J ^ 1 Kb %/ SPECIMENS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. SPECIMENS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, WHO LIVED ABOUT THE TIME OF SHAKSPEARE. BY CHARLES LAMB. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXLIX. t LONDON : SRADBUBT AND EVAXS, PBISTEBS, WSITEFRIARS. CTBRAHU CfNIVERSITY OF CALIFO^Nl SANTA BAHBARA PREFACE. More than a third part of the following speci- mens are from plays which are to be found only in the British Museum and in j>ome scarce private libraries. The rest are fromDodsley's and Hawkins's collections, and the works of Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. I have chosen wherever I could to give entire scenes, and in some instances successive scenes, rather than to string together single passages and detached beauties, which I have always found wearisome in the reading in selections of this nature. To every extract is prefixed an explanatory head, sufficient to make it intelligible with the help of some trifling omissions. Where a line oi more was obscure, as having reference to something that had gone before, which would have asked more time to ri PREFACE. explain than its consequence in the scene seemed to deserve, I have had no hesitation in leaving the line or passage out. Sometimes where I have met with a superfluous character, which seemed to bur- then without throwing any light upon the scene, I have ventured to dismiss it altogether. I have expunged, without ceremony, all that which the writers had better never have written, that fomis the objection so often repeated to the promiscuous reading of Fletcher, Massinger, and some others. The kind of extracts which I have sought after have been, not so much passages of wit and humour, though the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interest- ing situations, serious descriptions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic poetry. The plays which I have made choice of have been, with few exceptions, those which treat of human life and manners, rather than masques, and Arcadian pas- torals, with their train of abstractions, unimpas- sioned deities, passionate mortals, Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and Amarillis. ]\Iy lead- ing design has been, to illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. To shew in what m.anner they felt, when they placed them- PREFACE. vii selves by the power of imagination in trying situ- ations, in the conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending duties ; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were ; how their griefs were tem- pered, and their full-swoln joys abated : how much of Shakspeare shines in the great men his contem- poraries, and how far in his divine mind and man- ners he surpassed them and all mankind. Another object which I had in making these selections was, to bring together the most admired scenes in Fletcher and Massinger, in the estima- tion of the world the only dramatic poets of that age who are entitled to be considered after Shaks- peare, and to exhibit them in the same volume with the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others. To shew what we have slighted, while beyond all proportion we have cried up one or two favourite names. The specimens are not accompanied with any thing in the shape of biographical notices *. I had nothing of consequence to add to the slight sketches in Dodsley and the Biographica Dramatica, and I was unwilling to swell the volume with mere tran- * The few notes which are interspersed will be found to he chiefly critical. viU PREFACE. scription. The reader \vill not fail to observe from the frequent instances of two or more persons joining in the composition of the same play (the noble practice of those times), that of most of the writers contained in these selections it may be strictly said, that they were contemporaries. The whole period, from the middle of Elizabeth's reign to the close of the reign of Charles I., comprises a space of little more than half a century, within which time nearly all that we have of excellence in serious dramatic composition was produced, if we except the Samson Agonistes of Milton. 1808. TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. VOLUME I. THOMAS SACKVILLE AND THOMAS NORTON. PAGE GORBODUC ... . . , ... 1 THOMAS KYD. SPANISH TRAGEDY . . . . . . , 5 GEORGE PEELE. DAVID AND BETHSABE ....... 12 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. lust's dominion 14 first part of tamburlaine . . . . .16 edward ii. ......... 18 the rich jew of malta . . . . . .27 doctor faustus . • • . . . . . 29 ROBERT TAILOR. THE HOG HATH LOST HIS PEARL . . . . .38 AUTHORS UNCERTAIN. NERO . ......... 4.5 THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON . . . . . . tfe. VOL. I. 6 X TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. JOSEPH COOKE. P/.OE GHEEX'S TIT QIOQUE .50 THOMAS DECKER. OLD FORTUNATUS ...... . . 51 SATIRO-MASTIX 58 FIRST PART OF THE HONEST WHORE 62 SECOND PART OF THE HONEST WHORB . . . .63 THOMAS DECKER AND JOHN WEBSTER, WESTWARD HOE . . • . . . . . 64 ANTHONY BREWER. LINGUA . 65 JOHN MARSTON. ANTONIO AND MELLIDA . . ..... 66 ANTONIO'S REVENGE . . . . . . . . 69 THE MALCONTENT ........ 73 THE WONDER OF WOMEN . . . . . . 74 WHAT you WILL . . . . . ... 75 THE INSATIATE COUNTESS . . . . • . . 77 GEORGE CHAPMAN. C^SAR AND POMPEY ....... 79 BUSSY D'AMBOIS 81 byron's conspiracy . 85 bvron's tragedy . . . . - . . . 88 THOMAS HEYWOOD. A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY . . .... 91 THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT . . . . 96 A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDIi'ESS . . . . . -97 THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER . ...... 103 TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. Xi THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME. FAOB l^TE LANCASHIRE WITCHES 109 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND RICHARD ROWLEY. A FAtR QUARREL ......... lliJ WILLIAM ROWLEY. ALL 'S LOST BY LUST 125 A NEW WONDER , idO THOMAS MIDDLETON. WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN 138 MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIEES WOMEN 143 NO WIT HELP LIKE A WOMAN'S 146 THE WITCH ......... 148 WILLIAM ROWLEY, THOMAS LECKER, JORK FORD, ETC. THE WITCH OF EDMONTON ...... 138 CYRIL TOURNEUR. THE atheist's TRAGEDY . . . . . . . 161 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY 164 JOHN WEBSTER. THE devil's law CASE 177 -APPIUS AND VIRGINIA . . . . . . .181 DUCHESS OF MALFY 184 THE WHITE DEVIL 197 JOHN FORD. THE lover's melancholy 211 THE LADIES' TRIAL 213 love's sacrifice ........ 21'! PERKIN WARBECK ........ 217 'tis PITY SHE 'S A WHORE 2-20 THE BROKEN HEART 22? Sil TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. SAMUEL DANIEL. PAGE hyr'Eh's triumph 238 FULKE GREVILLE. ALAHAM ......... 243 WUSTAPHA 253 BEN. JONSON. THE CA5R IS ALTERED 265 POETASTER ..... 267 SEJANUS ......... 277 SAD SHEPHERD ......... 278 CATILINE 281 KEW JNN 284 ALCHEMIST ..,...,. 289 VOLPONE . . , , .296 SPECIMENS ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS. GORBODUC, A TRAGEDY. By Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards EARi OF Dorset; and Thomas Norton. Whilst king Gorboduc in the presence o/his councillors laments the death of his eldest son, Ferrex, ichom Porrex, the pounger soti, has slain ; Marcella, a court lady, enters and relates the miserable end of Porrex, stabbed by his mother in his bed. Gorboduc, Arostus, Eubulus, and others. Gorh. What cruel destiny, What froward fate hath soi'ted us this chance ? That even in those where we should comfort find, Where our delight now in our aged days Should rest and be, even there our only grief And deepest sorrows to abridge our life, Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grave. Arost. Your grace should now, in these grave years of yours, Have found ere this the price of mortal joys. How full of change, how brittle our estate, How short they be, how fading here in earth, Of nothing sure, save only of the death, To whom both man and all the world doth owe Their end at last ; neither should nature's power In other sort against your heart prevail, VOL. I. B 2 GORBODtJC. Than as the naked hand whose stroke assays The armed breast where force doth light in vain. Gorb. !Many can yield right grave and sage advice Of patient sprite to others wrapt in woe, And can in speech both rule and conquer kind*, Who, if by proof they might feel nature's force, Would shew themselves men as they are indeed, Which now will needs be gods : but what doth mean The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? Marcella enters. Marc. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? Whither is gentle heart and mercy fledl Are they exil'd out of our stony breasts. Never to make return ? is all the world Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty ? If not in women mercy may be found. If not (alas) within the mother's breast To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; If ruth be banisht thence, if pity there May have no place, if there no gentle heart Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ? Gorb. Madam (alas) what means your woful tale ? Marc. O silly woman I, why to this hour Have kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath, That I should live to see this doleful day ? Will ever wight believe that such hard heart Could rest within the cruel mother's breast, With her own hand to slay her only son ? But out (alas) these eyes beheld the same, They saw the dreary sight, and are become Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. Porrex, alas, is by his mother slain, And with her hand, a woful thing to tell, While slumb'ring on his careful bed he rests, His heart stabb'd in with knife is reft of life. Gorh. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, And pierce this heai't with speed. hateful light, O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death. Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech. * Nature : natural affection. GORBODUC. 3 Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet, With wound receiv'd but not of certain death. Gorh. O let us then repair unto the place, And see if that Porrex live, or thus be slain. [Exit. Marc. Alas he liveth not, it is too true, That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince, Son to a king, and in the flower of youth, Even with a twiiik* a senseless stock I saw. Arost. damned deed ! Marc. But hear his ruthful end. The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds. Out of his wretched slumber hastily start-f-, Whose strength now failing, straight he overthrew, When in the fall his eyes ev'n now unclosed, Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help ; We then, alas, the ladies which that time Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed And hearing him oft call the wi-etched name Of mother, and to cry to her for aid. Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound, Pitying alas (for nought else could we do) His rueful end, ran to the woful bed, Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, O what a ruthful stedfast eye niethought He fixt upon my face, which to my death Will never part from me, — wherewith abraidj A deep fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithal! Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; And streight, pale death pressing within his face. The flying ghost his mortal corps forsook. Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a f;ict. Marc. O hard and cruel hap that thus assign' d Unto so worthy wight so wretched end : But most hard cruel heart that could consent, To lend the hateful destinies that hand. By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought ; — * Twinkling of the ej-e. + Started, t Awaked ; raised up. B 2 4 GORBODUC. queen of adamant, marble breast, If not the favour of his comely face, If not his princely chear and countenance, His valiant active arms, his manly breast, If not his fair and seemly personage ; His noble limbs, in such proportion cast, As would have rapt a silly woman's thought ; If this might not have mov'd the bloody heart, And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon Even to let fall, and kist him in the face. With tears, for ruth to reave such one by death ; Should nature yet consent to slay her son ? mother, thou to murder thus thy child ! Even Jove with justice must with light'niug flames From heaven send down some strange revenge on thee. Ah noble prince, how oft have I beheld Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed, Shining in armour bright before the tilt. And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy helm, There charge thy staff, to please thy lady's eye, That bow'd the head piece of thy friendly foe I How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace. How oft in arms on foot to break the sword, Which never now these eyes may see again. Arost. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed. Rather with me depart, and help to assuage The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king Must needs by nature grow, by death of this His only son, whom he did hold so dear. Marc. What wight is that which saw that T did see, And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears ? Not I, alas, that heart is not in me ; But let us go, for I am griev'd anew, To call to mind the wretched father's woe. \^Exeunt. Chorus of aged men. When greedy lust in royal seat Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; [to reign And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain, Within th' ambitious breast are lodged, then Behold how mischief wide herself displays. And with the brother's hand the brother slays. When blood thus shed doth stain this Leaven's face. THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 5 Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed, The mighty God even nioveth from liis place With wrath to wreak ; tlien sends he forth with speed The dreadful Furies, daughters of the night. With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire, With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire : These, for revenge of wretched murder done, Doth cause the mother kill her only son. Blood asketh blood, and death must death requit ; Jove by his just and everlasting doom Justly hath ever so requited it. This times before record and times to come Shall find it true, and so doth pi'esent proof Present before our eyes for our behoof, happy wight that suffers not the snare Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood : And happy he that can in time beware By others harms, and turn it to his good : But woe to him that fearing not to offend. Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end. [The style of this old play is stiff and cumbersome, like the dresses of its times. There may he flesh and blood underneath, but we cannot get at it. Sir Philip Sydney has praised it for its moraUty. One of its authors might easily furnish that. Norton was an associate to Hopkins, Stemhold, and Robert Wisdom, in the Singing Psalms. I am -willing to believe that Lord Buckhurst supplied the more ^ital parts. The chief beauty in the extract is of a secret nature. ^Marcella obscurely intimates that the murdered prince Porrex and she had been lovers.] THE SPANISH TRAGEDY : OR HIERONIMO IS MAD AGAIX. A Tragedy by Thomas Kyd. HoRATro, the son of Hieroni.-mo, h murdered while he is sitting u-ith his mistress Beltmperia bi/ nipht in an arhour in his father's garden. The murderers (Raxthazar, his rival, and Lorenzo, the brother of Beli.mperia) hang his body on a tree. Hieroxjmo is aicakened by (he cries o/Belimperia, 6 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. a»d coming out into his garden, discovers by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he gjst distracted. HrERONiMO mad. Hier. My son ! and what 's a son ? A thing begot within a pair of minutes, there about : A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve To balance those light creatures we call women ; And at the nine mouths' end creeps forth to light. What is there yet in a son, To make a father doat, rave, or run mad ? Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a son 1 He must be fed, be taught to go, and speak. Ay, or yet ? why might not a man love a calf as well ? Or melt in passion o'er a fi'isking kid, as for a son ? Mcthinks a young bacon. Or a fine little smooth horse colt, Should move a man as much as doth a son ; For one of these, in very little time, Will grow to some good use ; whereas a son The more he grows in stature and in years. The more unsquai'M, unlevell'd he appears ; Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots, Makes them look old before they meet with age ; This is a son ; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those Insatiate humours : he lov'd his loving parents : He was my comfort, and his mother's joy. The very arm that did hold up our house — Our hopes were stored up in him, None but a damned murderer could hate him. He had not seen the back of nineteen years. When his strong arm unhors'd the proud prince Bal- And his great mind, too full of honour, took [thazur ; To mercy that valiant but ignoble Poi'tuguese. Well heaven is heaven still ! And there is Nemesis, and furies, And things call'd whips. And they sometimes do meet with murderers : THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 7 They do not always 'scape, tliat 's some comfort. Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, Till violence leaps foi-th, like thundex' Wrapt in a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all. [Exit. .Jaques and Pedro, Servants. Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus At midnight sends us with our torches light, When man and bird and beast are all at rest, Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder. Ped. Jaques, know thou that our master's mind Is much distract since his Horatio died : And, now his aged years should sleep in rest, His heart in quiet, like a desperate man Grows lunatic and childish for his son : Sometimes as he doth at his table sit, He speaks as if Horatio stood by him. Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth, Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio ? So that with extreme gi'ief, and cutting sorrow, There is not left in him one inch of man : See here he comes. HiERONiJio enters. Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall, Look at each tree, and search thro' every brake, Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame earth, Dive in the watei', and stare up to heaven ; Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio. How now, who 's there, sprights, sprights ? Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir. Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark ! Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here. Hier. No, no, you are deceiv'd, not I, you are deceiv'd : Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now I Light me your torches at the mid of noon. When as the sun god rides in all his glory ; Light me your torches then. Ped. Then we burn day light. Hier. Let it be burnt ; night is a murd'rous slut, 8 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. That would not have her treasons to be seen ; And yonder pale fae'd Hecate there, the moon , Doth give consent to that is done in darkness. And all those stars that gaze upon her face, Are aglets* on her sleeve, pins on her train : And those that should be powerful and divine. Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting woi'ds, The heavens are gracious ; and your miseries And sorrow make you speak you know not what. Hier. Villain thou lyest, and thou doest nought But tell me I am mad : thou lyest, I am not mad : I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques, I '11 prove it to thee ; and wei-e I mad, how could I ? Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd ? She should have shone : search thou the book : Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace, That I know, nay I do know had the murd'rer seen him, His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth. Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and death ; Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what, What shall we say to mischief ? Isabella, his wife, enters. Isa. Dear Hieronirao, come in a doors, seek not means to increase thy sorrow. Hier. Indeed Isabella, we do nothing here ; 1 do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques : Not I indeed, we are very merry, very merry. Isa. How ? be merry here, be merry here 1 Is not this the place, and this the very tree, Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd ? Hier. Was, do not say what : let her weep it out This was the tree, I set it of a kernel ; And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, But that the infant and the human sap Began to wither, duly twice a morning Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water : * Tags of i)oints. THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. S At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore : Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. It bore thy fruit and mine. wicked, wicked plant. See who knocks there. [One knock's ivithln at the door. Ped, It is a painter, sir. Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, For surely there 's none lives but painted comfort. Let him come in, one knows not what may chance. God's will that I should set this ti-ee ! but even so Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought, Aud then they hate them that did bi'ing them up. Hie Painter enters. Pain. God bless you, sir. Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ? How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? /sa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow ? Pain. Justice, madam. Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that That lives not in the world ? Why, all the uudelved mines cannot buy An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable. I tell thee, God hath engross'd all justice in his hands, And there is none but what comes from him. Pain. then I see that God must right me for my murder'd son. Hier. How, was thy son murder'd ? Pain. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear. Hier. What, not as thine 1 that 's a lie, As massy as the earth : I had a son, Whose least unvalued hair did weigh A thousand of thy sons, and he was murder'd. Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he. Hier. Nor I, nor I ; but this same one of mine Was worth a legion. But all is one, Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go, And this good fellow here, and I, Will range this hideous orchard up and down. Like two she lions, 'reaved of their young. Go in a doors I say. {ExetitU. IThe Painter and he sit down. B 3 10 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. Come let 's talk wisely now. Was thy son murder'd ? Pain. Ay, sir. Eier. So was mine. How dost thou take it ? art thou not sometime mad ? Is there no tricks that come before thine eyes ? Pain. lord, yes, sir. Eier. Art a painter ? canst paint me a tear, a wound ? A groan or a sigh ? canst paint me such a tree as this ? Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting; My name 's Bazardo. Hier. Bazardo ! 'fore God an excellent fellow. Look you, sir. Do you see ? I 'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your oil colours matted, and draw me five years younger than I am : do you see, sir ? let five years go, let them go, — my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should intend to this, or some such like purpose ; God hless thee, my siceet son ; and my hand leaning upon his head thus, sii", do you see ? may it be done ? Pain. Very well, sir. Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir. Then, sir, would I have you paint me this tree, this very tree : Canst paint a doleful cry ? Pain. Seemingly, sir, Hier. Nay, it should cry ; but all is one. Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro' and thro' with villains' swords hanging upon this tree. Canst thou draw a murd'rer ? Pain. I '11 warrant you, sir ; I have the pattern of the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain. Hier. 0, let them be worse, worse : stretch thine art. And let their beards be of Judas's own colour. And let their eye-brows jut over : in any case observe that ; Then, sir, after some violent noise. Bring me forth in my shirt and ray gown under my arm, with my torch in my hand, and my sword rear'd up thus, — THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 1 1 And with these words ; Wliat noise is this? who calls Hieronimo ? May it be done ? Pain. Yea, sir. Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me thro' alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve. And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tott'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind wull wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down. And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio. There you may shew a passion, there you may shew a passion. Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, the house is a fire, the house is a fire ; and the torch over my head ; make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in a trance, and so forth. Pain. And is this the end ? Mier. no, there is no end : the end is death and madness ; And I am never better than when I am mad ; Then methinks I am a brave fellow ; Then I do wonders ; but reason abuseth me ; And thei-e 's the torment, there 's the hell. At last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers ; Were he as strong as Hector, Thus would I tear and drag him up and down. iHe beats the Painter in. [These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play (which without them is but a caput mortuum, such another piece of flatness as Locrine), Hawkins, in his republication of this tragedy, has thnist out of the text into the notes ; as omitted in the Second Edition, " printed for Ed. Allde, amended of such gi-oss blunders as passed iu the first : " and thinks them to have been /oisUd in 12 DAVID AND BETHSABE. by the players. — A late discovery at Dulwich College has ascer- tained that two sundry pajtuents were made to Ben Jonson by the Theatre for fuynishing additions to Hieronimo. See last edition of Shakspeare by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would authorise us to suppose that he could have supplied the scenes in question. I should suspect the agency of some " more potent spirit." Webster might have furnished them. They are full of that wild solemn preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy.] THE LOVE OF KING DAVID AND FAIR BETHSABE, WITH THE TRAGEDY OF ABSALOM. By Gborgb Peele. Bethsabe, with her maid, bathing. She sings : and David sitt above, vieicing her. THE SONG. Hot sun, cool fii'e, temper'd with sweet air, Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair : Shine sun, burn fire, breathe air and ease me, Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me ; Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning, Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning. Let not my beauty's fire Euflame unstaid desire. Nor pierce any bright eye That wandereth lightly. Bethsabe. Come gentle Zephyr trick'd with those perfumes That erst in Eden sweetened Adam's love, And stroke my bosom with the silken fan : This shade (sun-proof) is yet no proof for thee, Thy body smoother than this waveless spring. And purer than the substance of the same. Can creep thi-ough that his * lances cannot pierce. Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air, * he sun's rays. DAVID AND BETIISABE. 13 Goddess of life, and governess of health, Keeps every fountain fi-esh and arbour sweet ; No brazen gate her passage can repulse, Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath. Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes, And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes. To play the wantons with us through the leaves. David. What tunes, what words, what looks, what wonders pierce My soul, incensed with a sudden fire ! What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise, Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame ! Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness. Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens, Struck with the accents of Arch-angels' tunes, Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts, Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine. May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight. Be still enamell'd with discolour'd flowers ; That precious fount bear sand of purest gold ; And for the pebble, let the silver streams That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source. Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ; The brim let be imbrac'd with golden curls Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make For joy to feed the fount with their recourse ; Let all the grass that beautifies her bower Bear manna every morn instead of dew ; Or let the dew be sweeter far than that That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill, Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard. Enter Cusav. See Cusay, see the flower of Israel, The fairest daughter that obeys the king In all the land the Lord subdued to me. Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well. Brighter than inside bark of new-hewn cedar, Sweeter than flames of fine perfumed myrrh ; And comelier than the sUver clouds that dance On Zephyr's wings before the king of Heaven. 14 LUST'S DOMINION. Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife Urias, now at Rabeth siege with Joab ? David. Go now and bring her quickly to the King ; Tell her, her graces hath found grace with hhn. CvfSay. I will my Lord. \_Exit. David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower In water mix'd with purest almond flower, And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires, Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers, To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings. That carries pleasures to the hearts of Kings. ****** Now comes my Lover tripping like the Roe, And brings my longings tangled in her hair. To joy her love I '11 build a kingly bower, Seated in hearing of a hundred streams, That, for their homage to her sovereign joys, ShSll, as the serpents fold into their nests. In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves About the ch'cles of her curious walks, And with their murmur summon easeful sleep To lay his golden sceptre on her brows. [There is more of the same stuff, but I suppose the reader has a surfeit ; especially as this Canticle of Da-sid has never been sus- pected to contain any pious sense couched underneath it, whatever his son's may. The Kingly bower " seated in hearing of a hundred streams," is the best of it.] LUST'S DOMINION, or the LASCIVIOUS QUEEN. A Tragedy, by Christopher Marlowe. The Queen Mother of Spain loves an insolent Moor *. Queen. — Eleazar, the Moor. Queen. Chime out your softest strains of harmony. And on delicious Music's silken wings * Such another ati Aaron in Titus Andronicus. LUST'S DOMINION. If. Send ravishing delight to my love's ears ; That he may be enamour'd of your tunes. Eleaz. Away, away. Queen. No, no, says aye ; and twice away, says stay. Come, come, I '11 have a kiss ; but if you '11 strive, For one denial you shall forfeit five. Eleaz. Be gone, be gone. Queen. What means my love ? Burst all those wires ; burn all those instruments : For they displease my Moor. Art thou now pleas'd ? Or wert thou now disturb'd. I '11 wage all Spain To one sweet kiss, this is some new device To make me fond and long. Oh, you men Have tricks to make poor women die for you. Ehaz. What, die for me ? Away. Queen. Away, what way ? I prithee, speak more Why dost thou frown ? at whom ? [kindly. Eleaz. At thee. Queen. At me ? why at me ? for each contracted frown, A crooked wrinkle interlines my brow : Spend but one hour in frowns, and I shall look Like to a Beldam of one hundred yeai'S. 1 prithee, speak to me, and chide me not, I prithee, chide, if I have done amiss ; But let my punishment be this, and this, I prithee, smile on me, if but a while ; Then frown on me, 1 '11 die. I prithee, smile. Smile on me ; and these two wanton boys, These jjretty lads that do attend on me, Shall call thee Jove, shall wait upon thy cup And fill thee nectar : their enticing eyes Shall serve as ci'ystal, wherein thou may'st see To dress thyself ; if tliou wilt smile on me. Smile on me ; and with coronets of pearl And bells of gold, circling their pretty arms, In a round ivory fount these two shall swim, And dive to make thee sport : Bestow one smile, one little little smile. And in a net of twisted silk and gold In my all-naked arms thyself shalt lie. 16 TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT. [Kit JIarlowe, as old Izaak Walton assures us, made that smooth song which begins " Come live with me and be my love." The same romantic invitations " in folly ripe in reason rotten," are given by the queen in the play, and the lover in the ditty. He talks of " beds of roses, buckles of gold : " Thy silver dishes for thy meat, As precious as the Gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The lines in the extract have a luscious smoothness in them, and they were the most temperate which 1 could pick out of this Play. The rest is in King Cambyses' vein ; rape, and murder, and superlatives; "huffing braggart puft" lines*, such as the play writers anterior to Shakspeare are full of, and Pistol "but coldly imitates." Blood is made as light of in some of these old dramas as money in a modern sentimental comedy ; and as this is given away till it reminds us that it is nothing but counters, so that is spilt till it affects us no more than its representative, the paint of the property-man in the theatre.] TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT ; OR THE SCYTHIAN SHEPHERD. IN TWO PARTS. BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWK. PART THE FIRST. Tamburlaine's person described. Of stature tall, and straightly fashioned ; Like his desire, hftf upwards and divine. * Take a specimen from a speech of the Moor's :— Now Tragedy, thou minion of the night, Rhamnusia's pue fellow, to thee I '11 sing Upon an harp made of dead Spanish bones, The proudest instrument the world affords ; When thou in crimson jollity shall bathe Thy limbs as black as mine, in springs of blood Still gushing from the conduit head of Spain. To thee that never blush 'st, though thy cheeks Are full of blood, O Saint Revenge, to thee I consecrate my murders, all my stabs. My bloody labours, tortures, stratagems, The volume of all wounds that wound from me ; Mine is the Stage, thine is the Tragedy. t Lifted. TAMBURLAIiXE THE GREAT. 1 So large of limbs, his joints so strongly knit, Such breadth of shoulders, as might mainly bear Old Atlas' burthen. 'Twixt his manly pitch A pearl more worth than all the world is placed : Wherein by curious soverainty of art Are fixed his piercing instruments of sight : Whose fiery circles bear encompassed A heaven of heavenly bodies in their spheres : That guides his steps and actions to the throne Where Honour sits invested royally. Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion Thirsting with soverainty and love of arms. His lofty brows in folds do figure death ; And in their smoothness amity and life. About them hangs a knot of amber hair, Wrapped in curls, as fierce Achilles' was ; On which the breath of heaven delights to play. Making it dance with wanton majesty. His arms and fingers long and sinewy, Betokening valour and excess of strength ; In every part proportioned like the man Should make the world subdue to Tamburlaine. His custom in ivar. The first day when he pitcheth down his tents, White is their hue ; and on his silver crest A snowy feather spangled white he bears ; To signify the mildness of his mind, That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood : But when Aurora mounts the second time. As red as scarlet is his furniture ; Then must his kindled wrath be quench'd with blood, Not sparing any that can manage ai'ms : But if these threats move not submission, Black are his colours, black pavilion, His spear, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes, And jetty feathers, menace death and hell ; Without respect of sex, degree or age, He raseth all his foes with fire and sword. [ I had the same difficulty (or rather much more) in culling a few sane lines from this as from the preceding Play. The lunes 18 EDWARD THE SECOND. of Tamburlaine are perfect " midsummer madness." Nebuchad- nazar's are mere modest pretensions compared vrith the thunder- ing vaunts of this Sc\"thian Shepherd. He comes in (in the Second Parti draT.Mi by conquered kings, and ve-pvoaches these pampered jades of Asia that they can draw hut twenty miles a day. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was an%-thing more than a pleasant burlesque of Mine Ancient's. But I assure my readers that it is soberly set down in a Play which (heir Ancestoi-s took to be serious. I have subjoined the genuine speech for their amusement. Eater Tamburlaine, drawn in his chariot by Trebizon and Soria, iclth bits in their mouths, rehisin his left hand, in his right hand a whip, ivith which he scourgeth than. 2'amb. Holla ye pamper'd jades of Asia : "VNTiat can ye draw but twenty miles a day, And have so proud a chariot at your heels, And such a coachman as great Tamburlaine ? But from Asphaltis, where I conquered you, To Byron here, where thus I honour you ? The horse that guirie the golden eye of heaven. And blow the morning from their nostrils, Making their fiery gate above the glades, Are not so honour'd in their governor As you ye slaves in mighty Tamburlaine. The headstrong jades of Thrace Alcides tamed, That King Egeus fed ^vith human flesh. And made so wanton that they knew their strengtlis, "Were not subdued with valour more divine. Than you by this unconquer'd arm of mine. To make you fierce and fit my appetite, You shall be fed with flesh hs raw as blood, And drink in pails the strongest muscadel : If you can live with it, then live and draw My chariot swifter than the racking clouds : If not, then die like beasts, and fit for nought But perches for the black and fatal ravens. Thus am I right the scourge of highest Jove. &c.] EDWARD THE SECOND. A Tragedy, bv Chrfstopher Marlowk. Gaveston" sheics what pleasures those are tvhich the King chiefly delights in. Gav. I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, Musicians, that with touching of a string !May draw the pliant King which way I please. Music and poetry are his delight ; EDWARD THE SECOND. 19 Therefore I '11 have Italian masks by night, Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows ; And in the day, when he shall walk abroad, Like Sylvan nymphs my ])ages shall be clad ; My men, like satyi's grazing on the lawns, Shall with their goat-feet dance the antick hay. Sometimes a lovely boy in Dian's shape, With hair that gilds the water as it glides, Crownets of pearl about his naked arms, And in his sportful hands an olive tree To hide those parts which men delight to see, Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, One like Acteon, peeping thro' the grove. Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd, And running in the likeness of an hart, By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to die ; Sucla things as these best please his majesty. The younger Mortimer repines at the insolence o/Gavkstov. Mort. sen. Nephew, I must to Scotland, thou stay'st here. Leave now to oppose thyself against the King. Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm. And seeing his mind so doats on Gaveston, Let him without controulment have his will. The mightiest kings have had their minions : Great Alexander lov'd Hephestion ; The conquering Hercules for his Hilas wept, And for Patroclus stern Achilles droop'd. And not kings only, but the wisest men ; The Roman Tully lov'd Octavius ; Grave Socrates wild Alcibiades. Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible. And promiseth as much as we can wish, Freely enjoy that vain light-headed earl, For riper years will wean him from such toys. MoH. jun. Uncle, his wanton humour grieves not me ; But this I scorn, that one so basely born, Should by his sovereign's favour grow so pert, And riot with the treasure of the I'ealm. 20 EDAVARD THE SECOND. While soldiers mutiny for want of pay, He wears a lord's revenue on his back, And Midas-like, he jets it in the court, With base outlandish cuUions at his heels, Whose proud fantastic liveries make such show, As if that Proteus, god of shapes, appear'd. I have not seen a dapper jack so brisk ; He wears a short Italian hooded cloak. Larded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap A jewel of more value than the crown. While others walk below, the king and he, From out a window, laugh at such as we And flout our train, and jest at our attire. Uncle, 'tis this that makes me impatient. The Barons reproach the King vnth the calamities which the realm endures from the ascendency o/hvs wicked favourite Gaveston. King Edward, Lancaster, Warwick. The Mortimers, and other Lords. 3fo)'t. jun. Nay, stay, my loi'd, I come to bring you Mine uncle is taken prisoner by the Scots. [news. JSdio. Then ransom him. Lan. 'Twas in your wars, you should ransom him. Mort. jun. And you shall ransom him, or else Kent. What, Mortimer, you will not threaten him? Edio. Quiet yourself, you shall have the broad seal, To gather for him throughout the realm. Lan. Your minion Gaveston hath taught you this. Mort. jun. j\Iy Lord, the family of the Mortimers Are not so poor, but would they sell their land, Could levy men enough to anger you. We never beg, but use such ])rayers as these. Edio. Shall I still be haunted thus I MoH.jun. Nay, now you are here alone, I'll speak my mind. Lan. And so will T, and then, my lord, farewell. Mort. The idle triumphs, masks, lascivious shows, And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaveston, Have drawn thy treasure dry, and made thee weak ; The murmui'ing commons, overstretched, break. EDWARD THE SECOND. 21 Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be depos'd ; Thy garrisons are beaten out of France, And lame and poor lie groaning at the gates. The wild Oneyle, with swarms of Irish kerns, Live uncontroul'd within the English pale. Unto the walls of York the Scots make road, And unresisted draw away rich spoils. Mort. jun. The haughty Dane commands the naiTOw seas, While in the harbour ride thy ships unrigg'd, Lan. What foreign prince sends thee embassadors 1 3Iort. Who loves thee, but a sort of flatterers ? Lan. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Valoys, Complains that thou hast left her all forlorn. 3{ort. Thy court is naked, being bereft of those, That make a king seem glorious to the world : I mean the peers, whom thou shouldst dearly love. Libels are cast against thee in the street : Ballads and rhimes made of thy overthrow. Lan. The Northern brothers seeing their houses bui-nt. Their wives and children slain, run up and down Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. Mort. When wert thou in the field with banner spread 1 But once : and then thy soldiers march'd like players, With garish robes, not armor ; and thyself, Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest, Kodding and shaking of thy spangled crest, Where women's favours hung like labels down. Lan. And thereof came it, that the fleering Scots, To England's high disgrace, have made this jig : Maids of England, sore may you moorn, For your lemmoois you have lost at BtnnocJc's lorn, With a heave and a ho. What weened the king of England, So soon to have uvon Scotland, With a romlelow ? Mort. Wigmore* shall fly to set my uncle free. * A principal manor belonging to the Mortimers. 