well  I  remember  what — 
Her  cousin  prince  would  beg  it. 

Arm.  Yes,  and  parted 

In  anger  at  your  taking  on't. 

Ith.  Penthea, 

O,  thou  hast  pleaded  with  a  powerful  language  ! 
I  want  a  fee  to  gratify  thy  merit; 
But  I  will  do— 

Arm.  What  is't  you  say  ? 

Ith.  In  anger  ! 

In  anger  let  him  part ;  for  could  his  breath, 
Like  whirlwinds,  toss  such  servile  slaves  as  lick 
The  dust  his  footsteps  print  into  a  vapour, 
It  durst  not  stir  a  hair  of  mine,  it  should  not ; 
I'd  rend  it  up  by  th'  roots  first.     To  be  anything 
Calantha  smiles  on,  is  to  be  a  blessing 
More  sacred  than  a  petty  prince  of  Argos 
Can  wish  to  equal  or  in  worth  or  title. 

Arm.  Contain  yourself,  my  lord  :  Ixion,  aiming 
To  embrace  Juno,  bosom'd  but  a  cloud, 
And  begat  Centaurs ;  'tis  an  useful  moral : 
Ambition  hatch'd  in  clouds  of  mere  opinion 
Proves  but  in  birth  a  prodigy. 

Ith.  I  thank  ye  ; 

Yet,  with  your  license,  I  should  seem  uncharitable 
To  gentler  fate,  if,  relishing  the  dainties 
Of  a  soul's  settled  peace,  I  were  so  feeble 
Not  to  digest  it. 

Arm.  He  deserves  small  trust 

Who  is  not  privy-counsellor  to  himself. 


SCENE  i.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  283 

Re-enter  NEARCHUS  and  AMELUS,  with  ORGILUS. 

Near.  Brave  me? 

Org.  Your  excellence  mistakes  his  temper; 

For  Ithocles  in  fashion  of  his  mind 
Is  beautiful,  soft,  gentle,  the  clear  mirror 
Of  absolute  perfection. 

Ame.  Was't  your  modesty4 

Term'd  any  of  the  prince's  servants  "spaniel"? 
Your  nurse,  sure,  taught  you  other  language. 

Ith.  Language ! 

Near.  A  gallant  man-at-arms  is  here,  a  doctor 
In  feats  of  chivalry,  blunt  and  rough-spoken, 
Vouchsafing  not  the  fustian  of  civility, 
Which  [less]  rash  spirits  style  good  manners.5 

Ith.  Manners ! 

Org.  No  more,  illustrious  sir ;  'tis  matchless  Itho 
cles. 

Near.  You  might  have  understood  who  I  am. 

Ith.  Yes, 

I  did ;  else — but  the  presence  calm'd  th'  affront — 
You're  cousin  to  the  princess. 

Near.  To  the  king  too  ; 

A  certain  instrument  that  lent  supportance 
To  your  colossic  greatness — to  that  king  too, 

4  your  modesty]  This  is  an  appellative,  like  "your  sovereignty" 
in  Hamlet,  about  which  so  much  nonsense  has  been  written.  [Here, 
no  doubt,  Giffbrd  is  right  as  to  "your  modesty:"  but  when,  in  a  note 
on  Jonson's  Works,  vol.  v.  p.  352,  he  asserted  that,  in  the  following 
line  of  Hamlet,  act  i.  sc.  4, 

"  Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason," 
"sovereignty"  was  "merely  a  title  of  respect,"  he  was  utterly  mis 
taken:  see  my  Gloss,  to  Shakespeare,  sub  "deprive."  D.] 

5  Which  [less]  rash  spirits  style  good  manners.]  The  410  reads, 
"Which  rash  spirits  style  good  manners."     The  want  of  rhythm 
alone,  even  if  the  expression  were  not,  as  it  is,  devoid  of  congruity 
and  sense,  would  suffice  to  show  that  something  is  defective.    I  have 
made  the  best  guess  I  could,  and,  at  all  events,  given  a  shadow  of 
meaning  to  the  words. 


284  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

You  might  have  added. 

Ith.  There  is  more  divinity 

In  beauty  than  in  majesty. 

Arm.  O  fie,  fie ! 

Near.  This  odd  youth's  pride  turns  heretic  in  loy 
alty. 
Sirrah  !  low  mushrooms  never  rival  cedars. 

[Exeunt  Near,  and  Ame. 

Ith.  Come  back  ! — What  pitiful  dull  thing  am  I 
So  to  be  tamely  scolded  at !  come  back  ! — 
Let  him  come  back,  and  echo  once  again 
That  scornful  sound  of  mushroom  !  painted  colts6 — 
Like  heralds'  coats  gilt-o'er  with  crowns  and  sceptres — 
May  bait  a  muzzled  lion. 

Arm.  Cousin,  cousin, 

Thy  tongue  is  not  thy  friend. 

Org.  In  point  of  honour 

Discretion  knows  no  bounds.     Amelus  told  me 
'Twas  all  about  a  little  ring. 

Ith.  A  ring 

The  princess  threw  away,  and  I  took  up  : 
Admit  she  threw't  to  me,  what  arm  of  brass 
Can  snatch  it  hence  ?     No  ;  could  he  grind  the  hoop 
To  powder,  he  might  sooner  reach  my  heart 
Than  steal  and  wear  one  dust  on't. — Orgilus,     . 
I  am  extremely  wrong'd. 

Org.  A  lady's  favour 

Is  not  to  be  so  slighted. 

Ith.  Slighted ! 

Arm.  Quiet 

These  vain  unruly  passions,  which  will  render  ye 

6  painted  colts,  &c.  ]  Our  old  writers  used  colt  (probably  from  the 
boisterous  gambols  of  this  animal)  for  a  compound  of  rudeness  and 
folly.  The  meaning  of  the  text  is  sufficiently  obvious  ;  but  it  would 
seem  that  there  is  also  an  allusion  to  some  allegorical  representation 
of  this  kind  in  "the  painted  cloth." 


SCENE  I.  THE' BROKEN  HEART.  285 

Into  a  madness. 

Org.  Griefs  will  have  their  vent.7 

Enter  TECNICUS  with  a  scroll. 

Arm.  Welcome;  thou  com'st  in  season,  reverend 

man, 

To  pour  the  balsam  of  a  suppling8  patience 
Into  the  festering  wound  of  ill-spent  fury. 

Org.  \aside\  What  makes  he  here  ? 

Tec.  The  hurts  are  yet  but  mortal, 

Which  shortly  will  prove  deadly.9     To  the  king, 
Armostes,  see  in  safety  thou  deliver 
This  seal'd-up  counsel ;  bid  him  with  a  constancy 
Peruse  the  secrets  of  the  gods. — O  Sparta, 

0  Lacedaemon !  double-nam'd,  but  one  s . . 
In  fate  :  when  kingdoms  reel, — mark  well  my  saw, — 
Their  heads  must  needs  be  giddy.    Tell  the  king 
That  henceforth  he  no  more  must  inquire  after 

My  aged  head  ;  Apollo  wills  it  so  : 

1  am  for  Delphos. 

Arm.  Not  without  some  conference 


7  The  extraordinary  success  with  which  the  revengeful  spirit  of 
Orgilus  is  maintained  through  every  scene  is  highly  creditable  to 
the  poet's  skill.     There  is  not  a  word  spoken  by  him  which  does  not 
denote  a  deep  and  dangerous  malignity,  couched  in  the  most  sar 
castic  and  rancorous  language.     The  bitterness  of  gall,  the  poison 
of  asps,  lurk  under  every  compliment,  which  nothing  but  the  deep 
repentance  and  heartfelt  sincerity  of  Ithocles  could  possibly  prevent 
him  from  feeling  and  detecting. 

8  suppling}  The  4to  has  "supplying."  D. 

The  hurts  are  yet  but  mortal, 

Which  shortly  -will prove  deadly.]  There  are  few  words  so  fre 
quently  confounded  by  the  press  of  our  poet's  time  as  but  and  not: 
a  mistake  of  this  kind  seems  to  have  taken  place  here,  and  for 
"but"  we  should  perhaps  read  "not,"  i.e.  the  wounds,  though  yet 
not  mortal,  will  speedily  prove  so.  Otherwise  it  is  not  easy  to  dis 
cover  how  the  author  distinguished  the  last  word  from  "deadly;" 
unless,  indeed,  he  adopted  the  vulgar  phraseology  of  his  native  place, 
and  used  "mortal"  in  the  sense  of  very  great,  extreme,  &c. 


286  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  IV. 

With  our  great  master  ? 

Tec.  Never  more  to  see  him  : 

A  greater  prince  commands  me. — Ithocles, 

When  youth  is  ripe,  and  age  from  time  doth  part, 
The  Lifeless  Trunk  shall  wed  the  Broken  Heart. 
Ith.  What's  this,  if  understood? 
Tec.  List,  Orgilus ; 

Remember  what  I  told  thee  long  before, 
These  tears  shall  be  my  witness. 

Arm.  'Las,  good  man  ! 

Tec. 

Let  craft  with  courtesy  a  while  confer ; 
Revenge  proves  its  own  executioner. 

Org.  Dark  sentences  are  for  Apollo's  priests ; 
I  am  not  OEdipus. 

Tec.  My  hour  is  come  ; 

Cheer  up  the  king ;  farewell  to  all. — O  Sparta, 
O  Lacedaemon !  \Exit. 

Arm.  If  prophetic  fire 

Have  warm'd  this  old  man's  bosom,  we  might  construe 
His  words  to  fatal  sense. 