22 EDWARD THE SECOxXD. Lan. And when 'tis gone, our swords shall purchase more. If ye be raov'd, revenge it as you can ; Look next to see us with our ensigns spread. \_Exeunt Nobles. The King being deposed, surrenders his crown into the hands of the Bishop of Winchester and the Earl of Leicester a* Killingworth Castle. Lei. Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament, Imagine Killingworth castle were your court, And that you lay for pleasure here a space, Not of compulsion or necessity. Eihi\ Leister, if gentle words might comfort me. Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrow's ; For kind and loving hast thou always been. The gi'iefs of private men are soon allay 'd. But not of kings. The forest deer being struck, Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds ; But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd, He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, And highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up to th' air. And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb. And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a prison : For such outrageous passions claw my soul, As wiih the wings of rancour and disdain Full oft am I soaring up to high heav'n. To 'plain me to the gods against them both. But when I call to mind I am a king, Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs That jNIortimer and Isabel have done. But what are kings, when regiment is gone, But perfect shadows in a sunshine day I My nobles rule, I bear the name of king ; I wear the crown, but am controul'd by them, By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy ; Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care. Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, EDWARD THE SECOND. 23 To company my heart with sad laments, That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. But tell me, must I now resign my crown, To make usurping Mortimer a king ? Blsh. Your grace mistakes, it is for England's good, And princely Edward's right, we crave the crown. Echo. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head ; For he 's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, Which in a moment will abridge his life. But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown, Heav'ns turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire, Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, Engirt the temples of his hateful head ; So shall not England's vines be perished. But Edward's name survive, though Edward dies. Lei. ]\Iy lord, why w^aste you thus the time away ? They stay your answer, will you yield your crown ? Edio. Ah, Leister, weigli how hardly I can brook To lose my crown and kingdom without cause ; To give ambitious Mortimer my right, That like a mountain overwhelms ray bliss, In which extreme my mind here murther'd is. But what the heav'ns appoint, I must obey. Here, take my crown ; the life of Edward too ; Two kings in England cannot reign at once — But stay awhile, let me be king till night. That I may gaze upon this glittering crown ; So shall my eyes receive their last content. My head the latest honour due to it, And jointly both yield up their wished right. Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; Let never silent night possess this clime ; Stand still, you watches of the element ; All times and seasons, rest you at a stay. That Edward may be still fair England's kii.g. But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, And needs 1 must resign my wished crown ; Inhuman creatures ! nurs'd with tiger's milk ! Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow ? My diadem 1 mean, and guiltless life. 24 EDWARD THE SECOND. See, monsters see, I '11 wear my cro\\Ti again. What, fear you not the fury of your king ? But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led, They pass not for thy frowns as late they did, But seek to make a new-elected king ; Which fills my mind with strange despairing thoughts, Which thoughts are martyred with endless torments, And in this torment comfort find I none, But that I feel the crown upon my head ; And therefore let me wear it yet awhile. Messengei'. ]\ly lord, the parliament must hav3 pi'esent news. And therefore say, will you resign or no ? Edw. I '11 not resign ! but whilst I live be king. Traitors be gone, and join with Mortimer. Elect, conspire, install, do what you will ; Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries ! Bkli. This answer we '11 return, and so farewell. Lei. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair ; For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. Echo. Call thou them back, I have no power to speak. Lei. My lord, the king is willing to resign. Bish. If he be not, let him choose. Edw. would 1 might ! but heav'n and earth conspire To make me miserable ! here, receive my crown ; Receive it ? no, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. He of you all that most desires my blood, And will be called the murtberer of a king, Take it. What, are you mov'd ? pity you me ? Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes, being tui'n'd to steel, Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. Yet stay, for rather than I will look on them, Here, here ; now sweet God of heav'n, Make me despise this transitory pomp. And sit for ever inthroniz'd in heav'n ! Come death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or, if I live, let me forget myself. EDWARD THE SECOND. 25 Berkley Castle. The King is left alone with Lightborn, a murderer. M!dw. Who 's there 1 what light is that ? wherefore com'st thou ? LiffTit. To comfort you, and bring; you joyful news. Edtv. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord I Far is it from my heart to do you harm. The queen sent me to see how you were us'd, For she relents at this your misery : And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, To see a king in this most piteous state. Edio. Weep'st thou already ? list a while to me And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's * is, Or as Matrevis' *, hewn from the Caucasus, Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. This dungeon where they keep me is a sink Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. Light. villains ! Edw. And thei-e, in mire and puddle have I stood This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep. One plays continually upon a drum. They give me bread and water, being a king ; So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. would my blood drop out from every vein, As doth this water from my tattered robes. Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus. When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, And there unhors'd the duke of Cleremont. Light. speak no more, my lord ! this breaks ray heart. Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. Edw. These looks of thine can harbour nought but 1 see my tragedy written in thy brows, [death : Yet stay awhile, forbear thy bloody hand, And let me see the stroke Ijefore it comes, * His keepers. VOL. I. C 26 EDWARD THE SECOND. That even then when I shall lose my life, My mind may be more stedfast on my God. Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus? Edio. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus ? Light. These hands were never stain'd with innocent blood, Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. Echo. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left, receive thou this. Still fear I, and I know not what 's the cause. But every joint shakes as I give it thee. if thou harbour'st murder in thy heart. Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. Know that I am a king : Oh, at that name 1 feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown ? Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive 'i Light. You 're overwatch'd my lord, lie down and rest. [sleep ; Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear Open again. wherefore sitt'st thou here 1 Lif/ht. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. Ediv. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me, Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. Light. He sleeps. Echo. let me not die ; yet stay, stay awhile. Light. How now, my lord ? Ediv. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, And tells me if I sleep I never wake ; This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? Light. To rid thee of thy life ; Matrevis, come. Edto. 1 am too weak and feeble to resist : Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. [This tragedy is in a very different stj-le from •' mighty Tam- hurlaine." The reluctant pangs of abdicating Royalty in Edward furnished hints which Shakspeare scarce improved in'his Richard the Second ; and the death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or modern, with which I am acquainted.] 27 THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. A Tragedy, by Christopher jNJUrlowb. Barabas, the Rich Jeic, in his Counting-house, u'ith heaps of gold before him ; in contemplation o/his wealth. Bar. So that of thus much that return was made ; And of the thh'd part of the Persian ships There was a venture summ'd and satisfied. As to those Samnites, and the Men of Uzz, That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, Here have I purst their paltry silverbings. Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash ! Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, W^hereof a man may easily in a day Tell that, which may maintain him all his life. The needy groom, that never finger'd groat, Would make a miracle of thus much coin : But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full, And all his life-time hath been tired, Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it, Would in his age be loth to labour so, And for a pound to sweat himself to death. Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, That trade in metal of the purest mould ; The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks Without controul can pick his riches up. And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones ; Receive them free and sell them by the weight, Bags of fiei-y opals, sapphires, amethysts. Jacinths, hard topas, grass-green emeralds, Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, And seld-seen costly stones of so great price. As one of them, indiff'erently rated. And of a caract of this quality, May serve in peril of calamity C 2 28 THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. To ransome great kings from captivity. This is the ware wherein consists my weaUh : And thus methiuks should men of judgment frame Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, And, as their wealth increaseth, so inclose Infinite riches in a little room. But now how stands the wind ? Into what corner peers my Halcyon's bill ? Ha ! to the east ? yes : see, how stand the vances ? East and by south : why then, I hope my ships, I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles, Ave gotten up by Nilus' winding banks. ]\Iine argosies from Alexandria, Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, Are smoothly gliding down by Candy shore To Malta, through our MediteiTanean sea. Certain Merchants enter, and inform Barabas, that his ships from various iwrts are safe arrived, and riding in Malta roads. — He descants on the temporal condition of the Jews, how they thrive and attain to great worldly prosperity, in spite of the curse denounced against them. Thus trolls our fortune in by land and sea, And thus are we on every side enrich'd. These are the blessings promis'd to the Jevfs, And herein was old Abram's happiness. What more may heaven do for earthly man, Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, Making the sea their servants, and the winds To drive their substance with successful blasts ! Who hateth me but for my happiness ? Or who is honour'd now but for his wealth 1 Rather had I. a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty : For I can see no fruits in all their faith, But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride. Which methinks fits not their pi'ofession. Haply some hapless man hath conscience. And for his conscience lives in beggary. They say we are a scatter'd nation : I cannot tell ; but we have scambled up DOCTOR FAUSTUS. More wealth by far than those that brag of faith. There 's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, Myself in Malta, some in Italy, Many in France, and wealthy every one : Aye, wealthier far than any Christian. I must confess, we come not to be kings ; That 's not our fault ; alas ! our number 's few ; And crowns come either by succession. Or urged by force ; and nothing violent, Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. Give us a peaceful rule ; make Christians kings, That thirst so much for principality. [Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to Shakspeare's aa his Edward II. does to Richard II. Shylociv, in the midst of his savage purpose, is a man. His motives, feehngs, resentments, have something human in them. " If you ^\Tong us, shall we not revenge ? " Barabas is a mere monster, brought in with a large painted nose, to please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners by the Royal command, when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew (which our pious ancestors contemplated with such horror) has nothing in it now revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, \mte plays to flatter it : it is \1sited by princes, affects a taste, patronises the arts, and is the only liberal and gentleman-like thing in Christendom.] THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS. By Christopher Marlowte. How FAusTUs/eZZ to the study of magic. born of parents base of stock In Germany, within a town called Rhodes : At riper years to Wirtemberg he went, Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. 30 DOCTOR FAUSTUS. So much he profits in Divinity, That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name, Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute In the heavenly matters of theology : Till swoln with cunning and a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And melting, heaven conspired his overthrow : For falling to a devilish exercise, And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, He surfeits on the cursed necromancy. Nothing so sweet as magic is to him. Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. Faustcs, in his study, runs through the circle of the sciences / and being satisfied icith none of them, determines to addict himself to magic. Faust. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess : Having commeuc'd, be a Divine in show, Yet level at the end of every art. And live and die in Aristotle's works. Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me. Bene cUsserere est finis Lojices. Is, to dispute well, Logic's chiefest end 1 Affords this art no greater miracle ? Then read no more ; thou hast attain'd that end. A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit. Bid Economy farewell : and Galen come. Be a physician, Faustus, heap up gold. And be eterniz'd for some wond'rous cure. Summum lonnm medidace sanitas : The end of physic is our bodies' health. Why, Faustus : hast thou not attain'd that end 1 Are not thy bills hung up as monuments. Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague. And divers desperate maladies been cured ? Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. Couldst thou make men but live eternally, Or being dead raise men to life again. Then this profession were to be esteem'd. Physic, farewell. Where is Justinian ? DOCTOR FAUST US. 31 Si uim eademque res legatur chtohus, Alter rem, alter valorem rei, al duty. Sir, to beg your blessing ; And for mine uncle Fos. Him and thee I curse. I '11 starve ere I eat bread fi'om his purse, Or from thy hand : out, villain ; tell that cur, Thy barking uncle, that I lie not here Upon my bed of riot, as he did, Cover'd with all the villainies which man Had ever woven ; tell him I lie not so ; It was the hand of heaven struck me thus low. And I do thank it. Get thee gone, I say. Or I shall curse thee, strike thee ; prithee away : Or if thou 'It laugh thy fill at my poor state. Then stay, and listen to the prison grate. And hear thy father, an old wretched man. That yesterday had thousands, beg and cry To get a penny : Oh, my misery. Roh. Dear Sir, for pity hear me. Fos. Upon my curse I charge, no nearer come ; I '11 be no father to so vile a son. Roh. my abortive fate, Why for my good am I thus paid with hate ? From this sad place of Ludgate here I freed An uncle, and I lost a father for it ; Now is my father here, whom if I succour, I then must lose my uncle's love and favour. My father once being I'ich, and uncle poor, I him reUeving was thrust forth of doors, Baffled, reviled, and disinherited. Now mine own father here must beg for bread, Mine uncle being rich ; and yet, if I Feed him, myself must beg. Oh misery ; How bitter is thy taste ; yet I will drink Thy strongest poison ; fret what mischief can, I '11 feed my father ; though like the Pelican, I peck mine own breast for him. 134 A NEW WONDER, ETC. His Father appears above at the Grate, a Box hanging doven, Fos. Bread, bread, one penny to buy a loaf of bread, for the tender mercy. Roh. me my shame ! I know that voice full well ; I '11 help thy wants although thou curse me still. He stands where he is unseen hy his Father. Fos. Bread, bread, some christian man send back Your charity to a number of poor prisoners. One penny for the tender mercy — [Robert ;5U?5 in Money. The hand of heaven reward you, gentle Sir, Never may you want, never feel misery ; Let blessings in unnumber'd measure grow. And fall upon your head, where'er you go. Rob. happy comfort : curses to the ground First struck me : now with blessings I am crown' d*. Fos. Bread, bread, for the tender mercy, one penny for a loaf of bread. RoJ). I '11 buy more blessings : take thou all my store ; I '11 keep no coin and see my father poor. Fos. Good angels guard you, Sir, my prayers shall be That heaven may bless you for this charity. Roh. If he knew me, sure he would not say so : Yet I have comfort, if by any means I get a blessing from my father's hands. How cheap are good prayers ! a poor penny buys That, by which man up in a minute flies And mounts to heaven. Enter Stephen. Oh me, mine uncle sees me. Step. Now, Sir, what makes you here So near the prison ? Roh. I was going, Sir, To buy meat for a poor bird I have. That sits so sadly in the cage of late, I think he '11 die for sorrow. Step. So, Sir : Your pity will not quit your pains, I fear me. * A blessing stolen at least as fairly as Jacob's was. A NEW WONDER, ETC. 133 I shall find that bird (I think) to be that churlish wretch Your father, that now has taken Shelter here in Ludgate. Go to, Sir ; urge me not, You 'd best ; I have giv'n you warning : fawn not on him. Nor come not near him if you '11 have my love. Rob. 'Las, Sir ; that lamb Were most unnatural that should hate the dam. Step. Lamb me no lambs. Sir. Rob. Good uncle, 'las, you know, when you lay here, I succour'd you : so let me now help him. Step. Yes, as he did me ; To laugh and triumph at my misery. You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will : For him I might have rotted, and lain still. So shall he now. Rob. Alack the day ! Step. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay. Fos. Bread, bread, some charitable man remember the poor Prisoners, bread for tlie tender mercy, one penny. Rob. listen, uncle, that 's my poor father's voice. Step. There let him howl. Get you gone, and cume not near him. Rob. Oh my soul. What tortui'es dost thou feel ! earth ne'er shall find A son so true, yet forc'd to be unkind. Robert disobeys his Uncle's Injunctions, and again visits his Father. Foster. Wife. Robert. Fos. Ha ! what art thou ? Call for the keeper there, And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up. Wife. 'tis your son. Fos. I know him not. I am no king, unless of scorn and woe. Why kneel'st thou then, why dost thou mock me so ? Rob. my dear father, hither am I come. Not like a threatening storm to increase your wrack. For I would take all sorrows fi'om your back, To lay them all on my own. 136 A NEW WONDER, ETC. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise ; away, and get thee gone. Roh. O if I be thus hateful to youi' eye, I will depart, and wish I soon may die ; Yet let your blessing, Sir, but fall on me. Fos. My heart still hates thee. Wife. Sweet husband. Fos. Get you both gone ; That misery takes some rest that dwells alone. Away, thou villain. Rol). Heaven can tell ; Ake but your finger, I to make it well Would cut my hand off. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee. Wife. Husband. Fos. Destruction meet thee. Turn the key there, ho, Rol). Good Sir, I 'm gone, I will not stay to grieve Oh, knew you, for your woes what pains I feel, [you. You would not scorn me so. See, Sir, to cool, Your heat of burning sori'ow, I have got Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot To lay it down with reverence at your feet ; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whilst thus you live in moan. Fos. Stay. Roh. Good truth, Sir, I '11 have none of it back, Could but one penny of it save my life. Wife. Yet stay, and hear him : Oh unnatural strife In a hard father's bosom. Fos. I see mine error now : Oh, can there grow A rose upon a bramble ? did there e'er flow Poison and health together in one tide ? I 'm born a man : reason may step aside, And lead a father's love out of the way : Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray ; Look, on my knees I beg it : not for joy, Thou bring'st this golden rubbish ; which I spura : But glad in this, the heavens mine eye-balls turn, And fix them right to look upon that face, Wliere love remains with pity, duty, grace. Oh my dear wx'onged boy, Roh. Gladness o'erwhelms lyiy heart with joy ; I cannot speak. A NEW WONDER, ETC. 137 Wife. Crosses of this foolish world Did never grieve my heart with torments more Than it is now grown light With joy and comfort of this happy sight. [The old play-writers are distinguished hy an honest boldness of exhibition, they shew every thing without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune be the thing to be personitied, they fairly bring us to the prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentlemm, he may be known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of Distress at all. It is never shewn in its essential properties * ; it appears but as the adjunct to some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral duties : whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the relative duties might be safely tnisted to themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a science.] * Guzman de Alfarache in that good old book " The Spanish Rogue," has summed up a few of the properties of povertj' — "that poverty, which is not the daughter of the spirit, is but the mother of shame and reproach ; it is a disreputation that drott-ns all the other good parts that are in man ; it is a disposition to all kind of evil ; it is man's most foe ; it is a leprosy iuli of anguish ; it is a way that leads unto hell ; it is a sea wherein our patience is over- whelmed, our honor is consumed, our lives are ended, and our souls are utterly lost and cast away for ever. The poor man is a kind of money that is not current ; the subject of every idle hus- wife's chat ; the offscum of the people ; the dust of the street, first trampled under foot and then thrown on the dunghill ; in con- clusion, the poor man is the rich man's ass. He dineth with the last, fareth of the worst, and payeth dearest : his sixpence ^\-ill not go so far as a rich man's threepence ; his opinion is ignorance ; his discretion, foohshuess ; his suffrage scorn ; his stock upon the common, abused by many and abhorred of all. If he come in company, he is not heard ; if any chance to meet him, they seek to shun him ; if he ad\-ise, though never so ^visely, they grudge and murmur at him ; if he work miracles, they say he is a witch : if \irtuous, that he goeth about to deceive ; his venial sin is a blas- phemy ; his thought is made treason ; his cause, be it never so just, it is not regarded ; and, to have his wrongs righted, he must ap- peal to that other life. All men crush him ; no man favoreth him ; there is no man that will relieve his wants ; no man that will comfort him in his miseries ; nor no man that will bear him company, when he is all alone, and oppressed with gi-ief. None help him ; all hinder him ; none give him, all take from him ; he is debtor to none, and yet must make payment to all. O the un- fortunate and poor condition of him that is poor, to whom even the very hours are sold, which the clock striketh, and pays custom for the sun-shine in August." 138 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN : A Tragedy. By Thomas 3IiDDLEToy. LiviA, the Duke's creature, cajoles a poor Widow with the appearance of Hospitality and neighbourly Attentions, that shemayget her Daughfer-in-Law (who is left in the Mother's care in the Son's absence) into her trains, to serve the Duke's pleasure. Ln'iA. Widow. A Gentleman, Ltvia's Guest. Liv. Widow, come, come, I have a gi'eat quarrel to you, Faith I must chide you that j'ou must be sent for ; You make yourself so strange, never come at us, And yet so near a neighboui', and so unkind ; Troth, you 're to blame ; you cannot be more welcome To any house in Florence, that I '11 tell you. Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam. Liv. How can you be so strange then ? I sit here Sometimes whole days together without company, When business draws this gentleman from home, And should be happy in society Which I so well affect as that of yours. I know you 're alone too ; why should not we Like two kind neighbours then supply the wants Of one another, having tongue-discourse, Experience in the world, and such kind helps, To laugh down time and meet age merrily ? Wid. Age, madam ! you speak mirth : 'tis at my door, But a long journey fi'om your Ladyship yet. Liv. My faith, I 'ra nine and thirty, every stroke, And 'tis a general observation [wench : 'Mongst knights ; wives, or widows, we account our- selves Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us. Come, now I have thy company, I '11 not part with it Till after supper. I WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 139 Wid. Yes, T must crave pardon, madam. Liv. I sweai' you shall stay supper ; we have no strangers, woman, None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman And the young heir his ward ; you know your company. Wid. Some other time I will make bold with you, Liv. Faith she shall not go. [madam. Do you think I '11 be forsworn ? Wid. 'Tis a great while Till supper time ; I '11 take my leave then now, madam, And come again in the evening, since your ladyship Will have it so. Liv. In the evening ! by my troth, wench, I '11 keep you while I have you ; you've great business To sit alone at home : I wonder strangely [sure, What pleasure you take in 't. Were 't to me now, I should be ever at one neighbour's house Or other all day long ; having no charge. Or none to chide you, if you go, or stay, Who may live merrier, aye, or more at heart's ease ? Come, we '11 to chess ov draughts, there are an hundred tricks To drive out time till supper, never fear 't, wench. lA Chess-board is set. Wid. I '11 but make one step home, and return straight, madam. Liv. Come, 1 '11 not trust you, you make more excuses To your kind friends than ever I knew any. What business can you have, if you be sure You 've lock'd the doors I and, that being all you have, I know you 're careful on 't : one afternoon So much to spend here ! say I should entreat you now To lie a night or two, or a week, with me. Or leave your own house for a month together ; It were a kindness that long neighbourhood And friendship might well hope to prevail in : Would you deny such a request 1 i' faith Speak truly and freely. Wid. I were then uncivil, madam. [nights Liv. Go to then, set your men : we '11 have whole Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench. 140 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. Wid. As good now tell her then, for she will know it ; I 've always found her a most friendly lady. [Aside. Liv. Why, widow, where 's your miud ? Wid. Troth, even at home, madam. To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable, Especially to young bloods. Liv. Another excuse. Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that 's a Please you to send and see. [truth ; lAv. What gentlewoman ? pish. Wid. Wife to my son mdeed. Liv. Now I beshrew you. Could you be so unkind to her and me, To come and not bring her ? faith, 'tis not friendly. Wid. I fear'd to be too bold. Liv. Too bold ! Oh what 's become Of the true hearty love was wont to be 'Mongst neighbours iu old time ? Wid. And she 's a sti-anger, madam. Liv. The more should be her welcome : when is In better practice, than when 'tis employ'd [courtesy In entertaining strangers. I could chide ye iu faith. Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman, alone too ! Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. Wid. Please you command one of your servants, Liv. Within there. — [madam. Attend the gentlewoman. * Brancha resists the Duke's attempt. Bran. Oh treachery to honor ! Buhe. Prithee tremble not. I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting Under a loving hand that makes much on 't. Why art so fearful ? Bran. Oh my extremity ! My Lord, what seek you ? * This is one of those scenes which has the air of being an imme- diate transcript from life. Livla the "good neighbour" is as real a creature as one of Chaucer's characters. She is such another jolly Housewife as the AN'ife of Bath. I WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 141 DuTce. Love. Bran. 'Tis gone already : I have a husband. Dule. That 's a single comfort ; Take a friend to him. Bran. That 's a double mischief ; Or else there 's no religion. Duke. Do not tremble At fears of thy own making. Bran. Nor, great lord, Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, Because they fear not you ; me they must fright ; Then am I best in health : should thunder speak And none regard it, it had lost the name, And were as good be still. I 'm not like those That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests ; Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest, And call for strength to virtue. Winding Sheet. to have a being, and to live 'mongst men, Is a fearful living and a poor one ; let a man truly think on 't. To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots : ^Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers, When even the very sheets they commit sin in May prove for aught they know all their last garments. Great Men's looks. Did not the duke look up ? methought he saw us. — That 's every one's conceit that sees a duke, If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them : When he perhaps, good careful gentleman, Never minds any, but the look he casts Is at his own intentions, and his object ■Only the public good. Weeping in Love. Why should those tears be fetch'd forth ! cannot love Be even as well express'd in a good look, 142 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. But it must see her face still in a fountain ? It shews like a country maid dressing her head By a dish of water : come, 'tis an old custom To weep for love. Lover's Chidings. — prithee forgive me, I did hut chide in jest : the best loves use it Sometimes ; it sets an edge upon affection. When we invite our best friends to a feast, 'Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before 'em ; There 's something sharp and salt, both to whet appetite, And make 'em taste their wine well : so methinks, After a friendly sharp and savory chiding, A kiss tastes wondi'ous well, and full o' the grape. Wedlock. thou the ripe time of man's misei*y, wedlock ; When all his thoughts like over-laden trees Crack with the fruits they bear, in cai'es, in jealousies. that 's a fruit that ripens hastily, After 'tis knit to marriage ; it begins, As soon as the sun shines upon the bride, A little to shew color. Mari-ying the Adulteress, the Husband dead. Is not sin sure enough to wretched man, But he must bind himself in chains to 't ? worse ! Must marriage, that immaculate robe of honor. That renders Virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful, To her great master, be now made the garment Of leprosy and foulness ? is this penitence, To sanctify hot lust ? what is it otherways Than worship done to devils ? is this the best Amends that sin can make after her riots ! As if a drunkard, to appease heaven's wrath, Should offer up his surfeit for a sacrifice : If that be comely, then lust's ofierings are On wedlock's sacred altar. 143 MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES AVOMEX : A Comedy. By Thomab 'JIiddleton. Death. -when the heart 's above, the body walks here But Hke an idle servingman bel&w, Gaping and waiting for his mas' er's coming. He that lives fourscore years, i ; but like one That stays here for a friend : vvhen death comes, then Away he goes, and is ne'er se ;n again. Loving a ^,''oma7i. of all th a frenzies That follow flesh and blooc'. The most ridiculous is to fawn on women ; There 's no excuse for th.'t : 'tis such a madness. There is no cure set down for 't ; no physician Ever spent hour about it, for they guess'd 'Twas all in vain, when they first lov'd, themselves, And never since durst practise : cry heit raihi ; That 's all the help they have for 't. I 'd rather meet A witch far north than a fine fool in love ; The sight would less afflict me. But for modesty, I should fall foul in words upon fond man, That can forget his excellence and honor, His serious meditations, being the end Of his creation, to learn well to die ; And live a prisoner to a woman's eye. Widow's Voic. Lord Cardinal. Increase of health and a redoubled courage To chastity's great soldier : what, so sad, Madam ? The memory of her seven years deceas'd Lord Springs yet into her eyes, as fresh and full As at the seventh hour after his departure. What a perpetual fountain is her virtue ! 144 MORE DISSEM BLERS BESIDES WOMEN. Too much to afflict 3 jurself with ancient sorrow Is not so strictly for your strength required : Your vow is charge enough, believe me 'tis, Madam ; You need no weightit v task. Duck. Religious Si .', You heard the Jast w jrds of my dying Lord. Lo7-d Card. Which I shall ne'er forget. Buck. May I ent: eat Your goodness but tc^ speak 'em over to me, As near as memory cm befriend your utterance : That I may think awlr^e I stand in presence Of my departing Husb.' nd. Lord Card. What 's ; 'our meaning In this, most virtuous i,\ adam ? Duck. 'Tis a coui'tesy I stand in need of, Sir, ai this time especially ; Urge it no farther yet : as it proves to me, You shall hear from me ; c nly I desire it Effectually from you, Sir, that 's my request. Lord Card. I wonder ; y^t I '11 spare to question farther ; You shall have your desire. Buck. I thank you. Sir : A blessing come along with it. Lord Card, [rej^eats'] " You see, my Lords, what all earth's glory is, " Rightly defined in me, uncertain breath : " A dream of threescore years to the long sleeper, " To most not half the time. Beware ambition ; " Heaven is not reach'd with pride, but with submission. " And you Lord Cardinal labor to perfect " Good purposes begun, be what you seem, " Stedfast and uncorrupt, your actions noble, " Your goodness simple, without gain or art ; " x\nd not in vesture holier than in heart. " But 'tis a pain more than the pangs of death " To think that we must part, fellows of life. — " Thou richness of my joys, kind and dear Princess, " Death had no sting, but for our separation ; " 'Twould come more calm than an evening's peace, " That brings on rest to labours : Thou art so precious, MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN. Ht " I should depai't in everlasting envy " Unto the man, that ever should enjoy thee. " Oil a new torment strikes his force into me, " When I but think on 't, I am rack'd and torn " (Pity me) in thy virtues." Ditch. " My lov'd Lord, " Let your confirm'd opinion of my life, " My love, my faithful love, seal an assurance " Of quiet to your spirit, that no forgetfulness " Can cast a sleep so deadly on my senses, " To draw my affections to a second liking." Lord Card. " It has ever been the promise, and the spring " Of my gi'eat love to thee. For, once to marry " Is honorable in woman, and her ignorance " Stands for a virtue, coming new and fresh ; " But second marriage shews desires in flesh ; " Thence lust, and heat, and common custom grows : " But she 's part virgin, who but one man knows. " I here expect a work of thy great faith : " At my last parting I can crave no more ; " And with tliy vow, I rest myself for ever ; " My soul and it shall fly to heaven together : " Seal to my spirit that quiet satisfaction, ** And I go hence in peace." Duch. " Then here I vow, never " Lordj Card. Why, Madam Duch. I can go no further. Lord Card. W^.at, have you forgot your vow ? Duch. I have, too certainly. Lord Card. Your vow 1 that cannot be ; it follows now. Just where I left, Duch. My frailty gets before it ; Nothing prevails but ill. Lord Card. What ail you, Madam ? Duch. Sir, I^m in love. 146 ^^^HELp} ^^^^ -^ WOMAN'S. A Comedy. By Thomas Middletox. Virtuous Poverty. 'Life, had he not his answer ? what strange impudence Governs in man, when lust is lord of him ! Thinks he me mad ? 'cause I have no monies on earth, That I '11 go forfeit my estate in heaven. And live eternal beggar \ he shall pardon me : That 's my soul's jointure ; I '11 starve ere I sell that. Comfort. husband, Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor, Rouse up thy spirit from this falling slumber : Make thy distress seem but a weeping dream, And this the opening morning of thy comforts Wipe the salt dew from off thy carefu] eyes. And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart To expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows. Good and 111 Fortune. O my blessing ! 1 feel a hand of mercy lift me up Out of a world of waters, and now sets me Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most. To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs. What deeps I see beneath me ! in whose falls Many a nimble mortal toils, And scarce can feed himself : the streams of fortune, 'Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down, And will not suffer him (past hand to mouth) To lift his arm to his posterities' blessing. I see a careful s\\ eat run in a ring About his temples, but all will not do : For till some happy means relieve his state, There he must stick and bide the wrath of fate. NO WIT HELP LIKE A WOMAN'S. 147 Parting in Amity, Let our Parting Be full as charitable as our meeting was ; That the pale envious world, glad of the food Of others' miseries, civil dissensions, And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours. Meeting with a Wife supposed Bead. my reviving joy ! thy quickening presence Makes the sad night of threescore and ten years Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood. 1 cannot make thy welcome rich enough With all the wealth of words. Mother's Forgiveness. MotJi. Why do your words start back ? are they afraid Of her that ever lov'd them ? Philip. I have a suit to you, Madam. Moth. You have told me that already ; pray, what If 't be so great, my present state refuse it, [is 't ? I shall be abler, then command and use it. Whatever 't be, let me have warning to provide for 't. Philip. Provide forgiveness then, for that 's the want My conscience feels. 0, my wild youth has led me Into unnatural wrongs against your freedom once. I spent the ransom which my father sent. To set my pleasures free ; while you lay captive. Moth. And is this all now ? You use me like a stranger : pray, stand up. Philip. Rather fall flat : I shall deserve yet worse. Moth. Whate'er your faults are, esteem me still a friend ; Or else you wrong me more in asking pardon Than when you did the wrong you ask'd it for : And since you have prepar'd me to forgive you. Pray let me know for wliat ; the first fault 's nothing. Philip. Here comes the wrong then that ch-ives home the rest. I saw a face at Antwerp, that quite drew me From conscience and obedience : in that fray I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way. H 2 148 THE WITCH. There went the ransome, to redeem my mind ; Stead of the money, I brought over her ; And to cast mists before my father's eyes, Told him it was my sister (lost so long ) And that yourself was dead. — You see the wrong. Moth. This is but youthful still — I forgive thee As freely as thou didst it. For alas, This may be eall'd good dealing, to some parts That love and youth plays daily among sons. THE WITCH: A Tkagi-cojtedy. By Thomas Miedleton. Hecate, and the other Witches, at their Charms. Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin And Pidgen, Liai'd, and Robin ! White spirits, black spirits, grey spirits, red spirits, Devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and devil-dam, Why Hoppo and Stadlin, Hellwain and Puckle ! Stad. Here, sweating at the vessel. Bee. Boil it well. Hop. It gallops now, Hec. Are the flames blue enough, Or shall I use a little seeten* more ? Stad. The nips of Fairies upon maids' white hips Are not more perfect azure. Hec. Tend it cai'efully. Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish. That I may fall to work upon these serpents. And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour. Why, when ? Stad. Here 's Stadlin and the dish. Hec. Hei-e take this unbaptized brat : Boil it well — pi'eserve the fat : You know^ 'tis precious to transfer Our 'nointed flesh into the air, In moonlight nights, o'er steeple tops, * Seething. THE WITCH. 149 Mountains, and pine trees, that like pricks, or stops, Seem to our height: high towers, and roofs of princes, Like wrinkles in the earth : whole provinces Appear to our sight then even like A russet-mole upon some lady's cheek. When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing. Dance, kiss, and coll, use every thing : What young man can we wish to pleasure us, But we enjoy him in an Incubus I Thou know'st it, Stadlin I JSto.d. Usually that 's done. Jlec. Away, in. Go feed the vessel for the second hour. Stad. Where be the magical herbs ? Hec. They 're down his throat*. His mouth cramm'd full ; his ears and nostrils stuft. I thrust in Eleaselinum, lately Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot. You may see that, he looks so black i' th' mouth. Then Slum, Acharum, Vulgaro too, Dentaphillon, the blood of a flitter-mouse, Solanum somuificum et oleum. Stad. Then there 's all, Hecate. Hec. Is the heart of wax Stuck full of magic needles ? Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate. Hec. And is the farmer's picture, and his wife's, Laid down to the fire yet ? Stad. They are a roasting both too. Hec. Good ; Then their marrows are a melting subtil ly. And three months' sickness sucks up hfe in 'em. They denied me often flour, bai-m, and milk. Goose grease and tar, when I ne'er hurt their churnings, Their brew-locks nor their batches, nor forespoke Any of their breedings. Now I '11 be meet with 'em. Seven of their young pigs I have bewitch'd already Of the last litter, nine ducklings, thirteen goslings and Fell lame last Sunday, after even-song too. [a hog * The dead ChUd's. 150 THE \VITCH. And mark how their sheep prosper ; or what soup Each milch-kine gives to th' pail : I '11 send these snakes Shall milk 'em all before hand : the dew'd skirted dairy wenches STiall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing : I '11 mar their sillabubs, and swarthy feastiugs Under cows' bellies, with the parish youths. Sebastian- consults the "Witch /or a Charm to be revenged on his successful Rival. Hcc. Urchins,elves, hags,satires, pans, fawns, silence. Kit with the candlestick ; tritons, centaurs, dwarfs, imps. The spoon, the mare, the man i' th' oak, the hellwain, the fire-drake, the puckle. A. ab hur. hus. Seh. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and hate I enter this damn'd place : but such extremes Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion's knowledge, That were I led by this disease to deaths As numberless as creatures that must die, I could not shun the way. — I know what 'tis To pity mad men now : they 're wretched things That ever were created, if they be Of woman's making and her faithless vows. I fear they 're now a kissing : what 's a clock 1 'Tis now but supper time : but night will come, And all new-married couples make short suppers. Whate'er thou art, I have no spare time to fear thee 5 My horrors are so strong and great already That thou seem'st nothing : Up and laze not : Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne'er sit so ; 'T would firk thee into air a thousand mile, Beyond thy ointments : I would I were read So much in thy black pow'r, as mine own griefs. I'm in great need of help : wilt give me any ? Hec. Thy boldness takes me bravely; we are all sworn To sweat for such a spirit : see ; I regard thee, I rise, and bid thee welcome. What 's thy wish now ? Sth. Oh my heart swells with 't. I must take breath IJec. Is 't to confound some enemy on the seas ? [first. It may be done to-night. Stadlin's within ; She raises all your sudden ruinous storms THE WITCH. 151 That shipwreck barks ; and tears up growing oaks ; Flies over houses, and takes Anno Domini Out of a rich man's chimney (a sweet place for 't, He would be hang'd ere he would set his own years there ; They must be chamber'd in a five pound picture, A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on 't, His rotten diseas'd years) ! Or dost thou envy The fat prosperity of any neighbour ? I '11 call forth IIoppo, and her incantation Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle : Blast vine-yards, orchards, meadows ; or in one night Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks, whole stacks. Into thine own ground. Seb. This would come most richly now To many a counti'y grazier : But my envy Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or wines : *Twill trouble your best pow'rs to give me ease. Hec. Is it to starve up generation ? To strike a barrenness in man or woman 1 Sec. Hah ! Hec. Hah ! Did you feel me there 1 I knew your Seh. Can there be such things done 1 [gi'ief. Hec. Are these the skins Of serpents ? these of snakes ? Seb. I see they are. Hec. So sure into what house these are convey'd Knit with these charms, and retentive knots, Neither the man begets, nor woman breeds, No, nor performs the least desire of wedlock, Being then a mutual duty ; I could give thee Chiroconita, Adincantida, Archimadon, Marmaritin, Calicia, Which I could sort to villainous barren ends ; But this leads the same way : More I could instance : As the same needles thrust into their pillows That sow and sock up dead men in their sheets : A privy grissel of a man that hangs After sun set : Good, excellent : yet all 's there, Sir. Seb. You could not do a man that special kindness To part them utterly, now ? Could you do that ? 152 THE WITCH. Hec. No : time must do 't : we cannot disjoin wedlock ; 'Tis of heaven's fastening : well may we raise jars, Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements, Like a thick scurf o'er life, as did our master Upon that patient * miracle \ but the work itself Our power cannot disjoin. Beh. I depart happy In v.hat I have then, being constrain'd to this : And grant, you greater powers that dispose men, That I may never need this hag again. [Exit. Hec. I know he loves me not, nor there 's no hope 'Tis for the love of mischief I do this : [on 't ; And that we are sworn to the first oath we take. Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, wiih the other Witches, preparing for their midnight journey through the Air. Firestone, Hecate's Son. Hec. The moon's a gallant : see how brisk she rides. Stad. Here 's a rich evening, Hecate. Hec. Ay, is' t not, wenches. To take a journey of five thousand mile 1 Hop. Ours will be more to-night. Hec. Oh 'twill be precious. Heard you the owl yet ! Stad. Briefly in the copse, As we came through now, Hec. 'Tis high time for us then. Stcul. There was a bat hung at my lips three times As we came through the woods, and drank her till. Old Puckle saw her. Hec. You are fortunate still : The very screech owl lights upon your shoulder, And wooes you like a pigeon. Are you f ui-nish'd 1 Have you your ointments ? Stad. All. Hec. Prepare to flight then : I '11 overtake you swiftly. Stad. Hie thee, Hecate : We shall be up betimes. Hec. I'll reach you quickly. [.The other AVitches mount. THE WITCH. 153 Fire. They are all going a birding to-night. They talk of fowls in the air, that fly by day : I am sure, they '11 be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality offer'd *, I' 11 be hanged ; for they are able to putrify it, to infect a whole region. She spies me now. Hec. What, Firestone, our sweet son 1 Fire. A little sweeter than some of you ; or a dung- hill were too good for me. Hec. How much hast here ? Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones ; besides six lizards, and three serpentine eggs. Hec. Dear and sweet boy : what herbs hast thou ? Fire, 1 have some Marmartin and Mandragon. Hec. Marmaritin and Mandragora thou wouldst say. Fire. Here 's Pannax too : I thank thee, my pan akes I am sui'e With kneeling down to cut 'em. Hec. And Selago, Hedge hysop too : how near he goes my cuttings ! Were they all crept by moon-light ? Fire. Every blade of 'era, or I am a moon-calf, mother. Htc. Hie thee home with 'em. Look well to the house to-ni^ht : I am for aloft. Fire. Aloft, quoth you ? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly. Hark, hark, mother ; they are above the Steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians. Hec. They are indeed. Help me, help me ; I 'm too late else. ksong in the Air. Come away, come away ; Hecate, Hecate, come away. Hec. I come, I come, 1 come, I come, With all the speed 1 may, With all the speed I may. Where's Stadlin \ [Above.'] Here. * Probably the true reading is after 't. H 3 154 THE WITCH. Eec. Where's Puckle ? [-4 Sore.] Here : And Hoppo too, aud Hellwain too : "We lack but you ; we lack but you : Cottie away, make up the count. Eec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. [^ Spirit like a Cat descends. [Above.'\ There 's one come down to fetch his A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood : [dues ; And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse, Since the air "s so sweet and good. HiC. Oh art thou come ? What news, what news ? Spirit. All goes still to our delight : Either come, or else Refuse, refuse. Hec. Now I am furnish'd for the flight. Fire. Hark, hark, the Cat sings a brave treble in her own language. Hec. IGoing v.}).] Now I go, now I fly, Malkin my sweet Spirit and I. Oh what a dainty pleasure 'tis To ride in the air When the moon shines fair, And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss : Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, Over seas (our mistress' fountains) Over steep towers and turrets. We fly by night 'mongst troops of Spirits. No I'ing of bells to our ears sounds, No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds ; No, not the noise of water"s-breach, Or cannon's throat, our height can reach. [Above.] No ring of bells, &c. Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness ; you must be Gamboling in the air, and leave me to walk here like a fool and a mortal. ******* A DvLchess consults the Witch about inflicting a sudden Death. Duchess. Hecate. Firestone. Eec. What death is 't you desire for Almachildes ? THE WITCn. 155 Ducli. A sudden and a subtle. Ilec. Then I 've fitted you. Here lie the gifts of both ; sudden and subtle : His picture made in wax, and gently molten By a blue fire, kindled with dead men's eyes, Will waste him by degrees. Duck. In what time prithee ? Hec. Perhaps in a moon's progress. Ducli. What, a month ? Out upon pictures, if they be so tedious : Give me things with some life. Hec. Then seek no farther. Ducli. This must be done with speed, dispatch'd this If it be possible. [night, Ilec. I have it for you : Here 's that will do 't : stay but perfection's time, And that 's not five hours hence. Duch. Canst thou do this ? Hec. Can I ? Duch. I mean, so closely ? Hec. So closely do you mean too ? Duch. So artfully, so cunningly ? Hec. Worse and worse. Doubts and incredulities, They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know : Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes In fontes rediere sues ; concussaque sisto, Stantia concutio eantu freta ; nubila pello, Nubilaque induce : ventos abigoque, vocoque. Vipereas rumpo verbis et carmine fauces ; Et sylvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscere montes, Et mugiere solum, manesque exii'e sepulchris. Te quoque, Luna, traho. Can you doubt me then, daughter ; That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk : Whole earth's foundation bellow, and the spirits Of the entomb 'd to burst out from their marbles ; Nay, draw yon Moon to my iavulv'd designs ? Fire. I know as well as can be when my mother 's mad, and our Great cat angry ; for one spits French then, and the other spits Latin. 156 THE WITCH. Duch. I did not doubt you, mother. Hec. No ! what, did you ? My power 's so firm, it is not to be question'd. Duch. Forgive what's past ; and now I know th'offen- That vexes art, I '11 shun the occasion ever, [siveuesa Hec. Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter. It shall be convey'd in at howlet-time. Take you no care. ]\Iy spirits know their moments : Raven or screech-owl never fly by the door But they call in (I thank 'em) and they lose not by 't. I give 'em bai'ley soak'd in infant's blood : They shall have semina cum sanguine, Their gorge cramm'd full, if they come once to our We are no niggard. [house : Fre. They fare but too well when they come hither : they ate up as much the other night as would have made me a good conscionable pudding. Hec. Give me some lizard's brain, quickly, Firestone. Where's grannam Stadhn, and all the rest of the sisters 1 Fire. AH at hand, forsooth. \_Tlie other Witches appear. Hec. Give me Marmaritin ; some Bear-breech : when? Fire. Here 's Bear-breech and lizards-brain, for- Hec. Into the vessel ; [sooth. And fetch three ounces of the red-hair'd girl I kill'd last midnight. Fire. Whereabout, sweet mother ? Hec. Hip ; hip, or flank. Where 's the Acopus ? Fire. You shall have Acopus, forsooth. Hec. Stir, stii', about ; whilst I begin the charm. A Charm Song about a Vessel. Hec. Black spirits and white, red spirits and grey ; Mingle, mingle, mingle, vou that mingle may. Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff"" in ; Fire-drake, Puckey, make it lucky ; Liard, Robin, you must bob in. Round, around, around, about, about ; All 111 come running in, all Good keep out. First Witch. Here 's the blood of a bat. Hec. Put iu that, oh, put in that. THE WITCH. 157 Sec. Witch. Here 's libbard's-bane. Hec. Put in again. First Witch. The juice of toad ; the oil of adder. Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder. Hec. Put in, there 's all, and rid the stench. Fire. Nay, here 's three ounces of the red-hair'd All. Round, around, around, &c. [wench. Hec. So, so, enough : into the vessel with it. There ; 't hath the true perfection : I am so light * At any mischief, there 's no villainy But is a tune methinks. [warrant you, Fire. A tune ! 'tis to the tune of damuation then, I And that song hath a villainous burthen. Hec. Come my sweet sisters, let the air strike our tune ; Whilst we show reverence to yon peeping moon. \_The Witches dance, et Exeunt. [Though some resemblance may be traced between the Charms in Macbeth, and the Incantations in this Play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. His Witches are distinguished from the Witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman plotting some dire mischief might resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is spell-bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break the fascination. These Witches can hurt the body : those have power over the soul. — Hecate in Aliddleton has a Son, a low butfoon : the h.'\gs of Shakspeare have neither child of their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul Anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether they have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so they seem to be without human relations. They come with thunder and hghtning, and vanish to airy music. This is all we know of them. — Except Hecate, they have no names ; which heightens their mysteriousness. Their names, and some of the properties, which Middleton has given to his liags, excite smiles. The Weird Sisters are serious things. Their presence cannot co-exist with mirth. But, in a lesser degree, the Witches of Middleton are fine creations. Their power too is, in some measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes, like a thick scurf o'er life.'] * Light-hearted. 158 THE WITCH OF EDMOxXTON. A TuAGr-CoMEDY. By William Rowley, Thosias Decker, John Ford, &c. Mother Sawyer (lefore she turns Witch) alone. Saiv. And why on ine ? why should the envious world Throw all their scandalous malice upon me I 'Cause I am poor, deform'd, and ignorant, And like a bow buckled and bent together By some more strong in mischiefs than myself ; Must I for that be made a common sink For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues To fall and ran into ? Some call me Witch, And being ignorant, of myself, they g.o About to teach me how to be one : urging That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so) Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn. Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse : This they enforce upon me ; and in part Make me to credit it *. Banks, a Farmer, e}i ters. BariJcs. Out, out upon thee. Witch. Saw. Dost call me Witch ? Banl-s I do, Witch, I do : And v/oi'se I would, knew I a name more hateful. What makest thou upon my ground 1 Saio. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. JBanls. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly ; I '11 make thy bones rattle in thy skin else. Savj. You won't ? churl, cut-throat, miser : there they be. Would they stuck cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff Baiiks. Say'st thou me so I Hag, out of my ground. * This Soliloquy anticipates all that Addison has said in the conclusion of the 117th Spectator. I THE WITCn OF EDMONTON. lof/ Saw. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon ? Now thy bones aches, thy joints cramps, And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews. Banks. Cursing, tho,u hag ? take that, and that. [Exit. Saiv. Strike, do : and wither'd may that hand and arm Whose blows have lam'd me, drop from the rotten Abuse me ! beat me ! call me hag and witch ! [trunk. What is the name, where, and by what art learn'd ? What spells, or charms, or invocations, May the thing call'd Familiar be purchased ? 1 am shunn'd And hated like a sickness : made a scorn To all degrees and sexes. I have heard old beldams Talk of Familiars in the shape of mice. Rats, fexTets, weasels, and I wot not what, That have appear'd ; and suck'd, some say, their blood. But by what means they came acquainted with them, I 'm now ignorant. Would some power good or bad Instruct me which way I might be reveug'd Upon this churl, I 'd go out of myself. And give this fury leave to dwell within This ruin'd cottage, ready to fall with age : Abjure all goodness, be at hate with prayer, And study curses, imprecations, Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths, Or any thing that 's ill ; so I might work Revenge upon this miser, this black cui'. That barks, and bites, and sucks the very blood Of me, and of my credit. 'Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one. She gets a Familiar which serves her in the likeness of a Black Dog. Mother Sawyer. Familiar. Saw. I am dried up With cursing and with madness ; and have yet No blood to moisten these sweet lips of thine. Stand on thy hind-legs up. Kiss me, my Tommy ; And rub away some wrinkles on my brow, 160 THE ^^^TCH of EDMONTON. By making my old ribs to shrug for joy a Of thy fine tricks. What hast thou done ? Let's tickle. ' Hast thou struck the horse lame as I bid thee ? Famil. Yes, and nipt the sucking-child. ' Saiv. Ho, ho, my dainty, My little pearl. No lady loves her hound, Monkey, or parakeet, as I do thee. Famil. The maid has been churning butter nine hours, but it shall not come. Saw. Let 'm eat cheese and choak. Famil. I had rare sport Among the clowns in the morrice. Saiv. I could dance Out of my skin to hear thee. But, my curl-pate, That jade, that foul-tongued Nan Rat cliff, Who, for a little soap lick'd by my sow, Struck, and had almost lamed it : did not I charge thee To pinch that quean to the heart ? * * * * Her Familiar absents himself: she invokes him. Sazv. Not see me in three days ? I 'm lost without my Tomalin ; prithee come ; Revenge to me is sweeter far than life : Thou art my raven, on whose coal-black wings Revenge comes flying to me : Oh, my best love, I am on fire (even iu the midst of ice) Raking my blood up, till my shrunk knees feel Thy curl'd head leaning on them. Come then, my If in the air thou hover'st, fall upon me [darling, In some dark cloud ; and, as I oft have seen Dragons and serpents in the elements. Appear thou now so to me. Art thou i' the sea ? Muster up all the monsters from the deep, And be the ugliest of them : so that my bulch Shew but his swarth cheek to me, let earth cleave, And break from hell, I care not : could I run Like a swift powdei'-mine beneath the world, Up would I blow it, all to find out thee. Though I lay ruin'd in it. — Not yet come ? I must then fall to my old prayer : sanctihiceter nomen tuum. ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY. ICl He comes in White. Saw. Why dost thou thus appear to me in white, As if thou wert the ghost of my dear love ? Famil. I am dogged, Hst not to tell thee, yet to tor- ment thee, My whiteness puts thee in mind of thy winding sheet. Saw, Am I near death ? Famil. Be blasted with the news. Whiteness is day's footboy, a foi'e-runner to light, which shews thy old rivel'd face : villainies are stript naked, the witch must be beaten out of her cockpit. Saio. Why to mine eyes art tliou a flag of truce 1 I am at peace with none ; 'tis the black color, Or none, which I fight under : I do not like Thy puritan-paleness. [Mother Sawj'er differs from the hags of Middleton or Shakspeare. She is the plain traditional old woman Witch of our ancestors ; poor, defoinned, and ignorant ; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That should be a hardy sheriff, with the power of a county at his heels, that would lay hands on the Weird Sisters. They are of another jurisdiction. But upon the common and received opinion the fiuthor (or authors) have engrafted strong fancy. There is something fright- fully earnest in her invocations to the Familiar.] THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY ; or the HONEST MAN'S REVENGE. By Cyril Tourneuk. U'Amville (Oie Atheist) with the aid of his tcicked instrument, BoRACHio, murders his Brother, Montferrers, for his Estate. After the deed is done, Borachjo and he talk together of the circumstances xchich attended the murder. D" Am, Here's a sweet comedy, begins witli dolentis, and concludes with ha, ha, he. Bor, Ha, ha, he. D^Am. O my echo ! I could stand reverberating this sweet musical air of joy, till I had 162 ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY. perished my sound lungs with violent laugh- ter. Lovely night-raven, thou hast seized a carcase ? , Bor. Put him out on 's pain. I lay so fitly under- neath the bank from whence he fell, that ere his faultering tongue could utter double 0, I knocked out his brains with this fair ruby ; and had another stone just of this form and bigness ready, that I laid in the broken scull upon the ground for his pillow, against the which they thought he fell and perished. D^Am. Upon this ground I 'II build my manor house, And this shall be chiefest corner stone. Bor. This crown'd the most judicious murder, that The brain of man was e'er deliver'd of. D^Am. Aye, mark the plot. Not any circumstance That stood within the reach of the design, Of persons, dispositions, matter, time, Or place, but by this brain of mine was made An instrumental help ; yet nothing from The induction to the accomplishment seem'd forced, Or done o' purpose, but by accident. \_Here they reckon up the several circumstances. Bor. Then darkness did Protect the execution of the work Both from prevention and discovery. D^Ani. Here was a murder bravely carried through The eye of observation, unobserved. Bor. And those that saw the passage of it, made The instruments ; yet knew not what they did. D'Am. That power of I'ule, philosophers ascribe To him they call the Supreme of the Stars, Making their influences governors Of sublunary creatures, when theirselves Are senseless of theiroperations. \_Thunder and Lightning. What ! dost start at thunder ? Credit my belief, 'tis a mere effect of nature, an exhalation hot and dry, involved within a watry vapour in the middle region of the air, whose coldness congealing that thick moisture to a cloud, the angiy exhalation shut within a prison of \ ATHEIST'S TRAGEDY. 163 contrary quality, strives to be free ; and with the violent eruption through the grossness oi that cloud, makes this noise we hear. Bar. 'Tis a fearful noise. D^Am. 