Ith.  Leave  to  the  powers 

Above  us  the  effects  of  their  decrees  ; 
My  burthen  lies  within  me  :  servile  fears 
Prevent  no  great  effects. — Divine  Calantha  ! 

Arm.  The  gods  be  still  propitious  ! 

\Exeunt  Ith.  and  Arm. 

Org.  Something  oddly 

The  book-man  prated,  yet  he  talk'd  it  weeping ; 
Let  craft  with  courtesy  a  while  confer •, 
Revenge  proves  its  own  executioner. 

Con  it  again ; — for  what  ?     It  shall  not  puzzle  me ; 
'Tis  dotage  of  a  withered  brain. — Penthea 
Forbade  me  not  her  presence ;  I  may  see  her, 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  287 

And  gaze  my  fill.     Why  see  her,  then,  I  may, 
When,  if  I  faint  to  speak — I  must  be  silent.        [Exit. 


SCENE  II.  A  room  in  BASSANES'  house. 
Enter  BASSANES,  GRAUsis,  and  PHULAS. 

Bass.  Pray,  use  your  recreations,  all  the  service 
I  will  expect  is  quietness  amongst  ye ; 
Take  liberty  at  home,  abroad,  at  all  times, 
And  in  your  charities  appease  the  gods, 
Whom  I,  with  my  distractions,  have  offended. 

Grau.  Fair  blessings  on  thy  heart ! 

Phu.  [aside]  Here's  a  rare  change  ! 

My  lord,  to  cure  the  itch,  is  surely  gelded ; 
The  cuckold  in  conceit  hath  cast  his  horns. 

Bass.  Betake  ye  to  your  several  occasions ; 
And  wherein  I  have  heretofore  been  faulty, 
Let  your  constructions  mildly  pass  it  over ; 
Henceforth  I'll  study  reformation, — more 
I  have  not  for  employment. 

Grau.  O,  sweet  man  ! 

Thou  art  the  very  Honeycomb  of  Honesty. 

Phu.  The  Garland  of  Good-will.10— Old  lady,  hold 

up 

Thy  reverend  snout,  and  trot  behind  rne  softly, 
As  it  becomes  a  moil11  of  ancient  carriage. 

[Exeunt  Grau.  and  Phu. 

Bass.  Beasts,  only  capable  of  sense,  enjoy 
The  benefit  of  food  and  ease  with  thankfulness  ; 

"  The  Honeycomb  of  Honesty,  like  the  "Garland  of  Good-will, " 
was  probably  one  of  the  popular  miscellanies  of  the  day.  The  quaint 
and  alliterative  titles  to  these  collections  of  ballads,  stories,  jests, 
&c.  gave  every  allusion  to  them  an  air  of  pleasantry,  and  perhaps 
excited  a  smile  on  the  stage. 

11  moil]  i.e.  mule. — Altered  by  Gifford  to  "mule."  D. 


288  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

Such  silly  creatures,  with  a  grudging,  kick  not 

Against  the  portion  nature  hath  bestow'd  : 

But  men,  endow'd  with  reason  and  the  use 

Of  reason,  to  distinguish  from  the  chaff 

Of  abject  scarcity  the  quintessence, 

Soul,  and  elixir  of  the  earth's  abundance, 

The  treasures  of  the  sea,  the  air,  nay,  heaven, 

Repining  at  these  glories  of  creation 

Are  verier  beasts  than  beasts;  and  of  those  beasts 

The  worst  am  I :  I,  who  was  made  a  monarch 

Of  what  a  heart  could  wish  for, — a  chaste  wife, — 

Endeavour'd  what  in  me  lay  to  pull  down 

That  temple  built  for  adoration  only, 

And  level't  in  the  dust  of  causeless  scandal. 

But,  to  redeem  a  sacrilege  so  impious, 

Humility  shall  pour,  before  the  deities 

I  have  incens'd,  a  largess11  of  more  patience 

Than  their  displeased  altars  can  require  : 

No  tempests  of  commotion  shall  disquiet 

The  calms  of  my  composure. 

Enter  ORGILUS. 

Org.  I  have  found  thee, 

Thou  patron  of  more  horrors  than  the  bulk 
Of  manhood,  hoop'd  about  with  ribs  of  iron, 
Can  cram  within  thy  breast :  Penthea,  Bassanes, 
Curs'd  by  thy  jealousies, — more,  by  thy  dotage, — 
Is  left  a  prey  to  words. 

Bass.  Exercise 

Your  trials  for  addition  to  my  penance ; 
I  am  resolv'd. 

Org.  Play  not  with  misery 

Past  cure  :  some  angry  minister  of  fate  hath 
Depos'd  the  empress  of  her  soul,  her  reason, 

11  largess]  The  4to  has  "  largenesse. "  D. 


SCENE  II.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  289 

From  its  most  proper  throne ;  but,  what's  the  miracle 
More  new,  I,  I  have  seen  it,  and  yet  live  ! 

Bass.  You  may  delude  my  senses,  not  my  judg 
ment  ; 

'Tis  anchor'd  into  a  firm  resolution  ; 
Dalliance  of  mirth  or  wit  can  ne'er  unfix  it  : 
Practise  yet  further.12 

Org.  May  thy  death  of  love  to  her 

Damn  all  thy  comforts  to  a  lasting  fast 
From  every  joy  of  life  !     Thou  barren  rock, 
By  thee  we  have  been  split  in  ken  of  harbour. 

Enter  PENTHEA  with  her  hair  loose,  ITHOCLES,  PHI- 

LEMA,  and  CHRISTALLA. 

Ith.  Sister,  look  up ;  your  Ithocles,  your  brother, 
Speaks  t'ye ;  why  do  you  weep  ?  dear,  turn  not  from 

me. — 

Here  is  a  killing  sight ;  lo,  Bassanes, 
A  lamentable  object ! 

Org.  Man,  dost  see't  ? 

Sports  are  more  gamesome ;  am  I  yet  in  merriment  ? 
Why  dost  not  laugh  ? 

Bass.  Divine  and  best  of  ladies, 

Please  to  forget  my  outrage ;  mercy  ever 
Cannot  but  lodge  under  a  roof13  so  excellent : 
I  have  cast  off  that  cruelty  of  frenzy 
Which  once  appear'd  imposture,14  and  then  juggled 
To  cheat  my  sleeps  of  rest. 

Org.  Was  I  in  earnest? 

Pen.  Sure,  if15  we  were  all  Sirens,  we  should  sing 
pitifully, 

12  Practise  yet  further. .]  i.e.  try  all  your  vexations  upon  me. 

13  roof}  The4tohas  "root."  D. 


14  imposture,}  The  4to  has  "Impostors."  D. 

15  Sure,  if,  &c.]  S 


Some  slight  corruption  here.   D. 
VOL.  I. 


290  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

And  'twere  a  comely  music,  when  in  parts 
One  sung  another's  knell :  the  turtle  sighs 
When  he  hath  lost  his  mate ;  and  yet  some  say 
He  must  be  dead  first :  'tis  a  fine  deceit 
To  pass  away  in  a  dream  !  indeed,  I've  slept 
With  mine  eyes  open  a  great  while.     No  falsehood 
Equals  a  broken  faith ;  there's  not  a  hair 
Sticks  on  my  head  but,  like  a  leaden  plummet, 
It  sinks  me  to  the  grave  :  I  must  creep  thither ; 
The  journey  is  not  long. 

Ith.  But  thou,  Penthea, 

Hast  many  years,  I  hope,  to  number  yet, 
Ere  thou  canst  travel  that  way. 

Bass.  Let  the  sun16  first 

Be  wrapp'd  up  in  an  everlasting  darkness, 
Before  the  light  of  nature,  chiefly  form'd 
For  the  whole  world's  delight,  feel  an  eclipse 
So  universal  ! 

Org.  Wisdom,  look  ye,  begins 

To  rave  ! — art  thou  mad  too,  antiquity  ? 

Pen.  Since  I  was  first  a  wife,  I  might  have  been 
Mother  to  many  pretty  prattling  babes  ; 
They  would  have  smil'd  when  I  smil'd,  and  for  certain 
I  should  have  cried  when  they  cried  : — truly,  brother, 
My  father  would  have  pick'd  me  out  a  husband, 
And  then  my  little  ones  had  been  no  bastards ; 
But  'tis  too  late  for  me  to  marry  now, 
I  am  past  child-bearing ;  'tis  not  my  fault. 

Bass.  Fall  on  me,  if  there  be  a  burning 
And  bury  me  in  flames  !  sweats  hot  as  sulphur 
Boil  through  my  pores  !  affliction  hath  in  store 
No  torture  like  to  this. 

Org.  Behold  a  patience  ! 

16  sun}  The  4to  has  "Swan."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  291 

Lay-by  thy  whining  gray  dissimulation,17 
Do  something  worth  a  chronicle ;  show  justice 
Upon  the  author  of  this  mischief;  dig  out 
The  jealousies  that  hatch'd  this  thraldom  first 
With  thine  own  poniard  :  every  antic  rapture 
Can  roar  as  thine  does. 

Ith.  Orgilus,  forbear. 

Bass.  Disturb  him  not ;  it  is  a  talking  motion18 
Provided  for  my  torment.     What  a  fool  am  I 
To  bandy19  passion !  ere  I'll  speak  a  word, 
I  will  look  on  and  burst. 

Pen.  I  lov'd  you  once.     [To  Org. 

Org.  Thou  didst,  wrong'd  creature :  in  despite  of 

malice, 
For  it  I20  love  thee  ever. 

Pen.  Spare  your  hand ; 

Believe  me,  I'll  not  hurt  it. 

Org.  My  heart  too.21 

Pen.  Complain  not  though  I  wring  it  hard :  I'll 
kiss  it ; 


17  Lay-by  thy  whining  gray  dissimulation,']  This  beautiful  ex 
pression  is  happily  adopted  by  Milton,  the  great  plunderer  of  the 
poetical  hive  of  our  old  dramatists ; 

"  He  ended  here;  and  Satan,  bowing  low 
His  gray  dissimulation,"  &c.  Par.  Reg. 

It  would  appear  from  the  next  speech  that  the  unsuspicious  Ithocles 
supposed  Orgilus  to  address  Bassanes  in  this  rant  in  order  to  incite 
him  to  wreak  vengeance  on  himself  for  his  cruelty  to  Penthea ;  but 
the  covert  object  of  it  is  evidently  Ithocles. 

18  motion]  i.  e.  puppet :  see  note,  p.  97.  D. 

19  bandy]  The  4to  has  "bawdy  ;"  which  Gifford  retained.  D. 

20  /]  Gifford  printed  "I'll."  D. 

21  Org.  My  heart  too.~]  Here  is  some  mistake  of  the  press,  which 
I  cannot  pretend  to  rectify.     The  4to  reads, 

' '  Org.  Paine  my  heart  to 
Complaine  not,"  &c. 

I  have  little  doubt  that  a  line  has  been  dropt,  containing  the  con 
clusion  of  Orgilus'  speech  and  the  commencement  of  Penthea's, 
whose  name  does  not  appear  in  the  text.  My  arrangement  pretends 
to  nothing  more  than  rendering  the  passage  intelligible. 


292  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

O,  'tis  a  fine  soft  palm  ! — hark,  in  thine  ear ; 
Like  whom  do  I  look,  prithee  ? — nay,  no  whispering. 
Goodness  !  we  had  been  happy  ;  too  much  happiness 
Will  make  folk  proud,  they  say — but  that  is  he — 

[Pointing  to  Ith. 

And  yet  he  paid  for't  home ;  alas,  his  heart 
Is  crept  into  the  cabinet  of  the  princess ; 
We  shall  have  points22  and  bride-laces.     Remember, 
When  we  last  gather'd  roses  in  the  garden, 
I  found  my  wits ;  but  truly  you  lost  yours. 
That's  he,  and  still  'tis  he.  [Again  pointing  to  Ith. 

Ith.  Poor  soul,  how  idly 

Her  fancies  guide  her  tongue  ! 

Bass,  [aside]  Keep  in,  vexation, 

And  break  not  into  clamour. 

Org.  [aside]  She  has  tutor'd  me  ;23 

Some  powerful  inspiration  checks  my  laziness. — 
Now  let  me  kiss  your  hand,  griev'd  beauty. 

Pen.  Kiss  it. — 

Alack,  alack,  his  lips  be  wondrous  cold ; 
Dear  soul,  'has  lost  his  colour  :  have  ye  seen 
A  straying  heart?  all  crannies  !  every  drop 
Of  blood  is  turned  to  an  amethyst, 
Which  married  bachelors  hang  in  their  ears. 

Org.  Peace  usher  her  into  Elysium  ! — 
If  this  be  madness,  madness  is  an  oracle. 

[Aside,  and  exit. 

Ith.  Christalla,  Philema,  when  slept  my  sister, 
Her  ravings  are  so  wild  ? 

Chris.  Sir,  not  these  ten  days. 

Phil.  We  watch  by  her  continually ;  besides, 

22  points]  i.  e.  tagged  laces,  used  in  dress.  D. 

23  She  has  tutor'd  me;}  i.  e.  by  repeatedly  pointing  out  Ithocles 
to  his  resentment.     What  plan  of  vengeance  Orgilus  had  previously 
meditated  we  know  not ;  but  the  deep  and  irresistible  pathos  of  this 
most  afflicting  scene  evidently  gives  a  deadly  turn  to  his  wrath. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  293 

We  can  not  any  way  pray  her  to  eat. 

Bass.  O,  misery  of  miseries  ! 

Pen.  Take  comfort ; 

You  may  live  well,  and  die  a  good  old  man  : 
By  yea  and  nay,  an  oath  not  to  be  broken, 
If  you  had  join'd  our  hands  once  in  the  temple, — 
'Twas  since  my  father  died,  for  had  he  liv'd 
He  would  have  done't, — I  must  have  call'd  you  fa 
ther. — 

O,  my  wreck'd  honour  !24  ruin'd  by  those  tyrants, 
A  cruel  brother  and  a  desperate  dotage. 
There  is  no  peace  left  for  a  ravish'd  wife 
Widow'd  by  lawless  marriage ;  to  all  memory 
Penthea's,  poor  Penthea's  name  is  strumpeted  : 
But  since  her  blood  was  season'd  by  the  forfeit 
Of  noble  shame  with  mixtures  of  pollution, 
Her  blood — 'tis  just — be  henceforth  never  heighten'd 
With  taste  of  sustenance  !  starve ;  let  that  fulness 
Whose  plurisy  hath  fever'd  faith  and  modesty — 
Forgive  me  ;  O,  I  faint ! 

[Falls  into  the  arms  of  her  Attendants. 

Arm.  Be  not  so  wilful, 

Sweet  niece,  to  work  thine  own  destruction. 

Ith.  Nature 

Will  call  her  daughter  monster  ! — What !  not  eat  ? 
Refuse  the  only  ordinary  means 
Which  are  ordain'd  for  life?  Be  not,  my  sister, 
A  murderess  to  thyself. — Hear'st  thou  this,  Bassanes  ? 

24  O,  my  wreck'd  honour!  &c.]  The  transition  of  Penthea  from 
the  wandering  insanity  which  had  marked  the  previous  part  of  her 
discourse  to  the  deep  but  composed  melancholy  of  what  follows,  is 
surely  too  sudden,  and  may  seem  to  throw  some  suspicion  on  the 
reality— not  of  her  sufferings  and  despair,  for  these  are  too  strongly 
marked  for  doubt,  but  of  her  aberration  of  mind ;  and  indeed  it  can 
not  be  concealed  that  this  lovely  and  interesting  woman  has  a  spice 
of  selfishness  in  her  grief,  and  approaches  somewhat  too  nearly  to 
Orgilus  in  the  unforgiving  part  of  his  character.  Even  her  last  words 
are  expressive  of  resentment. 


294  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

Jlass.  Foh  !  I  am  busy ;  for  I  have  not  thoughts 
Enow  to  think  :  all  shall  be  well  anon. 
'Tis  tumbling  in  my  head  ;  there  is  a  mastery 
In  art  to  fatten  and  keep  smooth  the  outside, 
Yes,  and  to  comfort-up  the  vital  spirits 
Without  the  help  of  food,  fumes  or  perfumes, 
Perfumes  or  fumes.  Let  her  alone ;  I'll  search  out 
The  trick  on't. 

Pen.  Lead  me  gently  ;  heavens  reward  ye. 

Griefs  are  sure  friends  ;  they  leave  without  control 
Nor  cure  nor  comforts  for  a  leprous  soul. 

\Exit,  supported  by  Chris,  and  Phil. 

Bass.  I  grant  ye ;  and  will  put  in  practice  instantly 
What  you  shall  still  admire  :  'tis  wonderful, 
'Tis  super-singular,  not  to  be  match'd  ; 
Yet,  when  I've  done't,  I've  done't : — ye  shall  all  thank 
me.  [Exit. 

Arm.  The  sight  is  full  of  terror. 

Ith.  On  my  soul 

Lies  such  an  infinite  clog  of  massy  dulness, 
As  that  I  have  not  sense  enough  to  feel  it. — 
See,  uncle,  th'  angry25  thing  returns  again ; 
ShalPs  welcome  him  with  thunder  ?  we  are  haunted, 
And  must  use  exorcism  to  conjure  down 
This  spirit  of  malevolence. 

Arm.  Mildly,  nephew. 

Enter  NEARCHUS  and  AMELUS. 
Near.  I  come  not,  sir,  to  chide  your  late  disorder, 
Admitting  that  th'  inurement  to  a  roughness 
In  soldiers  of  your  years  and  fortunes,  chiefly 
So  lately  prosperous,  hath  not  yet  shook  off 
The  custom  of  the  war  in  hours  of  leisure ; 

25  th'  angry]  The  410  has  "th'  augury."  D. 


SCENE  II.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  295 

Nor  shall  you  need  excuse,  since  you're  to  render 
Account  to  that  fair  excellence,  the  princess, 
Who  in  her  private  gallery  expects  it 
From  your  own  mouth  alone  :  I  am  a  messenger 
But  to  her  pleasure. 

Ith.  Excellent  Nearchus, 

Be  prince  still  of  my  services,  and  conquer 
Without  the  combat  of  dispute  ;  I  honour  ye. 

Near.  The  king  is  on  a  sudden  indispos'd, 
Physicians  are  call'd  for ;  'twere  fit,  Armostes, 
You  should  be  near  him. 

Arm.  Sir,  I  kiss  your  hands. 

\Exeunt  Ith.  and  Arm. 

Near.  Amelus,  I  perceive  Calantha's  bosom 
Is  warm'd  with  other  fires  than  such  as  can 
Take  strength  from  any  fuel  of  the  love 
I  might  address  to  her :  young  Ithocles, 
Or  ever  I  mistake,  is  lord  ascendant 
Of  her  devotions ;  one,  to  speak  him  truly, 
In  every  disposition  nobly  fashion'd. 