'Tis a brave noise ; and, methinks, graces our accomplished project, as a peal of ordnance does a triumph. It speaks encouragement. Now nature shews thee how it favored our performance : to forbear this noise when we set forth, because it should not teri'ify my brother's going home, which would have dashed our purpose : to forbear this lightning in our passage, lest it should ha' warned him of the pitfall. Then propitious nature winked at our proceedings; now, it doth express how that forbearance favor'd our success. * * * * Brou'ned Soldier. -walking upon the fatal shore. Among the slaughter'd bodies of their men, Which the fuU-stomach'd sea had cast upon The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light Upon a face, whose favor when it lived My astonish'd mind inform'd me I had seen. He lay in his armour, as if that had been His coffin ; and the weeping sea (like one Whose milder temper doth lament the death Of him whom in his rage he slew) runs up The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek ; Goes back again, and forces up the sands To bury him ; and every time it parts. Sheds tears upon him ; till at last, (as if It could no longer endure to see the man Whom it had slain, yet loth to leave him) with A kind of unresolv'd unwilling pace, Winding her waves one in another, (like A man that folds his arras, or wrings his hands, For grief) ebb'd from the body, and descends ; As if it would sink down into the earth. And hide itself for shame of such a deed*. * This way of description , which seems unwilling ever to leave oif, weaving parenthesis within parenthesis, was brought to its J64 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. Match Re/used. I entertain the offer of this match, With purpose to confirm it presently. I (have ah-ead y mov'd it to my daughter ; Her soft excuses savour'd at the first Methought but of a modest innocence Of blood, whose unmov'd stream was never drawn Into the current of affection. But when I Replied with more familiar arguments, Thinking to make her apprehension bold ; Her modest blusli fell to a pale dislike, And she refus'd it with such confidence, As if she had been prompted by a love Inclining firmly to some other man ; And in that obstinacy she remains. Love and Courage. do not wrong him, 'Tis a generous mind That led his disposition to the war ; For gentle love and noble courage are So near allied, that one begets another : Or love is sister, and courage is the brother. Could I affect him better than before. His soldier's heart would make me love him more. THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. By Cyril Tourxelr. ViNDici addresses the Scull of his dead Lady. Thou sallow picture of my poison'd love, My study's ornament, tliou shell of death, Once the bright face of my betrothed lady, When life and beauty naturally fiU'd out These ragged imperfections ; When two heav'n-pointed diamonds were set height by sir Philip Sidney. lie seems to have set the example to Shakspeare. Many beautiful instances may he found all over the Arcadia. These " bountiful Wits always give full measure, pressed ^o\\n and running over. THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 165 In those unsightly rin^s then 'twas a face So far beyond the artificial shine Of any woman's bought complexion, That the uprighte.st man (if such there be That sin liut seven times a day) broke custom, And made up eight with looking after her. O she was able to ha' made a usurer's son Melt all his patrimony in a kiss ; And what his father fifty years told, To have consum'd, and yet his suit been cold. Again. Here 's an eye, Able to tempt a great man — to serve God ; A pretty hanging lip, that has forgot now to dissemble. Methinks this mouth should make a swearer tremble ; A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em, To suffer wet damnation to run thro' 'em. Here's a cheek keeps her colour let the wind go whistle : Spout rain, we fear thee not : be hot or cold, All 's one with us : and is not he absui'd, Whose fortunes are upon their faces set, That fear no other God but wind and wet ? Does the silk-worm expend her yellow labours For thee ? for thee does she undo herself ? Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships, For the poor benefit of a bewitching minute ? Why does yon fellow falsify highways. And put his life between the judge's lips. To refine such a thing ? keep his hoi'se and men, To beat their valors for her 1 Surely we 're all mad people, and they Whom we think are, are not. Does every proud and self-affecting dame Camphire her face for this 1 and grieve her maker In sinful baths of milk, when many an infant starves, For her superfluous out-side, for all this 1 Who now bids twenty pound a night ? prepares Music, perfumes, and sweet meats ? all are hush'd. Thou may'st lie chaste now ! it were fine, methinks, To have thee seen at revels, forgetful feasts. 166 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. And unclean brothels : sure 'twould fright the sinner, And make him a good coward : put a reveller Out of his antick amble, And cloy an epicure with empty dishes. Here might a scornful and ambitious woman Look through and through herself. — See ladies, with false forms You deceive men, but cannot deceive worms*. ViNDici, having disguised himself, makes trial of his Siiter Castiza's virtue ,- and afterwards of his Mother's. VlNDICI. Castiza. Vol, Lady, the best of wishes to your sex. Fair skins and new gowns. \_Offcrs her a letter. Cast. Oh, they shall thank you, Sir. Whence this ? Vin. Oh, from a dear and worthy friend. Cast. From whom ? Vin. The duke's son. Cast. Receive that. [A Box o' the Ear to her Brother. I swore I would put anger in my hand. And pass the virgin limits of myself, To him that next appear'd in that base office. To bo his sin's attorney. Bear to him That figure of my hate upon thy cheek, Whilst 'tis yet hot, and I '11 reward thee for 't ; Tell him my honor shall have a rich name. When several harlots shall share his with shame. Farewell ; commend me to him in my hate. lExit. Vin. It is the sweetest box That e'er my nose came nigh ; The finest di-aw-work cuflf tlaat e'er was worn ; I '11 love this blow for ever, and this cheek Shall still hence-forward take the wall of this. * The male and female Skeleton in Gondibert is the finest lec- ture of moititication which has been read from bones. This dismal gallery, lofty, long and wide, \\'as hung witli Slveletons of every kind ; Human, and all that learned human pride Thinks made to obey man's high immortal mind. Yet on that wall hangs He, too, who so thought : And She, dried by Him, whom that He obey'd. THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 167 Oh, I 'm above my tongue : most constant sister, ' In this thou hast right honorable shown ; Many are call'd by their honor, that have none. Thou art approv'd for ever in my thoughts. It is not in the power of words to taint thee. ' And yet for the salvation of my oath. As my resolve in that point, I will lay Hard siege unto my mother, tho' I know, A siren's tongue could not bewitch her so. Mass, fitly here she comes ! thanks, my disguise — j Tlie Mother enters. Madam, good afternoon. ^ Moth. Y 'are welcome, Sir. i Vin. The next of Italy commends him to you, ! Our mighty expectation, the duke's son. Moth. I think myself much honor'd, that he pleases .' To rank me in his thoughts. j Yin. So may you, lady : S One that is like to be our sudden duke ; I The crown gapes for him every tide ; and then j Commander o 'er us all, do but think on him, I How blest were they now that could pleasure him i E'en with any thing almost I Moth. Ay, save their honor. i Vhi. Tut, one would let a little of that go too, j And ne'er be seen in 't, ne'er be seen in 't, mark you, I I 'd wink and let it go. -, Moth. Marry but I would not. 1 Yin. ^Marry but I would, I hope, I know you would i too. : If you'd that blood now which you gave your daughter. -i T'^ her indeed 'tis, this wheel comes about ; That man that must be all this, perhaps ere morning, (For his white father does but mould away) ' Has long desir'd your daughter. Moth. Desir'd? • Yin. Nay, but hear me, j He desires now, that w ill command hereafter ; Therefore be wise, 1 speak as more a friend \ To you than him ; madam, I know you 're poor. j 163 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. And (lack the day !) there are too many poor ladies already ; Why should you wax the number ? 'tis despised. Live wealthy, rightly understand the world, And chide away that foolish country girl Keeps company with your daughter, Chastity. Moth. O fie, fie ! the riches of the world cannot hire a mother To such a most unnatural task. Vin. No, but a thousand angels can ; ]\Ien have no power, angels must work you to 't : The world descends into such base-born evils, That forty angels can make fourscore devils. There will be fools still I perceive— still fool ? Would I be poor, dejected, scorn'd of greatness, Swept from the palace, and see others' daughters Spring with the dew of the court, having mine own So much desir'd and lov'd — by the duke's son ? No, I would raise my state upon her breast, And call her eyes my tenants ; I would count !My yearly maintenance upon her cheeks ; Take coach upon her lip ; and all her parts Should keep men after men ; and I would ride In pleasure upon pleasure. You took great pains for her, once when it was, Let her requite it now, tho' it be but some ; You brought her forth, she may well bring you home. Moth. O heavens ! this o'ercomes me ! Vin. Not I hope ah'eady ? [Aside. Moth. It is too strong for me ; men know that know We are so weak their words can overthrow us : [us, He touch'd me nearly, made my virtues bate, When his tongue struck upon my poor estate. \_ Aside. Vin. 1 even quake to proceed, my spirit turns edge. T fear me she 's unmother'd, yet I '11 venture. [Aside. What think you now, lady ? speak, are you wiser ? What said advancement to you ? thus it said. The daughter's fall lifts up the mother's head : Did it not jMadam I but I '11 swear it does In many places ; but this age fears no man, 'Tis no shame to be bad, because 'tis common. THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 163 Moth. Aye, that 's the comfort on 't. Vin. The comfort on 't ! — I keep the best for last. Can these persuade you To forget heaven — and — \_Offtrs her Money. Moth. Ay, these are they — Vhi. Oh ! Moth. That enchant our sex ; These are the means that govern our affections, — That woman Will not be troubled with the mother long, That sees the comfortable shine of you : I blush to think what for your sakes I '11 do. Vin. suffering heaven ! with thy invisible finger, E'en at this instant turn the precious side Of both mine eye-balls inward, not to see myself. lAside. Moth. Look you. Sir. Vin. Hollo. Moth. Let us thank your pains, Vin. you are a kind Madam. Moth. I '11 see how I can move. Vin. Your words will sting. Moth. If she be still chaste, 1 '11 ne'er call her mine. Vhi. Spoke truer than you meant it ! Moth. Daughter Castiza Cast [^ivithin.^ Madam ! Vin. she 's yonder, meet her. Troops of celestial soldiers guard her heart. Your dam has devils enough to take her part. [Castiza returns. Cast. Madam, what makes yon evil-ofi&c'd man In presence of you ? Moth. Why ? Cast. He lately brought Immodest writing sent from the duke's son, To tempt me to dishonorable act. 3foth. Dishonorable act ?— good honorable fool. That wouldst be honest, 'cause thou wouldst be so, Producing no one reason but thy will ; And it has a good report, prettily commended, But pray by whom ? poor people : ignorant people ; VOL. I. 1 170 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. The better sort, I 'm sure, cannot abide it. And by what rule should we square out our lives, But by our betters' actions ? oh, if thou knew'st What 'twere to lose it, thou wouldst never keep it ; But there 's a cold curse laid upon all maids. Whilst others clip the sun, they clasp the shades. Deny advancement ! treasure ! the duke's son ! Cast. I cry you mercy, lady, I mistook you ; Pray did you see my mother ? which way went you ? Pray God I have not lost her. Vin. Prettily put by. _ [Aside. Moth. Are you as proud to me, as coy to him ? Do you not know me now ? Cast. Why, are you she ? The world 's so chang'd, one shape into another, It is a wise child now that knows her mother. Vin. Most right, i' faith. [Aside. Moth. I owe your cheek my hand For that presumption now, but I 'II forget it ; Come, you shall leave those childish 'haviours, And understand your time. Fortunes flow to you. What will you be a girl ? If all fear'd drowning that spy waves ashore, Gold would grow rich, and all the merchants poor. Cast. It is a pretty saying of a wicked one, but methinks now It does not shew so well out of your mouth ; Better in his. Vin. Faith, bad enough in both, Were I in earnest, as I '11 seem no less. [Aside. I wonder, lady, your own mother's words Cannot be taken, nor stand in full force. ■'Tis honesty you urge ; what 's honesty ? 'Tis but heaven's beggar ; and what woman is so foolish to keep honesty. And be not able to keep herself ? no, Times are grown wiser, and will keep less charge. A maid that has small portion now, intends To break up house, and live upon her friends. How blest are you ! you have happiness alone ; Others must fall to thousands, you to one ; THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. m Sufficient in himself to make your forehead Dazzle the world with jewels, and petitionary people Start at your presence. think upon the pleasure of the palace ! Secured ease and state ! the stirring meats, Ready to move out of the dishes, that e 'en now quicken when they 're eaten ! Banquets abroad by torch-light ! music ! sports ! Bare-headed vassals, that had ne'er the fortune To keep on their own hats, but let horns wear 'em ! Nine coaches waiting — hurry, hurry, hurry — Cast. Aye, to the devil — Vhi. Aye, to the devil ! to the duke, by my faith. AfotJi. Aye, to the duke. Daughter, you 'd scorn to Of the devil, and you were there once. [think Vin. Who 'd sit at home in a neglected room, Dealing her short-liv'd beauty to the pictures, That are as useless as old men, when those Poorer in face and fortune than herself Walk witli a hundred acres on their backs, Fair meadows cut into green fore-parts ? — Fair trees, those comely foretops of the field, Are cut to maintain head-tires : — much untold — All thrives but chastity, she lies cold. Nay, shall I come nearer to you 1 mark but this : Why are there so few honest women, but because 'tis the poorer profession ? that's accounted best, that's best follow'd ; least in trade, least in fashion ; and that 's not honesty, believe it ; and do but note the low and dejected price of it : Lose but a pearl, we search and cannot brook it : But that once gone, who is so mad to look it. Moth. Troth, he says true. Cast. False : I defy you both. 1 have endur'd you with an ear of fire ; Your tongues have struck hot irons on my face. Mother, come from that poisonous woman there. Moth. Where? Cast. Do you not see her ? she 's too inward then. Slave, perish in thy office. You heavens please, I 2 172 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. Henceforth to make the mother a disease, Which first begins with me ; yet I 've outgone you. [Exit. Vin. O angels, clap your wings upon the skies, And give this virgin crystal plaudities ! {Aside. Moth. Peevish, coy, foolish ! — but return this answer, My lord shall be most welcome, when his pleasure Conducts him this way ; I will sway mine own ; Women with women can work best alone. [Eodt. Yin. Forgive me, heaven, to call my mother wicked ! lessen not my days upon the earth. 1 cannot honor her. The Brothers, Vindici and IIippolito, threaten their Mother with Death for consenting to the Dishonor of their Sister. Vin. thou for whom no name is bad enough. Moth. What mean my sons ? what, will you murther Yin. Wicked unnatural parent ! [me ? Hip. Friend of women ! Moth. Oh ! ai'e sons turn'd monsters ! help ! Yin. In vain. Moth. Are you so barbarous to set iron nipples Upon the breast that gave you suck ? Yin. That breast Is turn'd to quarled poison. Moth. Cut not your days for't. Am not I your mother 1 Yin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud, For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. Moth. A bawd ! name far loathsomer than hell ! Hii^. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well. Aloth. I hate it. Yin. Ah, is it possible, you powers on high, That w^omen should dissemble when they die ? Moth. Dissemble ! Yin. Did not the duke's son direct A fellow of the world's condition hither. That did corrupt all that was good in thee ! Made thee uncivilly forget thyself. And work our sister to his purpose ? Moth. Who I ? THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 173 That had been monstrous. I defy that man For any such intent. None lives so pure, But shall be soil'd with slander. Good son, believe it not. Vin. Oh, I 'm in doubt Whether I am myself or no — Stay, let me look again upon this face. Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace \ IResumes his Disguise. Hip. 'Twould make one half despair. Vin. I was the man. Defy me now, let 's see, do 't modestly. Moth. hell unto my soul ! Yin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son, Tried you, and found you base metal, As any villain might have done. Moth. no. No tongue but yours could have bewitched me so. Vin. nimble in damnation, quick in turn ! There is no devil could strike fire so soon. I am confuted in a w^ord. Moth. Oh sons. Forgive me, to myself I '11 prove more true ; You that should honor me, I kneel to you. Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter ! Hip. True, brother ; how far beyond nature 'tis. Though many mothers do it. Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed. Wet will make iron blush and change to red. Brother it rains, 'twill spoil your dagger, house it. Hip. 'Tis done. Vin. V faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good. The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul Have been long dry : pour down, thou blessed dew. Rise, mother ; troth, this shower has made you higher. Moth. O you heavens ! Take this infectious spot out of my soul ; I '11 rince it in seven waters of mine eyes. Make ray tears salt enough to taste of grace. To weep is to our sex naturally given ; But to weep truly, that 's a gift from heaven. 174 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. Vin. Nay, I 'II kiss you now. Kiss her, brother : Let 's marry her to our souls, wherein 's no lust, And honorably love her. Hip. Let it be. Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare, 'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. you of easy wax ! do but imagine Now the disease has left you, how leprously That office would have cling'd unto your forehead ! All mothers that had any graceful hue, Would have worn masks to hide their face at you. It would have grown to this, at your foul name Green-color'd maids would have turn'd red with shame. Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness — Vin. There had been boiling lead again ! The duke's son's great concubine ! A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut, To have her train borne up,and her soul trail in the dirt! Mij). To be great, miserable ; to be rich, eternally Vin. common madness ! [wretched. Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood. She 'd give the world to make her honor good. Perhaps you '11 say, but only to the duke's son In private ; why, she first begins with one Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore : Break ice in one place, it will crack in more. Moth. Most certainly applied. Hip. brother, you forget our business. Vin. And well remember'd ; joy 's a subtil elf ; 1 think man 's happiest when he forgets himself. Farewell, once dry, now holy-water'd mead ; Our hearts wear feathers, that before wore lead. Moth. I '11 give you this, that one I never knew Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you. Vin. You make me pi'oud on 't. Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister. Vin. Ay, for the love of heaven, to that true maid. Moth. With my best words. Vin. Why that was motherly said*. * The reality and life of this Dialogue passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. 175 Castiza seems to consent to her Mother's wicked motion. Castiza. Mother. Cast. Now, mother, you have wrought with me so That, what for my advancement, as to calm [strongly. The trouble of your tongue, 1 am content. Moth. Content, to what ? Cast. To do as you have wish'd rae ; To prostitute my breast to the duke's son, And put myself to common usury. Moth. I hope you will not so. Cast. Hope you I will not ? That 's not the hope you look to be saved in. 3'foth. Truth, but it is. Cast. Do not deceive yourself. I am as you, e'en out of marble A\Tought. What would you now : are ye not pleas'd yet with me ? You shall not wish me to be more lascivious, Than I intend to be. 3foth. Strike not me cold. Cast. How often have you charg'd me on your bless- To be a cursed woman ! when you knew [ing Your blessing had no force to make me lewd. You laid your curse upon me ; that did more : The mother's curse is heavy ; where that fights. Sons set in storm and daughters lose their lights. Moth. Good child, dear maid, if there be any spark Of heavenly intellectual light within thee, let my breath revive it to a flame. Put not all out with woman's wilful follies. 1 am I'ecover'd of that foul disease That haunts too many mothers ; kind, forgive me, Make me not sick in health ! if then My words prevail'd, when they were wickedness. How much more now, when they are just and good ! feel a hot blush spread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to "proclaim" some such " malefactions" of myself, as the Brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent ; in words more keen and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to "strike guilty creatures unto the soul," but to "appall" even those that are " free." 176 THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY. Cast. I wonder what you mean : are not you she, For whose infect persuasions, I could scarce Kneel out my prayers ; and had much ado, In three hours' reading, to untwist so much Of the black serpent, as you wound about me ! Moth. 