Ame.  But  can  your  highness  brook  to  be  so  rivall'd, 
Considering  th'  inequality  of  the  persons  ? 

Near.  I  can,  Amelus ;  for  affections  injur'd 
By  tyranny  or  rigour  of  compulsion, 
Like  tempest-threaten'd  trees  unfirmly  rooted, 
Ne'er  spring  to  timely  growth  :  observe,  for  instance, 
Life-spent  Penthea  and  unhappy  Orgilus. 

Ame.  How  does  your  grace  determine  ? 

Near.  To  be  jealous 

In  public  of  what  privately  I'll  further ; 
And,  though  they  shall  not  know,  yet  they  shall  find  it. 

\Exeunt. 


296  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

SCENE  III.  An  apartment  in  the  palace. 

Enter  the  King,  led  by  HEMOPHIL  and  GRONEAS,  follmued  by  AR- 
MOSTES  -with  a  box,  CROTOLON,  and  PROPHILUS.  The  King 
is  placed  in  a  chair. 

Amyc.  Our  daughter  is  not  near? 
Arm.  She  is  retiiM,  sir, 

Into  her  gallery. 

Amyc.  Where's  the  prince  our  cousin  ? 

Pro.  New  walk'd  into  the  grove,  my  lord. 
Amyc.  All  leave  us 

Except  Armostes,  and  you,  Crotolon ; 
We  would  be  private. 

Pro.  Health  unto  your  majesty  ! 

\Exeunt  Pro.  Hem.  and  Gron. 
Amyc.  What !  Tecnicus  is  gone  ? 
Arm.  He  is,  to  Delphos  ; 

And  to  your  royal  hands  presents  this  box. 

Amyc.  Unseal  it,  good  Armostes ;  therein  lie 
The  secrets  of  the  oracle ;  out  with  it : 

\_Arm.  takes  out  the  scroll. 
Apollo  live  our  patron  !     Read,  Armostes. 
Arm.  [reads'] 

The  plot  in  which  the  Vine  takes  root 
Begins  to  dry  from  head  to  foot ; 
The  stock,  soon  withering,  want  of  sap 
Doth  cause  to  quail  the  Budding  Grape : 
But  from  the  neighbouring  Elm  a  dew 
Shall  drop,  and  feed  the  plot  anew. 
Amyc.  That  is  the  oracle  :  what  exposition 
Makes  the  philosopher  ? 

Arm.  This  brief  one  only. 

[Reads] 

The  plot  is  Sparta,  the  dried  Vine  the  king; 
The  quailing  Grape  his  daughter  ;  but  the  thing 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


297 


Of  most  importance,  not  to  be  reveaCd, 

Is  a  near  prince,  the  Elm :  the  rest  conceaFd. 

TECNICUS. 

Amyc.  Enough;  although  the  opening  of  this  riddle 
Be  but  itself  a  riddle,  yet  we  construe 
How  near  our  labouring  age  draws  to  a  rest : 
But  must  Calantha  quail  too  ?  that  young  grape 
Untimely  budded  !   I  could  mourn  for  her ; 
Her  tenderness  hath  yet  deserv'd  no  rigour 
So  to  be  cross'd  by  fate. 

Arm.  You  misapply,  sir, — 

With  favour  let  me  speak  it, — what  Apollo 
Hath  clouded  in  hid  sense  :  I  here  conjecture 
Her  marriage  with  some  neighbouring  prince,  the  dew 
Of  which  befriending  elm  shall  ever  strengthen 
Your  subjects  with  a  sovereignty  of  power. 

Crot.  Besides,  most  gracious  lord,  the  pith  of  oracles 
Is  to  be  then  digested  when  th'  events 
Expound  their  truth,  not  brought  as  soon  to  light 
As  utter5  d ;  Truth  is  child  of  Time  :  and  herein 
I  find  no  scruple,  rather  cause  of  comfort, 
With  unity  of  kingdoms. 

Amyc.  May  it  prove  so, 

For  weal  of  this  dear  nation  ! — Where  is  Ithocles  ? — 
Armostes,  Crotolon,  when  this  withered  vine 
Of  my  frail  carcass,  on  the  funeral  pile 
Is  fir'd  into  its  ashes,  let  that  young  man 
Be  hedg'd  about  still  with  your  cares  and  loves : 
Much  owe  I  to  his  worth,  much  to  his  service. — 
Let  such  as  wait  come  in  now. 

Arm.  All  attend  here  ! 

Enter  CALANTHA,  ITHOCLES,  PROPHILUS,  ORGILUS, 
EUPHRANEA,  HEMOPHIL,  and  GRONEAS. 

Cal.  Dear  sir  !  king  !  father  ! 


298  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

Ith.  O,  my  royal  master  ! 

Amyc.  Cleave  not  my  heart,  sweet  twins  of  my  life's 

solace, 

With  your  forejudging  fears ;  there  is  no  physic 
So  cunningly  restorative  to  cherish 
The  fall  of  age,  or  call  back  youth  and  vigour, 
As  your  consents  in  duty :  I  will  shake  off  ' 
This  languishing  disease  of  time,  to  quicken 
Fresh  pleasures  in  these  drooping  hours  of  sadness. 
Is  fair  Euphranea  married  yet  to  Prophilus  ? 

Crot.  This  morning,  gracious  lord. 

Org.  This  very  morning ; 

Which,  with  your  highness'  leave,  you  may  observe  too. 
Our  sister  looks,  methinks,  mirthful  and  sprightly, 
As  if  her  chaster  fancy  could  already 
Expound  the  riddle  of  her  gain  in  losing 
A  trifle  maids  know  only  that  they  know  not 
Pish  !  prithee,  blush  not ;  'tis  but  honest  change 
Of  fashion  in  the  garment,  loose  for  strait, 
And  so  the  modest  maid  is  made  a  wife  : 
Shrewd  business — is't  not,  sister  ? 

Euph.  You  are  pleasant. 

Amyc.  We  thank  thee,  Orgilus;  this  mirth  becomes 

thee. 

But  wherefore  sits  the  court  in  such  a  silence  ? 
A  wedding  without  revels  is  not  seemly. 

CaL  Your  late  indisposition,  sir,  forbade  it. 

Amyc.  Be  it  thy  charge,  Calantha,  to  set  forward 
The  bridal  sports,  to  which  I  will  be  present ; 
If  not,  at  least  consenting. — Mine  own  Ithocles, 
I  have  done  little  for  thee  yet. 

Ith.  You've  built  me 

To  the  full  height  I  stand  in. 

CaL  \aside\  Now  or  never  ! — 

May  I  propose  a  suit  ? 


SCENE  lit.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  299 

Amyc.  Demand,  and  have  it. 

Cal.  Pray,  sir,  give  me  this  young  man,  and  no 

further 

Account  him  yours  than  he  deserves  in  all  things 
To  be  thought  worthy  mine  :  I  will  esteem  him 
According  to  his  merit. 

Amyc.  Still  thou'rt  my  daughter, 

Still  grow'st  upon  my  heart. — [To  Ith.~\  Give  me  thine 

hand ; — 

Calantha,  take  thine  own ;  in  noble  actions 
Thou'lt  find  him  firm  and  absolute. — I  would  not 
Have  parted  with  thee,  Ithocles,  to  any 
But  to  a  mistress  who  is  all  what  I  am. 

Ith.  A  change,  great  king,  most  wish'd  for,  'cause 
the  same. 

Cal.  [aside  to  Ith}  Thou'rt  mine.    Have  I  now  kept 
my  word  ? 

Ith.  [aside  to  CaL}  Divinely. 

Org.  Rich  fortunes  guard,  the26  favour  of  a  princess 
Rock  thee,  brave  man,  in  ever-crowned  plenty  ! 
You're  minion  of  the  time ;  be  thankful  for  it. — 
[Aside]  Ho  !  here's  a  swing  in  destiny^apparent ! 
The  youth  is  up  on  tiptoe,  yet  may  stumble. 

Amyc.  On  to  your  recreations. — Now  convey  me 
Unto  my  bed-chamber  :  none  on  his  forehead 
Wear  a  distemper'd  look. 

All.  The  gods  preserve  ye  ! 

Cal.  [aside  to  lthl\  Sweet,  be  not  from  my  sight. 

Ith.  [aside  to  Cal.}  My  whole  felicity  ! 

[Amyc.  is  carried  out.     Exeunt  all  but 
Ith.,  who  is  detained  by  Org. 

Org.  Shall  I  be  bold,  my  lord  ? 

Ith.  Thou  canst  not,  Orgilus. 

Call  me  thine  own ;  for  Prophilus  must  henceforth 

26  the}  The4tohas  "to."  D. 


300  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

Be  all  thy  sister's  :  friendship,  though  it  cease  not 
In  marriage,  yet  is  oft  at  less  command 
Than  when  a  single  freedom  can  dispose  it. 

Org.   Most  right,  my  most  good  lord,  my  most 

great  lord, 
My  gracious  princely  lord, — I  might  add,  royal. 

Ith.  Royal !  a  subject  royal? 

Org.  Why  not,  pray,  sir  ? 

The  sovereignty  of  kingdoms  in  their  nonage 
Stoop'd  to  desert,  not  birth ;  there's  as  much  merit 
In  clearness  of  affection  as  in  puddle 
Of  generation  :  you  have  conquered  love 
Even  in  the  loveliest ;  if  I  greatly  err  not, 
The  son  of  Venus  hath  bequeath'd  his  quiver 
To  Ithocles  his  manage,27  by  whose  arrows 
Calantha's  breast  is  open'd. 

Ith.  Can't  be  possible? 

Org.  I  was  myself  a  piece  of  suitor  once, 
And  forward  in  preferment  too ;  so  forward, 
That,  speaking  truth,  I  may  without  offence,  sir, 
Presume  to  whisper  that  my  hopes,  and — hark  ye — 
My  certainty  of  marriage  stood  assufd 
With  as  firm  footing — by  your  leave — as  any's 
Now  at  this  very  instant — but — 

Ith.  'Tis  granted  : 

And  for  a  league  of  privacy  between  us, 
Read  o'er  my  bosom  and  partake  a  secret ; 
The  princess  is  contracted  mine. 

Org.  Still,  why  not  ? 

I  now  applaud  her  wisdom  :  when  your  kingdom 
Stands  seated  in  your  will  secure  and  settled, 
I  dare  pronounce  you  will  be  a  just  monarch ; 
Greece  must  admire  and  tremble. 

27  To  Ithocles  his  manage,]  Here  Gifford,  not  perceiving  that 
"Ithocles  his"  was  equivalent  to  "  Ithocles 's,"  printed  "  To  Ithocles 
to  manage."  D. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  301 

Ith.  Then  the  sweetness 

Of  so  imparadis'd  a  comfort,  Orgilus  ! 
It  is  to  banquet  with  the  gods. 

Org.  The  glory 

Of  numerous  children,  potency  of  nobles, 
Bent  knees,  hearts  pav'd  to  tread  on  ! 

Ith.  With  a  friendship 

So  dear,  so  fast  as  thine. 

Org.  I  am  unfitting 

For  office ;  but  for  service — 

•  Ith.  We'll  distinguish 

Our  fortunes  merely  in  the  title ;  partners 
In  all  respects  else  but  the  bed. 

Org.  The  bed ! 

Forfend  it  Jove's  own  jealousy  ! — till  lastly 
We  slip  down  in  the  common  earth  together ; 
And  there  our  beds  are  equal ;  save  some  monument 
To  show  this  was  the  king,  and  this  the  subject. — 

[Soft  sad  music. 

List,  what  sad  sounds  are  these, — extremely  sad  ones  ? 
Ith.  Sure,  from  Penthea's  lodgings. 
Org.  Hark !  a  voice  too. 

SONG  within. 
O,  no  more,  no  more,  too  late 

Sighs  are  spent ;  the  burning  tapers 
Of  a  life  as  chaste  as  fate, 

Pure  as  are  unwritten  papers, 
Are  burnt  out :  no  heat,  no  light 
Now  remains  ;  "'tis  ever  night. 
Love  is  dead ;  let  lovers'  eyes, 
Locked  in  endless  dreams, 
TK  extremes  of  all  extremes, 
Ope  no  more,  for  now  Love  dies, 
Now  Love  dies, — implying 
Love's  martyrs  must  be  ever,  ever  dying. 


302  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

Ith.  O,  my  misgiving  heart ! 

Org.  A  horrid  stillness 

Succeeds  this  deathful  air ;  let's  know  the  reason  : 
Tread  softly ;  there  is  mystery  in  mourning.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.   Apartment  of  PENTHEA  in  the  same. 

PENTHEA  discovered  in  a  chair,  veiled;  CHRISTALLA  and  PHILEMA 
at  her  feet  mourning.  Enter  two  Servants  with  two  other 
chairs,  one  with  an  engine. ^ 

Enter  ITHOCLES  and  ORGILUS. 

First  Serv.  \aside  to  Org.~\  'Tis  done  ;  that  on  her 
right  hand. 

28  Enter  two  Servants  with  two  chairs,  one  with  an  engine.]  This 
engine,  as  it  is  here  called,  in  correspondence  with  the  homely  pro 
perties  of  our  old  theatres,  was  merely  a  couple  of  movable  arms  added 
to  the  common  chair.  The  contrivance  itself  is  of  early  date,  and,  if 
Pausanias  ([Attica'],  c.  20)  is  to  be  trusted,  of  celestial  origin.  Vulcan, 
he  tells  us,  in  order  to  be  revenged  of  Juno  for  turning  him  out  of 
heaven,  insidiously  presented  her  with  a  golden  throne  with  hidden 
springs,  which  prevented  her,  after  being  seated  upon  it,  from  rising 
up  again.  It  appears  that  Bacchus  alone  of  all  the  gods  had  influ 
ence  enough  with  the  sooty  artist  to  persuade  him  to  liberate  her : — 
the  exquisite  moral  of  which,  I  presume,  is,  that  people  are  some 
times  good-humoured  in  their  cups.  Ford,  however,  brought  no 
golden  chair  from  Olympus :  he  found  his  simple  contrivance  not 
only  on  the  stage,  but  (where  his  predecessors  probably  found  it)  in 
Bandello  (Nov.  27,  part  iv.)  [Nov.  i.  Parte  iv.  vol.  ix.  p.  13,  ed.  Mi- 
lano,  1814],  where  it  is  described  at  length,  and  Deodati  is  entrapped 
by  il  Turchi,  precisely  as  Ithocles  is  here  by  Orgilus,  and  then  stabbed 
with  a  dagger. 

The  author  of  The  Devil's  Charter  (1607),  where  this  chair  is  also 
introduced,  appears  from  the  following  lines  to  have  been  aware  of 
the  passage  in  Pausanias : — but  he  [Barnaby  Barnes]  was  evidently 
a  scholar ; 

"  Enter  Lucretia,  with  a  chair  in  her  hand,  which  she  sets  on  the 
stage." 

It  was  not  a  very  ponderous  "machine,"  as  the  reader  sees. 

"Luc.  I  have  devised  such  a  curious  snare 
As  jealous  Vulcan  never  yet  devis'd, 
To  grasp  his  armes,  unable  to  resist 
Death's  instrument  inclosed  in  these  hands." 

And  accordingly  Gismond  sits  down,  is  "grasped,"  like  Ithocles, 
and  stabbed  without  resistance  by  his  wife ;  who  retires,  as  she  en- 


SCENE  iv.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  303 

Org.  Good :  begone. 

\_Exeunt  Servants. 

Ith.  Soft  peace  enrich  this  room  ! 

Org.  How  fares  the  lady  ? 

'Phil.  Dead! 

Chris.          Dead ! 

Phil.  Starv'd  ! 

Chris.  Starv'd ! 

Ith.  Me  miserable ! 

Org.  Tell  us 

How  parted  she  from  life. 

Phil.  She  calPd  for  music, 

And  begg'd  some  gentle  voice  to  tune  a  farewell 
To  life  and  griefs  :  Christalla  touch'd  the  lute  ; 
I  wept  the  funeral  song. 

Chris.  Which  scarce  was  ended 

But  her  last  breath  seal'd-up  these  hollow  sounds, 
"  O,  cruel  Ithocles  and  injuiM  Orgilus  !" 
So  down  she  drew  her  veil,  so  died. 

Ith.  So  died  ! 

Org.  Up !  you  are  messengers  of  death ;  go  from 
us ;  [  Chris,  and  Phil.  rise. 

Here's  woe  enough  to  court  without  a  prompter : 
Away ;  and — hark  ye — till  you  see  us  next, 
No  syllable  that  she  is  dead. — Away, 
Keep  a  smooth  brow.  [Exeunt  Chris,  and  Phil. 

My  lord, — 

Ith.  Mine  only  sister! 

Another  is  not  left  me. 

Org.  Take  that  chair ; 

I'll  seat  me  here  in  this  :  between  us  sits 


tered,  "with  the  chair  in  her  hand."  [In  quoting  Barnes's  tragedy 
Gifford  has  somewhat  altered  the  wording  of  the  stage-directions', 
and  in  Lucretia's  speech  has  (rightly)  substituted  "instrument"  for 
"instruments."  D.] 


304  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  iv. 

The  object  of  our  sorrows ;  some  few  tears 
We'll  part  among  us  :  I  perhaps  can  mix 
One  lamentable  story  to  prepare  'em. — 
There,  there  ;  sit  there,  my  lord. 

Ith.  Yes,  as  you  please. 

[Sits  down,  the  chair  closes  upon  him. 
What  means  this  treachery  ? 

Org.  Caught !  you  are  caught, 

Young  master ;  'tis  thy  throne  of  coronation, 
Thou  fool  of  greatness!     See,  I  take  this  veil  off; 
Survey  a  beauty  withefd  by  the  flames 
Of  an  insulting  Phaethon,  her  brother. 

Ith.  Thou  mean'st  to  kill  me  basely  ? 

Org.  I  foreknew 

The  last  act  of  her  life,  and  train'd  thee  hither 
To  sacrifice  a  tyrant  to  a  turtle. 
You  dreamt  of  kingdoms,  did  ye  ?  how  to  bosom 
The  delicacies  of  a  youngling  princess  ; 
How  with  this  nod  to  grace  that  subtle  courtier, 
How  with  that  frown  to  make  this  noble  tremble, 
And  so  forth  ;  whiles  Penthea's  groans  and  tortures, 
Her  agonies,  her  miseries,  afflictions, 
Ne'er  touch'd  upon  your  thought :  as  for  my  injuries, 
Alas,  they  were  beneath  your  royal  pity ; 
But  yet  they  liv'd,  thou  proud  man,  to  confound  thee. 
Behold  thy  fate ;  this  steel  !  [Draws  a  dagger. 