'Tis unfruitful held, tedious, to repeat what's I 'm now your present mother. [pasr. Cast. Pish, now 'tis too late. Moth. Bethink again, thou know'st not what thou say'st. [son ! Cast. No ! deny advancement ! treasure ! the duke's Moth. see, I spoke those words, and now they What will the deed do then ? [poison me. Advancement ! true ; as high as shame can pitch ! For treasure : who e'er knew a Harlot rich ? Or could build by the purchase of her sin An hospital to keep their bastards in ? The duke's son ! oh ; when women are young courtiers, They are sure to be old beggars. To know the miseries most harlots taste, Thoa 'dst wish thyself unborn when thou 'rt unchaste. Cast. mother, let me twine about your neck, And kiss you till my soul melt on your lips ; I did but this to try you. Moth. speak truth. Cast. Indeed I did not ; for no tongue hath force To alter me from honest : If maidens would, men's words could have no power ; A virgin's honor is a chrystal tower, Which being weak is guarded with good spirits ; Until she basely yields, no ill inherits. Moth. happy child ! faith, and thy birth, hath saved me, 'Mongst thousand daughters, happiest of all others ; Buy thou a glass for maids, and I for mothers. Evil Report after Death. What is it to have A flattering false insculption on a tomb, And in men's hearts reproach ? the 'bowel'd corps May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I speak) The faults of great men through their sear-clothes break. THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. 177 Baslards. Oh what a grief 'tis that a man should live But once in the world, and tlien to live a Bastard ! The curse of the womb, the thief of nature, Begot against the seventh commandment, Half damn'd in the conception by the justice Of that uubribed everlasting law. Too nice respects in Courtship, Ceremony has made many fools. It is as easy way unto a duchess As to a hatted dame, if her love answer : But that by timorous honors, pale respects. Idle degrees of fear, men make their Avays Hard of themselves. J THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE ; j OR, ] WHEN WOMEN GO TO LAW, THE DEVIL IS FULL \ OF BUSINESS. j A Tragicomedy. Bv John Webster. j CoNTARiNO challenges Ercole tofight with him for the possession \ 0/ JoLENTA, whom they both love. \ Con. Sir ; my love to you has proclaim'd you one, '\ Whose word was still led by a noble thought, And that thought follow'd by as fair a deed : Deceive not that opinion : we were students At Padua together, and have long To the world's eye shewn like friends. ■ Was it hearty on your part to me ? \ Ere. Unfained. Con. You are false To the good thought I held of you ; and now, Join the worst part of man to you, your malice, To uphold that falsehood. Sacred innocence Is fled your bosom. Siguier, I must tell you ; To draw the picture of unkinduess truly, ' Is to express two that have dearly loved, j And fall'n at variance. 'Tis a wonder to me, | I 3 ' 178 THE DE\^L•S LAW CASE. Knowing my interest in the fair Jolenta, That you should love her. Ere. Compare her beauty and my youth together, And you will find the fair effects of love •No miracle at all. Con. Yes, it will prove Prodigious to you : I must stay your voyage. Ere. Your warrant must be mighty. Con. 'Tis a seal From heaven to do it, since you 'd ravish from me What 's there intitled mine ; and yet I vow, By the essential front of spotless virtue, I have compassion of both our youths : To approve which, I have not tane the way Like an Italian, to cut your throat By practice that had giv'n you now for dead And never frown' d upon you. You must fisjht with me. Ere. I win, Sir. Con. And instantly. Ere. I will haste before you. Point whither. Con. V/hy, you speak nobly ; and, for this fair deal- Were the rich jewel (which we vary for) [ing, A thing to be divided, by my life, I would be well content to give you half : But since 'tis vain to think we can be friends, Tis needful one of us be tane away Fi'om being the other's enemy. Ere. Yet, methinks, This looks not like a quarrel. Con. Not a quarrel ! Ere. You have not apparelled your fury well ; It goes too plain, like a scholar. Con. It is an ornament. Makes it more terrible ; and you shall find it, A weighty injury, and attended ou By discreet valour ; because I do not strike you, Or give you the lie (such foul preparatives Would shew like the stale injury of wine) I reserve my rage to sit ou my swoi'd's point ; Which a great quantity of your best blood Can't satisfy. THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. 179 1 Ere. You promise well to yourself. Shall 's have no seconds ? j Con. None, for fear of prevention. ^ Ere. The length of our weapons Con. We '11 fit them by the way : So whether our time calls us to live or die, Let us do both like noble gentlemen, And true Italians. \ Ere. For that, let me embrace you. Con. Methinks, being an Italian, I trust you ' To come somewhat too near me : But your jealousy gave that embrace, to try If I were arm'd ; did it not ? Ere. No, believe me. I take your heart to be sufficient proof Without a privy coat : and, for my part, j A taffaty is all the shirt of mail *. I am arm'd with. i Con. You deal equally*. j Sitting /or a Picture. ! Must you have my Picture ? .! You will enjoin me to a strange punishment. 1 With what a compell'd face a woman sits | While she is drawing ! I have noted divers •' Either to fain smiles, or suck in the lips, | To have a little mouth ; ruffle the cheeks, ' To have the dimple seen ; and so disorder The face with aff"ectation, at next sitting ^ It has not been the same : I have known othei'S j Have lost the entire fashion of their face i In half an hour's sitting — in hot weather — I The painting on their face has been so mellow, I They have left the poor man harder work by half To mend the copy he wrought by : But indeed, ' If ever I would have mine drawn to the life, i I would have a painter steal it at such a time ! I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers ; I * I have selected this scene as the model of a well-managed and i gentlemanlike difference. ; 180 THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE. There is then a heavenly beauty in 't, the soul Moves iu the superficies. Honorable Em-ployment. Oh, my lord, lie not idle : The chiefest action for a man of great spirit Is never to be out of action. We should think ; The soul was never put into the body, Which has so many rare and curious pieces Of mathematical motion, to stand still. Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds : In the trenches for the soldier ; in the wakeful study For the scholar ; in the furrows of the sea For men of our profession : of all which Arise and spring up honor. Selling of Land. I could wish That noblemen would ever live in the country, Rather than make their visits up to the city About such business. Noble houses Have no such goodly prospects any way As into their own land : the decay of that (Next to their begging church-land) is a ruin Worth all men's pity. Dirge in a Funeral Pageant. All the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying : These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his time. Suiwey.our progress from our birth ; We are set, we grov,-, we turn to earth. Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appetites. Sweetest breath and clearest eye (Like perfumes) go out and die ; And consequently this is done, As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings, Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind. 181 APPIUS AND VIRGINIA : A Tragedy. By Johx V.'ebsier. Appius, the Roman Decemvir, not being able to corrupt the In- nocence 0/ Virginia, Davphfer to Virgixius the Roman General, and newly married to Icilils a young and noble Gentleman; to get possession 0/ her person, suborns one Clodils to claim her as the Daughter of a deceased Bond- woman of his, on the testimony of certain forged writings, pretended to be the Deposition of that Woman, on her deathbed, confessing that the Child had been spuriously passed upon Virginius for his own: the Cause is tried at Rome before Appius. Appius. Virginia. Virginius, her Father. Icilius, her Hus- band. Senators of Rome. Nurse, and other Witnesses. Vlvginiui. My Lords, believe not this spi'uce orator*. Had I but fee'd him fii-st, he would have told As smooth a tale on our side. Appius. Give us leave. Virginius. He deals in formal glosses, cunning shows, And cares not greatly which way the case goes. Examine I beseech you this old woman, Who is the truest witness of her birth. Appius. Soft you, is she your only witness ? Virginius. She is, my Lord. Appius. Why, is it possible. Such a great Lady in lier time of child birth Should have no other witness but a nurse \ [Lord. Virginius. For aught I know, the rest are dead, my Appius. Dead ? no, my Lord, belike they were of With your deceased Lady, and so shamed [counsel Twice to give color to so vile an act. Thou nurse, observe me, thy offence already Doth merit punishment above our censure ; Pull not more whips upon thee. Nurse. I defy your whips, my Lord. * Counsel for C'lodius. 182 APPIUS AND VIRGIXIA. Appius. Command her silence, Lictors. Virfjinius. injustice ! you frown away my witness. Is this law, is this uprightness ? Appius. Have you view'd the writings 1 This is a trick to make our slaves our heirs Beyond prevention. Virginiv.s. Appius, wilt thou hear me 1 You have slander'd a sweet Lady that now sleeps In a most noble monument. Observe me ; I would have tane her simple word to gage Before his soul or thine. Appius. That makes thee wi'etched. Old man, I am sorry for thee ; that thy love By custom is grown natural, which by nature Should be an absolute lothing. Note the sparrow ; That having hatch'd a cuckow, when it sees Her brood a monster to her proper kind. Forsakes it, and with more fear shuns the nest Than she had care i' the spring to have it drest. Here 's witness, most sufficient witness. Think you, my Lord, our laws are writ in snow, And that your breath can melt them ? Virgiiiius. No, my Lord, We have not such hot livers : mark you that \ Virginia. Remember yet the gods, Appius ; Who have no part in this. Thy violent lust Shall like the loitiug of th' invenom'd aspick, Steal thee to hell. So subtle are thy evils ; In life they '11 seem good angels, in death devils. Appius. Observe you not this scandal ? Icilius. Sir, tis none. I '11 shew thy letters full of violent lust Sent to this Lady. Aptprius. My Lords, these are but dilatory shifts. Sirrah, I know you to the very heart, And I '11 observe you, Icilius. Do, but do it with justice. Clear thyself first, Appius, ere thou judge Our imperfections rashly, for we wot The offi.ce of a justice is perverted quite When one thief hangs another. APPIUS AND VIRGINIA. 183 1. Senator. You are too bold. j Appius. Lictors, take charge of him. j Icilius. 'Tis very good. Will no man view these papers *, what not one ? Jove, thou hast found a rival upon earth, His nod strikes all men dumb. My duty to you. The ass that carried Isis on his back, Thought that the superstitious people kneel'd To give his dulness humble reverence. If thou thinkst so, proud judge, I let thee see I bend low to thy gown but not to thee. [youth ; Virginius. There 's one in hold already. Noble Fetters grace one, being worn for speaking truth. \ I '11 lie with thee, I swear, though in a dungeon. The injuries you do us we shall pardon ; \ But it is just, the wrongs which we forgive The gods are charg'd therewith to see revenged. ; Appius. Your madness wrongs you : by my soul, I love you. Virginius. Thy soul ! O thy opinion, old Pythagoras : Whither, whither should thy black soul fly, ,' Into what ravenous bird, or beast most vile 1 | Only into a weeping crocodile. j Love me ! ' i Thou lov'st me, Appius, as the earth loves rain, | Only to swallow it. { Appius. Know you the place you stand in ? i Virginius. 1 '11 speak freely. Good men, too much trusting their innocence, Do not betake them to that just defence i Which gods and nature gave them ; but even wink '' In the black tempest, and so fondly sink. Appius. Let us proceed to sentence. ; Virginius. Ere you speak. One })arting farewell let me borrow of you To take of my Virginia, i Appius. Pray, take your course. 1 '1 * The Forgery. ' 184 DUCHESS OF MALFY. Virginius. Farewell, my sweet Virginia : never, never Shall I taste fruit of the most blessed hope I had in thee. Let me forget the thought Of thy most prett}' infancy : when first, Returning from the wars, I took delight To rock thee in my target ; when my girl Would kiss her father in his bux'ganet Of glittering steel hung 'bout his armed neck, And, viewing the bright metal, smile to see Another fair Virginia smile on thee ; When I first taught thee how to go, to speak ; And (when my wounds have smarted) I have sung. With an unskilful yet a willing voice. To bring my girl asleep. my Virginia ; When we begun to be, begun our woes ; Increasing still, as dying life still grows. Thus I surrender her into the court Of all the gods. {KilU her. And see, proud Appius, see ; Although not justly, I have made her free. And if thy lust with this act be not fed, Bury her in thy bowels now she 's dead. THE TRAGEDY OF THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. Bv John Webster. The Duchess of Malfy marries Antonio, her Steward. Duchess. Cariola, her Maid. Duchess. Is Antonio come ? Cariola. He attends you. Duch. Good dear soul, Leave me : but place thyself behind the an*as, Wliere thou mayst ovei-hear us : wish me good speed, For I am going into a wilderness, Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue To he my guide. [Cariola withdraws. Antonio enters. I sent for you, sit down. Take pen and ink and write. Are you ready ? DUCHESS OF MALFY. J85 Ant. Yes. Duch. What did I say ? Ant. That I should write somewhat. Duch. Oh, I remember. After these triumphs and this large expence It 's fit, like thrifty husbands, we enquire What's laid up for to-morrow. Ant. So please your beauteous excellence. Duch. Beauteous indeed ! I thank you ; I look young For your sake. You have tane my cares upon you. Ant. I '11 fetch your grace the particulars of your revenue and expence. Duch. Oh, you 're an upright treasurer : but you For when I said I meant to make enquiry [mistook, What 's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean What 's laid up yonder for me. Ant. Where ? Duch. In heaven. I 'm making my will (as 'tis fit Princes should,) In perfect memory ; and I pray, sir, tell me, Were not one better make it smiling, thus. Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks, As if the gifts we parted with procur'd That violent distraction \ Ant. Oh, much better. Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were quit. But I intend to make you overseer ; What good deed shall we first remember, say ? Ant. Begin with that first good deed, began in the world After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage. I 'd have you first provide for a good husband ; Give him all. DxLch. All ! Ant. Yes, your excellent self. Duch. In a winding sheet 1 Ant. In a couple. Duch. St. Winifred, that were a strange will. Ant. 'Twere stranger if there were no will in you To marry again. Duch. What do you think of marriage ? 186 DUCHESS OF MALFY. Ant. 1 take it, as those that deny purgatory ; It locally contams or heaven or hell, There 's no third place in 't. Duch. How do you affect it ? Ajit. My banishment, feeding my melancholy, Would often reason thus. Duch. Pray, let us hear it. Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children, What takes that from him ? only the bai*e name Of being a father, or the weak delight To see the httle wanton ride a cock-horse Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter Like a taught starling. Duch. Fie, fie, what's all this ? One of your eyes is blood-shot ; use my Ring to 't. They say 'tis very sovran, 'twas my wedding ring, And I did vow never to part with it But to my second husband. Ant. You have parted with it now. Duch. Yes, to help your eye-sight. Ant. You have made me stark blind. Duch. How ? Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil, Is dancing in this circle. Duch. Remove him. jint. How ? Duch. There needs small conjuration, when your May do it ; thus : is it fit ? [finger IShe puts the ring on his finger. Ant. What said you ? \_He kneels. Duch. Sir ! This goodly roof of yours is too low built ; I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse, Without I raise it higher : raise yourself ; Or, if you please my hand to help you : so. Ant. Ambition, Madam, is a great man's madness. That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms. But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt ^ With the wild noise of prattling visitants, i' Which makes it lunatick beyond all cure. \ Conceive not I 'm so stupid, but I aim I \ DUCHESS OF MALFY. 187 Whereto your favoi's tend : but lie 's a fool That, being a cold, would thrust his hands in the fire To warm them. Duck. So, now the ground 's broke, You may discover what a wealthy mine I make you Lord of. Ant. Oh my unworthiness. Duch. You were ill to sell yourself. This darkning of your worth is not like that Which tradesmen use in the city ; their false lights Ai'e to rid bad wares off: and I must teil you, If you will know where breathes a complete man (I speak it without flattery) turn your eyes, And progress through yourself. Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell, I should be honest : I have long serv'd virtue. And never tane wages of her. — Duch. Now she pays it. — The misery of us that are born great ! We are forc'd to woo, because none dare woo us : And as a tyrant doubles with his words, And fearfully equivocates ; so we Are forced to express our violent passions In riddles, and in dreams, and leave the path Of simple virtue, which was never made To seem the thing it is not. Go, go, brag You have left me heartless ; mine is in your bosom ; I hope 'twill multiply love there : you do tremble : Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh, To fear more than to love me ; Sir, be confident. What is it distracts you 1 This is flesh and blood. Sir, 'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster. Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man. I do here put off" all vain ceremony. And only do appear to you a young widow : I use but half a blush in 't. Ant. Truth speak for me ; I will remain the constant sanctuary Of your good name. Duch. I thank you, gentle love ; And 'cause you shall not come to me in debt 188 DUCHESS OF MALFY. (Being now my Steward) here upon your lips [now. I sign your quietus est : this you should have begg'd I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus, As fearful to devour them too soon. Ant. But, for your brothers — Dudi. Do not think of them. All discord, without this circumference, Is only to be pitied, and not fear'd : Yet, should they know it, time will easily Scatter the tempest. Ant. These words should be mine. And all the parts you have spoke ; if some part of it Would not have savour'd flattery. [Cabiola comes forward. Duch. Kneel. Ant. Hah ! Buck. Be not amaz'd ; this woman 's of my council. I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber Per verloj proesenti is absolute marriage ; Bless heaven this sacred Gordian, which let violence Never untwine. Ant. And may our sweet affections, like the spheres, Be still in motion. Duch. Quickening, and make The like soft music. Car. Whether the spirit of gi'eatness, or of woman, Reign most in her, I know not ; but it shews A fearful madness : I owe her much of pity. The Duchess's marriage with Antovio being discovered, her brother Ferdinand shuts her up in a Prison, and torments her vjilh various trials of studied Cruelty. By his com- viand BosoLA, the instrument of his Devices, shews her the Bodies of her Husband and Children counterfeited in Wax, as dead. Bos. He doth present you this sad spectacle, That now you know directly they are dead, Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve For that which cannot be recovered. Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one I stay for after this : it wastes me more [wish Than were 't my picture fashion'd out of wax, DUCHESS OF MALFY. 189 Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried In some foul dunghill ; and yond 's an excellent property For a tyrant, which I would account mercy. Bos. 'what 's that ? Duch. If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk, And let me freeze to death. JBos. Come, you must live. Leave this vain sorrow. Things being at the worst begin to mend. The Bee, When he hath shot his sting into your hand. May then play with your eye-lid. ifuch. Good comfortable fellow, Persuade a wretch that 's broke upon the wheel To have all his bones new set ; intreat him live To be executed again. Who must dispatch me ? I account this world a tedious theatre, I'or I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will. Bos. Come, be of comfort, I will save your life. Duch. Indeed I have not leisure to attend So small a business. I will go pray. — No : I '11 go curse. Bos. fie. Duch. I could cui'se the stars : Bos. fearful. Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the year Into a Russian winter : nay, the world To its first chaos. Plagues (that make lanes through largest families) Consume them *. Let them like tyrants Ne'er be remembei-'d but for the ill they 've done. Let all the zealous prayers of mortified Churchmen forget them. Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, To punish them : go, howl them this ; and say, I long to bleed : It is some mercy when men kill with speed. [Exit. * Her Brothers. 