Ith.  Strike  home !    A  courage 

As  keen  as  thy  revenge  shall  give  it  welcome  : 
But  prithee  faint  not ;  if  the  wound  close  up, 
Tent  it  with  double  force,  and  search  it  deeply. 
Thou  look'st  that  I  should  whine  and  beg  compassion, 
As  loth  to  leave  the  vainness  of  my  glories ; 
A  statelier  resolution  arms  my  confidence, 
To  cozen  thee  of  honour ;  neither  could  I 
With  equal  trial  of  unequal  fortune 


SCENE  iv.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  305 

By  hazard  of  a  duel ;  'twere  a  bravery 
Too  mighty  for  a  slave  intending  murder. 
On  to  the  execution,  and  inherit 
A  conflict  with  thy  horrors. 

Org.  By  Apollo, 

Thou  talk'st  a  goodly  language  !  for  requital 
I  will  report  thee  to  thy  mistress  richly  : 
And  take  this  peace  along  ;  some  few  short  minutes 
Determin'd,  my  resolves  shall  quickly  follow 
Thy  wrathful  ghost ;  then,  if  we  tug  for  mastery, 
Penthea's  sacred  eyes  shall  lend  new  courage. 
Give  me  thy  hand :  be  healthful  in  thy  parting 
From  lost  mortality !  thus,  thus  I  free  it.     [Stabs  him. 

Ith.  Yet,  yet,  I  scorn  to  shrink. 

Org.  Keep  up  thy  spirit : 

I  will  be  gentle  even  in  blood ;  to  linger 
Pain,  which  I  strive  to  cure,  were  to  be  cruel. 

[Stabs  him  again. 

Ith.  Nimble  in  vengeance,  I  forgive  thee.    Follow 
Safety,  with  best  success  ;  O,  may  it  prosper  ! — 
Penthea,  by  thy  side  thy  brother  bleeds  ; 
The  earnest  of  his  wrongs  to  thy  forc'd  faith. 
Thoughts  of  ambition,  or  delicious  banquet 
With  beauty,  youth,  and  love,  together  perish 
In  my  last  breath,  which  on  the  sacred  altar 
Of  a  long-look'd-for  peace — now — moves — to  heaven. 

[Dies. 

Org.  Farewell,  fair  spring  of  manhood !  henceforth 

welcome 

Best  expectation  of  a  noble  sufferance. 
I'll  lock  the  bodies  safe,  till  what  must  follow 
Shall  be  approv'd. — Sweet  twins,  shine  stars  for  ever ! — 
In  vain  they  build  their  hopes  whose  life  is  shame  : 
No  monument  lasts  but  a  happy  name. 

[Locks  the  door,  and  exit. 

VOL.  i.  x 


•506  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.   A  room  in  BASSANES'  house. 

Enter  BASSANES. 

Bass.  Athens — to  Athens  I  have  sent,  the  nursery 
Of  Greece  for  learning  and  the  fount  of  knowledge ; 
For  here  in  Sparta  there's  not  left  amongst  us 
One  wise  man  to  direct ;  we're  all  turn'd  madcaps. 
Tis  said  Apollo  is  the  god  of  herbs, 
Then  certainly  he  knows  the  virtue  of  'em  : 
To  Delphos  I  have  sent  too.     If  there  can  be 
A  help  for  nature,  we  are  sure  yet. 

Enter  ORGILUS. 

Org.  Honour 

Attend  thy  counsels  ever  ! 

Bass.  I  beseech  thee 

With  all  my  heart,  let  me  go  from  thee  quietly  ; 
I  will  not  aught  to  do  with  thee,  of  all  men. 
The  doubles  of  a  hare, — or,  in  a  morning, 
Salutes  from  a  splay-footed  witch, — to  drop 
Three  drops  of  blood  at  th'  nose  just  and  no  more, — 
Croaking  of  ravens,  or  the  screech  of  owls, 
Are  not  so  boding  mischief  as  thy  crossing 
My  private  meditations  :  shun  me,  prithee  ; 
And  if  I  cannot  love  thee  heartily, 
I'll  love  thee  as  well  as  I  can. 

Org.  Noble  Bassanes, 

Mistake  me  not. 

Bass.  Phew  !  then  we  shall  be  troubled. 

Thou  wert  ordain'd   my  plague  —  heaven  make  me 
thankful, 


SCENE  i.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  307 

And  give  me  patience  too,  heaven,  I  beseech  thee. 

Org.  Accept  a  league  of  amity  ;  for  henceforth, 
I  vow,  by  my  best  Genius,  in  a  syllable, 
Never  to  speak  vexation  :  I  will  study 
Service  and  friendship,  with  a  zealous  sorrow 
For  my  past  incivility  towards  ye. 

Bass.  Hey-day,  good  words,  good  words !  I  must 

believe  'em, 
And  be  a  coxcomb  for  my  labour. 

Org.  Use  not 

So  hard  a  language  ;  your  misdoubt  is  causeless  : 
For  instance,  if  you  promise  to  put  on 
A  constancy  of  patience,  such  a  patience 
As  chronicle  or  history  ne'er  mention'd, 
As  follows  not  example,  but  shall  stand 
A  wonder  and  a  theme  for  imitation, 
The  first,  the  index  pointing  to  a  second,1 
I  will  acquaint  ye  with  an  unmatch'd  secret, 
Whose  knowledge  to  your  griefs  shall  set  a  period. 

Bass.  Thou  canst  not,  Orgilus;  'tis  in  the  power 
Of  the  gods  only  :  yet,  for  satisfaction, 
Because  I  note  an  earnest  in  thine  utterance, 
Unforc'd  and  naturally  free,  be  resolute 
The  virgin-bays  shall  not  withstand  the  lightning 
With  a  more  careless  danger  than  my  constancy 
The  full  of  thy  relation ;  could  it  move 
Distraction  in  a  senseless  marble  statue, 
It  should  find  me  a  rock  :  I  do  expect  now 
Some  truth  of  unheard  moment. 

Org.  To  your  patience 


1  It  may  be  just  necessary  to  observe  that  Orgilus  alludes  to  the 
index-hand  (^r)  so  common  in  the  margin  of  our  old  books,  and 
which  served  to  direct  the  reader's  attention  to  such  passages  as  the 
author  wished  to  recommend  to  particular  notice.  "Be  resolute," 
in  the  next  speech,  must  be  understood  in  the  old  sense  of  be  per 
suaded,  assured,  &c. 


308  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

You  must  add  privacy,  as  strong  in  silence 
As  mysteries  lock'd-up  in  Jove's  own  bosom. 

Bass.  A  skull  hid  in  the  earth  a  treble  age 
Shall  sooner  prate. 

Org.  Lastly,  to  such  direction 

As  the  severity  of  a  glorious  action 
Deserves  to  lead  your  wisdom  and  your  judgment, 
You  ought  to  yield  obedience. 

Bass.  With  assurance 

Of  will  and  thankfulness. 

Org.  With  manly  courage 

Please,  then,  to  follow  me. 

Bass.  Where'er,  I  fear  not.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  A  state-room  in  the  palace. 

A  flourish.  Enter  EUPHRANEA,  led  by  GRONEAS  and  HEMOPHIL  ; 
PROPHILUS,  led  by  CHRISTALLA  and  PHILEMA  ;  NEARCHUS 
supporting  CALANTHA  ;  CROTOLON  and  AMELUS. 

Cal.  We  miss  our  servant  Ithocles  and  Orgilus ; 
On  whom  attend  they? 

Crot.  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  ! — 

Cousin,  hand  you  the  bride  ;2  the  bridegroom  must  be 

2  Cousin,  hand  you  the  bride ;]  I  have  omitted  "dear"  before 
"  Cousin,"  which  reduced  the  line  to  mere  prose,  and  could  scarcely 
therefore  come  from  the  author. 


SCENE  ir.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  309 

Intrusted  to  my  courtship.     Be  not  jealous, 
Euphranea ;  I  shall  scarcely  prove  a  temptress. — 
Fall  to  our  dance. 

THE  REVELS. 

Music.  NEARCHUS  dances  with  EUPHRANEA,  PROPHI- 
LUS  with  CALANTHA,  CHRISTALLA  with  HEMOPHIL, 
PHILEMA  with  GRONEAS. 

They  dance  the  first  change;  during  which  ARMOSTES 

enters. 

Arm.  [whispers  Cat.]  The  king  your  father's  dead. 
Cal.  To  the  other  change. 
Arm.  Is't  possible  ? 

They  dance  the  second  change. 

Enter  BASSANES. 

Bass,  [whispers  Cal.~\  O,  madam  ! 

Penthea,  poor  Penthea's  starv'd. 

Cal.  Beshrew  thee  ! — 

Lead  to  the  next. 

Bass.  Amazement  dulls  my  senses. 

They  dance  the  third  change. 

Enter  ORGILUS. 
Org.  [whispers  Cal.']  Brave  Ithocles  is  murdefd, 

murder' d  cruelly. 
Cal.  How  dull  this  music  sounds  !    Strike  up  more 

sprightly ; 

Our  footings  are  not  active  like  our  heart, 
Which  treads  the  nimbler  measure. 

Org.  I  am  thunderstruck. 

The  last  change. 

Cal.  So  !  let  us  breathe  awhile.     [Music  ceasesJ] — 
Hath  not  this  motion 


310  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

Rais'd  fresher  colour3  on  our4  cheeks? 

Near.  Sweet  princess, 

A  perfect  purity  of  blood  enamels 
The  beauty  of  your  white. 

Cal.  We  all  look  cheerfully  : 

And,  cousin,  'tis  methinks  a  rare  presumption 
In  any  who  prefer  our  lawful  pleasures 
Before  their  own  sour  censure,  t'  interrupt 
The  custom  of  this  ceremony  bluntly. 

Near.  None  dares,  lady. 

Cal.  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  breath'd  his  last,  and  with  his  crown  bequeath'd  ye 
Your  mother's  wedding-ring ;  which  here  I  tender. 

Crot.  Most  strange ! 

Cal.       Peace  crown  his  ashes !  We  are  queen,  then. 

Near.  Long    live    Calantha !    Sparta's    sovereign 
queen  ! 

AIL  Long  live  the  queen  ! 

Cal.  What  whisper'd  Bassanes  ? 

Bass.  That  my  Penthea,  miserable  soul, 
Was  starv'd  to  death. 

Cal.  She's  happy ;  she  hath  finish'd 

A  long  and  painful  progress. — A  third  murmur 
Pierc'd  mine  unwilling  ears. 

Org.  That  Ithocles 

Was  murder5  d ; — rather  butcher'd,  had  not  bravery 
Of  an  undaunted  spirit,  conquering  terror, 
Proclaim'd  his  last  act  triumph  over  ruin. 

Arm.  How  !  murdefd  ! 

Cal.  By  whose  hand  ? 

3  colour]  Gifford  printed  "colours."  D. 


mr\  The  4to  has  "your."  D. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  311 

Org.  By  mine ;  this  weapon 

Was  instrument  to  my  revenge  :  the  reasons 
Are  just,  and  known ;  quit  him  of  these,  and  then 
Never  liv'd  gentleman  of  greater  merit, 
Hope  or  abiliment  to  steer  a  kingdom. 

Crot.  Fie,  Orgilus ! 

Euph.  Fie,  brother ! 

CaL  You  have  done  it  ? 

Bass.  How  it  was  done  let  him  report,  the  forfeit 
Of  whose  allegiance  to  our  laws  doth  covet 
Rigour  of  justice ;  but  that  done  it  is 
Mine  eyes  have  been  an  evidence  of  credit 
Too  sure  to  be  convinc'd.5     Armostes,  rent6  not 
Thine  arteries  with  hearing  the  bare  circumstances 
Of  these  calamities ;  thou'st  lost  a  nephew, 
A  niece,  and  I  a  wife  :  continue  man  still ; 
Make  me  the  pattern  of  digesting  evils, 
Who  can  outlive  my  mighty  ones,  not  shrinking 
At  such  a  pressure  as  would  sink  a  soul 
Into  what's  most  of  death,  the  worst  of  horrors. 
But  I  have  seal'd  a  covenant  with  sadness, 
And  enter'd  into  bonds  without  condition, 
To  stand  these  tempests  calmly;  mark  me,  nobles, 
I  do  not  shed  a  tear,  not  for  Penthea ! 
Excellent  misery ! 

CaL  We  begin  our  reign 

With  a  first  act  of  justice  :  thy  confession, 
Unhappy  Orgilus,  dooms  thee  a  sentence ; 
Bat  yet  thy  father's  or  thy  sister's  presence 
Shall  be  excus'd. — Give,  Crotolon,  a  blessing 
To  thy  lost  son ; — Euphranea,  take  a  farewell ; — 

5  Mine  eyes  have  been  an  evidence  of  credit 

Too  sure  to  be  convinc'd.]  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe  that 
convince  is  used  here  in  the  primitive  sense  of  conquered,  overthrown. 
In  modern  terms,  "my  evidence  is  too  true  to  be  confuted." 

6  rent]  Gifford  printed  "rend."     See  note,  p.  194.  D. 


312  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

And  both  be  gone. 

Crot.  \to.  Org.~\      Confirm  thee  noble  sorrow 
In  worthy  resolution  ! 

Euph.  Could  my  tears  speak, 

My  griefs  were  slight. 

Org.  All  goodness  dwell  amongst  ye  ! 

Enjoy  my  sister,  Prophilus  :  my  vengeance 
Aim'd  never  at  thy  prejudice. 

Cal.  Now  withdraw. 

[Exeunt  Crot.  Pro.  and  Euph. 
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, 
Intreat  you  and  these  lords  see  .execution 
Instant  before  ye  part. 

Near.  Your  will  commands  us. 

Org.  One  suit,  just  queen,  my  last:  vouchsafe  your 

clemency, 

That  by  no  common  hand  I  be  divided 
From  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  ow'd  to  nature 
One  time  or  other. — Use  dispatch,  my  lords ; 
We'll  suddenly  prepare  our  coronation. 

\Exeunt  Cal.  Phil,  and  Chris. 
Arm.  'Tis  strange  these   tragedies  should  never 

touch  on 
Her  female  pity. 

Bass.  She  has  a  masculine  spirit : 


SCENE  n.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  313 

And  wherefore  should  I  pule,  and,  like  a  girl, 
Put  finger  in  the  eye  ?  let's  be  all  toughness, 
Without  distinction  betwixt  sex  and  sex. 

Near.  Now,  Orgilus,  thy  choice  ? 

Org.  To  bleed  to  death. 

Arm.  The  executioner? 

Org.  Myself,  no  surgeon ; 

I  am  well  skill'd  in  letting  blood.     Bind  fast 
This  arm,  that  so  the  pipes  may  from  their  conduits 
Convey  a  full  stream  •  here's  a  skilful  instrument : 

[Shows  his  dagger. 

Only  I  am  a  beggar  to  some  charity 
To  speed  me  in  this  execution 
By  lending  th'  other  prick  to  th'  tother7  arm, 
When  this  is  bubbling  life  out. 

Bass.  I  am  for  ye  ; 

It  most  concerns  my  art,  my  care,  my  credit. — 
Quick  fillet  both  his8  arms. 

Org.  Gramercy,  friendship  ! 

Such  courtesies  are  real  which  flow  cheerfully 
Without  an  expectation  of  requital. 
Reach  me  a  staff  in  this  hand.  \They  give  him  a  staff ?\ 

— If  a  proneness 

Or  custom  in  my  nature  from  my  cradle 
Had  been  inclin'd  to  fierce  and  eager  bloodshed, 
A  coward  guilt,  hid  in  a  coward  quaking, 
Would  have  betray'd  me  to  ignoble  flight9 
And  vagabond  pursuit  of  dreadful  safety : 
But  look  upon  my  steadiness,  and  scorn  not 
The  sickness  of  my  fortune,  which  since  Bassanes 
Was  husband  to  Penthea  had  lain  bed-rid. 
We  trifle  time  in  words  : — thus  I  show  cunning 

7  to  tli  tother]  Gifford  printed  "to  th'  other:"  but  Ford  doubtless 
wrote  as  in  the  4to.  D. 

8  his]  The  4to  has  "this."  D. 

3    Would  have  betray'd  me  to  ignoble  flight]  For  "me"  the  old 
copy  reads  "fame." 


314  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

In  opening  of  a  vein  too  full,  too  lively. 

\Pierces  the  vein  with  his  dagger. 

Arm.  Desperate  courage ! 

Near.  Honourable  infamy  !10 

Hem.  I  tremble  at  the  sight. 

Gron.  Would  I  were  loose  ! 

Bass.  It  sparkles  like  a  lusty  wine  new  broach'd ; 
The  vessel  must  be  sound  from  which  it  issues. — 
Grasp  hard  this  other  stick — I'll  be  as  nimble — 
But  prithee,  look  not  pale — have  at  ye  !  stretch  out 
Thine  arm  with  vigour  and  unshakfen]11  virtue. 

\Opens  the  vein. 

Good  !     O,  I  envy  not  a  rival,  fitted 
To  conquer  in  extremities  :  this  pastime 
Appears  majestical ;  some  high-tun'd  poem 
Hereafter  shall  deliver  to  posterity 
The  writer's  glory  and  his  subject's  triumph. 
How  is't,  man  ? — droop  not  yet. 

Org.  I  feel  no  palsies. 

On  a  pair-royal  do  I  wait  in  death ; 
My  sovereign,  as  his  liegeman ;  on  my  mistress, 
As  a  devoted  servant ;  and  on  Ithocles, 
As  if  no  brave,  yet  no  unworthy  enemy : 
Nor  did  I  use  an  engine  to  entrap 
His  life,  out  of  a  slavish  fear  to  combat 
Youth,  strength,  or  cunning;12  but  for  that  I  durst  not 
Engage  the  goodness  of  a  cause  on  fortune, 
By  which  his  name  might  have  outfac'd  my  vengeance. 

10  Near.  Honourable  infamy!]  The  4to  gives  this  speech  to  Or- 

?ilus,  the  only  person  on  the  stage  to  whom  it  cannot  possibly  belong, 
t  does  not  misbecome  Nearchus,  who  has  hitherto  said  nothing.  I 
need  not  observe  how  improperly  the  concluding  part  of  the  next 
speech  [but  two]  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  Bassanes  ;  who  might  surely 
have  been  restored  to  reason  without  trenching  on  the  confines  of 
honourable  feeling  and  sentimental  dignity. 

11  and  unshak[er\\~\  So  Gifford.—  The  4to  has  "and  vnshooke." 
Qy.  "  and  with  unshook"  ?  D. 

12  Youth,  strength.,  or  cunning ;]  i.  e.  practical  skill  in  the  use  of 
arms.     See  [note],  p.  134. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  315 

O,  Tecnicus,  inspir'd  with  Phoebus'  fire ! 

I  call  to  mind  thy  augury,  'twas  perfect ; 

Revenge  proves  its  own  executioner. 

When  feeble  man  is  bending  to  his  mother, 

The  dust  he  was  first  fram'd  on,  thus  he  totters. 

Bass.  Life's  fountain  is  dried  up. 

Org.  So  falls  the  standard13 

Of  my  prerogative  in  being  a  creature  ! 
A  mist  hangs  o'er  mine  eyes,  the  sun's  bright  splendour 
Is  clouded  in  an  everlasting  shadow ; 
Welcome,  thou  ice,  that  sitt'st  about  my  heart, 
No  heat  can  ever  thaw  thee.  [Dies. 

Near.  Speech  hath  left  him. 

Bass.  He  has14  shook  hands  with  time;  his  funeral 

urn 

Shall  be  my  charge  :  remove  the  bloodless  body. 
The  coronation  must  require  attendance ; 
That  past,  my  few  days  can  be  but  one  mourning. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  A  temple. 

An  altar  covered  with  white;  two  lights  of  virgin  wax  upon  it. 
Recorders,^  during  which  enter  Attendants  bearing  ITHOCLES 
on  a  hearse,  in  a  rich  robe,  with  a  crown  on  his  head,  and  place 
him  on  the  one  side  of  the  altar.  After  which  enter  CALANTHA 
in  white,  crowned,  attended  by  EUPHRANEA,  PHILEMA,  and 
CHRISTALLA,  also  in  white;  NEARCHUS,  ARMOSTES,  CROTOLON, 
PROPHILUS,  AMELUS,  BASSANES,  HEMOPHIL,  and  GRONEAS. 

CALANTHA  kneels  before  the  altar,  the  Ladies  kneeling  behind  her, 
the  rest  stand  off.  The  recorders  cease  during  her  devotions. 
Soft  music.  CALANTHA  and  the  rest  rise,  doing  obeisance  to 
the  altar. 

Cal.  Our  orisons  are  heard ;  the  gods  are  merci 
ful.— 

13  standard}  The  4to  has  "Standards."  D. 

14  has}  Gifford  printed  "hath."  D. 

15  Recorders]  i.  e.  a  sort  of  flutes  or  flageolets.  D. 


316  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

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  inur'd  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  lik'd  of, 
Sparta  may  grow  in  power,  and  proceed 
To  an  increasing  height. 

Cal.  Hold  you  the  same  mind? 

Bass.  Alas,  great  mistress,  reason  is  so  clouded 
With  the  thick  darkness  of  my  infinite16  woes, 
That  I  forecast  nor  dangers,  hopes,  or  safety. 
Give  me  some  corner  of  the  world  to  wear  out 
The  remnant  of  the  minutes  I  must  number, 
Where  I  may  hear  no  sounds  but  sad  complaints 
Of  virgins  who  have  lost  contracted  partners ; 
Of  husbands  howling  that  their  wives  were  ravish'd 
By  some  untimely  fate  ;  of  friends  divided 
By  churlish  opposition  ;  or  of  fathers 

16  infinite}  The  4to  has  "infinites."  D. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  317 

Weeping  upon  their  children's  slaughter'd  carcasses ; 
Or  daughters  groaning  o'er  their  fathers'  hearses ; 
And  I  can  dwell  there,  and  with  these  keep  consort 
As  musical  as  theirs.     What  can  you  look  for 
From  an  old,  foolish,  peevish,  doting  man 
But  craziness  of  age  ? 

Cal.  Cousin  of  Argos, — 

Near.  Madam  ? 

Cal.  Were  I  presently 

To  choose  you  for  my  lord,  I'll  open  freely 
What  articles  I  would  propose  to  treat  on 
Before  our  marriage. 

Near.  Name  them,  virtuous  lady. 

Cal.  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 — 

Bass.  I,  queen  !  alas,  what  I  ? 

Cal.  Be  Sparta's  marshal  : 

The  multitudes  of  high  employments  could  not 
But  set  a  peace  to  private  griefs.     These  gentlemen, 
Groneas  and  Hemophil,  with  worthy  pensions, 
Should  wait  upon  your  person  in  your  chamber. — 
I  would  bestow  Christalla  on  Amelus, 
She'll  prove  a  constant  wife ;  and  Philema 
Should  into  Vesta's  Temple. 

Bass.  This  is  a  testament ! 

It  sounds  not  like  conditions  on  a  marriage. 

Near.  All  this  should  be  perform'd. 

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. 

Pro.  I  am  unworthy 


318  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

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 
Of  my  contracted  lord !     Bear  witness  all, 
I  put  my  mother['s]  wedding-ring  upon 
His  finger ;  'twas  my  father's  last  bequest. 

\Places  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  Ithocles. 
Thus  I  new-many  him  whose  wife  I  am ; 
Death  shall  not  separate  us.     O,  my  lords, 
I  but  deceiv'd  your  eyes  with  antic  gesture, 
When  one  news  straight  came  huddling  on  another 
Of  death !  and  death !  and  death !  still  I  danc'd  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  court  new  pleasures,17  and  outlive  them  : 
They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heart-strings  ; 
Let  me  die  smiling. 

Near.  'Tis  a  truth  too  ominous. 

Cal.  One  kiss  on  these  cold  lips,  my  last !  [Kisses 

Ith.}— Crack,  crack  !— 

Argos  now's  Sparta's  king. — Command  the  voices 
Which  wait  at  th'  altar  now  to  sing  the  song 
I  fitted  for  my  end. 

Near.  Sirs,  the  song  ! 

DIRGE. 

Cho.  Glories,  pleasures,  pomps,  delights,  and 

ease, 

Can  but  please 

17  Yet  live  to  court  new  pleasures,  &c.]  For  "court,"  which  I 
have  ventured  to  introduce,  the  old  copy  reads  "vow;"  evidently  an 
erroneous  repetition  of  the  word  which  occurs  in  the  verse  imme 
diately  above  it. 


SCENE  in.  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  319 

[7%']  outward  senses,  when  the  mind 
Is  \pr\  untroubled^  or  by  peace  refirtd. 
First  voice.     Crowns  may  flourish  and  decay, 

Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away. 
Second.          Youth  may  revel,  yet  it  must  \ 

Lie  down  in  a  bed  of  dust. 
Third.  Earthly  honours  flow  and  waste, 

Time  alone  doth  change  and  last. 
Cho.  Sorrows  mingled  with  contents  prepare 

Rest  for  care  ; 

Love  only  reigns  in  death  ;  though  art 
Can  flnd  no  comfort  for  a   BROKEN 
HEART.  \Calantha  dies. 

Arm.  Look  to  the  queen  ! 

Bass.  Her  "  heart  is  broke"  indeed. 

O,  royal  maid,  would  thou  hadst  miss'd  this  part ! 
Yet  'twas  a  brave  one.     I  must  weep  to  see 
Her  smile  in  death. 

Arm.  Wise  Tecnicus  !  thus  said  he ; 

When  youth  is  ripe,  and  age  from  time  doth  part, 
The  Lifeless  Trunk  shall  wed  the  Broken  Heart. 
Tis  here  fulfill'd. 

Near.  I  am  your  king. 

18  This  fine  dirge  has  sustained  some  injury  from  the  press.  The 
old  copy  shows  that  a  word  has  dropt  from  the  commencement  of 
the  third  verse,  and  there  is  an  evident  confusion  in  that  which  fol 
lows  it.  I  can  only  reduce  it  to  some  tolerable  meaning  by  reading 
"  or"  before  ' '  untroubled"  instead  of ' '  not."  There  are  few  situations 
on  the  stage  so  dramatically  striking  as  this,  or  wrought  up  with 
such  heart-rending  pathos;  but  it  is  purchased  at  the  expense  of 
nature  and  probability,  which  are  wantonly  violated  in  the  prepara 
tory  scene.  No  audience  of  the  present  day  would  support  a  sight 
so  dreadfully  fantastic  as  the  continuance  of  the  revels  amidst  such 
awful  intelligence  as  reaches  Calantha  in  quick  succession.  Those 
of  the  poet's  age,  however,  had  firmer  nerves, — and  they  needed 
them :  the  caterers  for  their  amusements  were  mighty  in  their  pro 
fession,  and  cared  little  how  highly  the  passions  of  the  spectators 
were  wound  up  by  the  tremendous  exhibitions  to  which  they  accus 
tomed  them,  as  they  had  ever  some  powerful  stroke  of  nature  or  of 
art  at  command  to  compose  or  justify  them. 


320  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  ACT  v. 

All.  Long  live 

Nearchus,  King  of  Sparta  ! 

Near.  Her  last  will 

Shall  never  be  digress'd  from  :  wait  in  order 
Upon  these  faithful  lovers,  as  becomes  us. — 
The  counsels  of  the  gods  are  never  known 
Till  men  can  call  th'  effects  of  them  their  own. 

[Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 

WHERE  noble  judgments  and  clear  eyes  are  fix'd 

To  grace  endeavour,  there  sits  truth,  not  mix'd 

With  ignorance  ;  those  censures  may  command 

Belief  which  talk  not  till  they  understand. 

Let  some  say,  "This  was  flat;"  some,  "Here  the  scene 

Fell  from  its  height;"  another,  "That  the  mean 

Was  ill  observ'd  in  such  a  growing  passion 

As  it  transcended  either  state  or  fashion :" 

Some  few  may  cry,  "  'Twas  pretty  well,"  or  so, 

"But — "  and  there  shrug  in  silence  :  yet  we  know 

Our  writer's  aim  was  in  the  whole  addrest 

Well  to  deserve  of  all,  but  please  the  best ; 

Which  granted,  by  th'  allowance  of  this  strain 

The  BROKEN  HEART  may  be  piec'd-up  again. 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


ROHSON  ANt>  SON,  PRINTERS,  PANCRAS  ROAD,  N.W. 


fcM4 


/ 


PR 

2521 

D8 

1869 

v.l 


Ford,   John 

Works     New  ed. ,   carefully 
rev. 


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