190 DUCHESS OF MALFY. Ferdixand enters. Ferd. Excellent, as I would wish : she 's plagued in These presentations are but frara'd in wax, [art. By the curious master in that quality Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them For true substantial bodies. Bos. Why do you do this ? Ferd. To bring her to despair. Bos. Faith, end here ; And go no further in your cruelty. Send her a penitential garment to put on Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her With beads and prayer books, Ferd. Damn her ; that body of her's, While that my blood ran pure in 't, was more worth Than that, which thou wouldst comfort, call'd a soul. I '11 send her masques of common courtezans, Have her meat served up by bawds and ruffians, And ('cause she '11 need be mad) I am resolv'd To remove forth the common hospital All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging : There let 'em practise together, sing, and dance, Aud act their gambols to the full o' the moon. She is kept ivaking with noises of Madmen : and, at last, is strangled hy common Executioners Duchess. Cariola. Duch. What hideous noise was that ? Car. 'Tis the wild consort Of madmen, Lady : which your tyrant brother Hath placed about your lodging : this tyranny I think was never practis'd till this hour. Duch. Indeed I thank him ; nothing but noise aud folly Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason And silence make me stark mad ; sit down, Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. Car. O 'twill increase your melancholy. Duch. Thou art deceived. To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. This is a prison ? DUCHESS OF 3IALFY. 191 j Car. Yes : but thou shalt live To shake this durance off. Duch. Thou art a fool. The Robin-red-breast and the Nightingale Never live long in cages. Car. Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, ]Madani ? i Duch. Of nothing : j When I muse thus, I sleep. I Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open ? j Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another { In the other woi'ld ? Car. Yes, out of question. J Duch. that it were possible we might j But hold some two days conference with the dead, ' From them I should learn somewhat I am sure I never shall know here. I '11 tell thee a mii-acle ; j I am not mad yet, to my cause of soi-row. ' Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, ! The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad : \ I am acquainted with sad misery, ' As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar ; 5 Necessity makes me suff'er constantly, | And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now ? j Car. Like to your picture in the gallery : j A deal of life in show, but none in practice : \ Or rather, like some reverend monument i Whose ruins are even pitied. Duch. Very proper : And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, , To behold my tragedy : how now, | What noise is that ? 1 A Servant enters. { Serv. I am come to tell you, i Your brother hath intended you some sport. A great physician when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With several sorts of madmen, which wild object (Being full of change and sport) forc'd him to laugh, And so th' imposthume broke : the selfsame cure The duke intends on you. 192 DUCHESS OF MALFY. Ducli. Let them come in. Here follows a Dance of sundry sorts of Madmen, with Music answerable thereto: after which Bosola (like an old Man) enters. Duch. Is he mad too ? Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. Duch. Ha : my tomb ? Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed : Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick 1 Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sick- ness is insensible. Duck. Thou art not mad sure : dost know me ? Bos. Yes. Duch. Who am I ? Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed ; at best but a sal- vatory of green mummy. What 's this flesh ? a httle crudded milk, fantastical puflF-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper- prisons boys use to keep flies in, more con- temptible ; since ours is to preserve earth- worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage ? Such is the soul in the body : this world is like her little turf of grass ; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? Bos. Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk- maid's. Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear : a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright ; But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. DUCHESS OF MALFY. 193 Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb ? Bos. Yes. Duch. Let me be a little merry. Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos. Nay, resolve me first ; of what fashion ? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death bed \ Do we affect fashion in the grave ? Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven : but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth-ache :) they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars ; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. \_A Coffin, Cords, and a Bell, produced. Here is a present from your princely brothers ; And may it arrive welcome, for it bx'ings Last benefit, last sorrow. Duch. Let me see it, I have so much obedience in my blood, I wish it in their veins to do them good. Bos. This is your last presence chamber. Cca: my sweet lady. Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bell-man, That usually is sent to condemned persons The night before they suffer. Duch. Even now thou saidst. Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification : Listen. Dirge. Hark, now every thing is still ; This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, VOL. I. K 194 DUCHESS OF MALFY. And bid her quickly d'on her shroud. Much you had of land and rent ; Your length in clay's now competent. A long war disturb'd your mind ; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping ? Sin, their conception ; their birth, weeping : Their life, a general mist of error. Their death, a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, D'on clean linen, bathe your feet : And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day : End your groan, and come away. Car. Hence, villains, tyi'ants, murderers : alas ! What will you do with my lady ? Call for help. Ducli. To whom ; to our next neighbours ? They Farewell, Cariola. [are mad folks. I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold ; and let the girl Say her pi-ay'i'S ere she sleep. — Now what you please ; What death ? Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o'the lungs, Would do as much as they do. Bos. Doth not death fright you ? Duch. Who would be afraid on't, Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world. Bos. Yet methinks, The manner of your death should much afflict you ; This cord should terrify you. Duch. Not a whit. What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut With diamonds ? or to be smothered With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? I know, death hath ten thousand sevei'al doors For men to take their exits : and 'tis found They go on such strange geometrical hinges, DUCHESS OF MALFY. 195 You may open them both ways : any way : (for heav'n sake) So I were out of your whispering : tell my brothers, That I perceive, death (now I 'm well awake) Best gift is, they can give or I can take. I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; I 'd not be tedious to you. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Must pull down heaven upon me. Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces ; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for Mandx*agora to make me sleep. Go tell ray brothers ; when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. \_They strangle Tier, kneeling. Ferdinand enters. Ferd. Is she dead ? Bos. She is what you would have her. Fix your eye here. Ferd. Constantly. Bos. Do you not weep ? Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth. But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. Ferd. Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle : she died Bos. I think not so : her infelicity [young. Seem'd to have years too many. Ferd. She and I were twins : And should I die this instant, I had lived Her time to a minute*. * All the several parts of the dreadful apparatus with which the Duchess's death is ushered in, are not more remote from the con- ceptions of ordinary vengeance, than the strange character of suf- fering which they seem to hring upon their victims, is beyond the imagination of ordinary poets. As they are not like inflictions of this life, so her language seems not of this world. She has Uved among horrors till she is become '• native and endowed unto thai element." She speaks the dialect of despair, her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale. — "What are "Luke's iron crown." the brazen bull of Perillus, Procrustes' bed, to the K 2 19fi DUCHESS OF MALFY , Single Life. fie upon this single life : forego it. We read how Daphne, for her peevish fliglit, Became a fruitless bay-tree : SjTinx tiu'n'd To the pale empty reed : Anaxarate Was frozen into marble ; whereas those Which max'ried, or prov'd kind unto their friends, Were, by a gracious influence, trans-shap'd Into the olive, pomgranate, mulberry ; Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars. Fahle. Upon a time. Reputation, Love, and Death, Would travel o'er the world : and 'twas concluded That they should part, and take three several wajs. Death told them, they should find him in great battles, Or cities plagued with plagues : Love gives them counsel To enquire for him 'mongst unambitious shepherds, Where dowries were not talk'd of ; and sometimes, 'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left By their dead parents : stay, quoth Reputation ; Do not forsake me, for it is my nature. If once I part from any man I meet, 1 am never found again. Another. A Salmon, as she swam unto the sea. Met with a Dog-fish ; who encounters her With his rough language ; why art thou so bold To mix thyself with our high state of floods ? Being no eminent courtier, but one That for the calmest and fresh time of the year waxen images which counterfeit death, to the wild masque of mad- men, the tomb-maker, the bell-man, the living person's dirge, the mortification by degrees ! To move a horror sldlfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till it is ready to drop and then step in with mor- tal instruments to take its last forfeit : this only a Webster can do. Writers of an inferior genius may "upon horror's head honors accumulate " but they cannot do tins. They mistake quantity for quality, they " terrify babes with painted devils" but they know not how a soul is capable of being moved ; their terrors want dig- nity, their affrightments are without decorum. THE WHITE DEVIL. 107 Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thyself With silly Smelts and Shrimps : — and darest thou Pass by our Dog-ship without reverence ? (quoth the Salmon) sister, be at peace, Thank Jupiter we both have past the net. Our value never can be truly known, Till in the fisher's basket we be shewn : In the market then my price may be the higher ; Even when I am nearest to the cook and fire. So to great men the moral may be stretched : Men oft are valued high when they are most wretched. THE WHITE DEVIL : OR, VITTORIA COROM- BONA, A LADY OF VENICE. A Tragedy. By John "Webster *. The arraignment o/Vittoria. — Paulo Giorda.vo Ursini, Duke of Brachiano, for the love of Vittoria Corombona, a Venetian Lady, and at her suggestion, causes her Husbarid Camillo to be murdered. Suspicion falls upon Vittoria, who is tried at Rome, on a double Charge of Murder and Incontinence, in the presence of Cardinal Monticklso, Cousin to the deceased Casiillo ; Francisco de Medicis, Brother in Laiv to Brachiano ; the Ambassadors of France, Spain, England, <5c. As the arraignment is beginning, the Duke confidently enters the Court. Mon. Forbear, my Lord, here is no place assign'd This business, by his holiness, is left [you : To our examination. * The Author's Dedication to this Play is so modest, j'et so conscious of self-merit withal, he speaks so frankly of the deserv- ings of others, and by implication insinuates his own deserts so ingenuously, that I cannot forbear inserting it, as a specimen how a man may praise himself gracefully and commend others without suspicion of en\'y. "To the Reader. In publishing this Tragedy, I do but challenge to myself that liberty which other men have taken before me ; not that 1 affect praise by it, for 7ios here novimus esse nihil j only since it was acted in so open and black a theatre, that it wanted (that which is the only grace and setting-out of a tragedy) a full and under- standing auditory ; and that, since that time, I have noted, most 19S THE ^^^^ITE deyil. Bra. IMay it thrive with you. Fra. A chair there for his lordship. \_Lays a rich gotrn uiider him. Bra. Forbear your kindness ; an unbidden guest Sliould travel as Dutch women go to church, Bear theu- stool with them. Mon. At your pleasure, Sir. Stand to the table, gentlewoman. — Now, Siguier, Fall to your plea. of the people that come to that play-house resemble those ignorant asses, (who, visiting stationers shops, their use is not to enquire for good boolis, but new boolis) I present it to the general \iew -with this confidence, Ncc rhoncos metues malignorum JVec scombris tunicas dabis molestas. If it be objected this is no true dramatic poem, I shall easily con- fess it, non potes in nugas dicere plura meas, ipse ego quam dixi ; \^-illingly, and not ignorantly, have I faulted. For should a man present, to such an auditory, the most sententious tragedy that ever was -wTitten, obsersing all the critical laws, as height of style, and gravity of person, enrich it with the sententious chorus, and, as it were, enliven death, in the passionate and weighty Nuntius : yet after all this di\'ine rapture, dura messorum ilia, the breath that comes from the uncapable multitude is able to poison it ; and ere it be acted, let the author resolve to fix to every scene this of Horace : Hcec hodie porcis comedcnda relinques. To those who report I was a long time in finishing this Tragedy. I confess, I do not -sTite with a goose-quill wing'd with two feathers ; and if they will needs make it my fault, I must answer them with that of Euripides to Alcestides, a tragic writer : Alces- tides objecting that Euripides had only, in three days, composed three verses, whereas himself had written three hundi-ed : Thou tell'st truth (quoth he) ; but here 's the difference, thine shall only be read for three days, whereas mine shall continue three ages. Detraction is the sworn friend to ignorance : for mine own part, I have ever tnily cherish'd my good opinion of other men's worthy labours, especially of that full and heighten 'd stile of Master Chap- man, the labor'd and understanding works of Master Jonson, the no less worthy composures of the both worthily excellent Master Beaumont and Master Fletcher ; and lastly, (without wrong last to be named,) the right happy and copious industry' of Master Shakspeare, Master Decker, and Master Ileywood, wishing what I write may be read by their light ; protesting that, in the strength of mine ov,-n judgment, I know them so worthy, that tho' I rest silent in my own work, yet to most of theirs, I dare (without flat- tery) fix that of Martial : non norunt h One ax-row 's graz'd already : it were vain 1 To lose this, for that will ne'er be found again. i Francisco describes to Flamineo the grief of Cornelia dt the Funeral o/Marcello. Your reverend Mother Is grown a very old woman in two hours. 210 THE WHITE DEYIL. I found them winding of Marcello's corse ; And there is such a solemn melody, 'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies : Such as old grandames, watching by the dead, Were wont to outwear the nights with ; that, believe me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, They were so o'ercharg'd with water. Funeral Dirge for Marcello. IHis Mother sings it. Call for tlie Robin-red-breast, and the Wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The Ant, the Field-mouse, and the Mole, To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ; But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men, For with his nails he '11 dig them up again *. Folded Thoughts. Come, come, my Lord, untie your folded thoughts, And let them dangle loose as a bride's hair. Your sister 's poison'd. Dying Pi>inces. To see what solitariness is about dying Princes ! As heretofore they have unpeopled towns, divorced friends, and made great houses imhospitable ! so now, justice ! where are theu' flatterers now ? flatterei's are but the shadows of princes' bodies, the least thick cloud makes them invisible. Natural Death. thou soft natural death 1 that art joint twin To sweetest slumber ! — no rough-bearded Comet Stares on thy mild departure ; the dull Owl * I never saw any thing like this Dirge, except the Ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned Father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery ; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates. THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. 211 1 Beats not against thy casement ; the hoarse Wolf Scents not thy carrion. Pity winds thy corse, Whilst hoiTor waits on princes' ! Vow of Murder rebuked. Miserable creature, i If thou persist in this 'tis damnable. ^ Dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood, And not be tainted with a shameful fall ? Or like the black and melancholic yew-tree, Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves And yet to prosper ! Dying Man. j See see how firmly he doth fix his eye Upon the crucifix. Oh hold it constant. It settles his wild spirits : and so his eyes 1 Melt into tears. j Despa ir. I the cursed Devil, j Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice candied o'er ; despair, with gall and stibium, Yet we carouse it off. THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. By John Ford. Contention of a Bird and a Musician. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feign'd To glorify their Tempe, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came, and living private, AVithout acquaintance of moi-e 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. 212 THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. The sweetest and most i*avishing contention That art or nature ever were at strife in. 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 flocked about him, all stood silent, Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too. 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 down ; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she The nightingale did with her various notes Reply to. Some time thus spent, the young man gi'ew at last Into a pretty anger ; that a bird, Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice : To end the controversy, in a rapture, Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, So many voluntaries, and so quick. That there was curiosity and cunning. Concord in discord, lines of diff 'ring method Meeting in one full centre of delight. The bird (ordain'd to be Music's first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds : which when her warbUng throat Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute And brake her heai't. It was the quaintest sadness. To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of teai's. He looks upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, " Alas, poor creature, I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it. I THE LADIES TRIAL. 213 Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end : " and in that sorrow, As he was pashing it against a tree, I suddenly stept in. [This Story, which is originally to be met with in Strada's Pro- lusions, has been paraphrased in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose Phillips, and others : but none of those versions can at all com- pare for haiinony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's : It is as fine as any thing in Beaumont and Fletcher ; and almost equals the strife which it celebrates.] THE LADIES TRIAL. By John Ford. AuRiA, in the possession of Honors, Preferment, Fame, can find no peace in his mind tchile he thinks his Wife unchaste. j AURIA. AURELIO. , Auria. Count of Savona, Genoa's Admiral, ' Lord Governor of Corsica, enroll'd A Worthy of my country, sought and sued to, j Prais'd, courted, flatter'd ! — i My triumphs i Are echoed under every roof, the air I Is streightned with the sound, there is not room ' Enough to brace them in ; but not a thought ! Doth pierce into the grief that cabins here : Here through a creek, a little inlet, crawls A flake no bigger than a sister's thread. Which sets the region of my heart a fire. I had a kingdom once, but am depos'd j From all that royalty of blest content, j By a confed'racy 'twixt love and frailty. 1 Aiirelio. Glories in public view but add to misery, 1 Which travails in unrest at home. \ Auria. At home ! ] That home, Aurelio speaks of, I have lost : \ And which is worse, when I have roll'd about, Toil'd like a pilgrim, round this globe of earth, ■ 214 LOVE'S SACRIFICE. Wearied with care, and over- worn with age, Lodg'd iu the grave, I am not yet at home. There rots but half of me : the otlier part Sleeps, heaven knows where. Would she and I, my I mean, but what, alas, talk I of wife ? [wife The woman, would we had together fed On any out-cast parings coarse and mouldy, Not liv'd divided thus ! I 1 LOVE'S SACRIFICE. A Tragkdv. By John Ford. BiANCHA, Wife to Caraffa, Duke of Pavia, loves and is loved hy Fernando the Duke's favorite. She long resists his importunate suit; at length, she enters the room where he is sleeping, and aivakens him, to hear her confession of her love for him, BiANCHA. Ferdinand, sleeping. Bian. Resolve, and do ; 'tis done. What, are those Which lately were so over-drown'd in tears, [eyes, So easy to take rest ? happy man. How sweetly sleep hath seal'd up sorrows here ! But I will call him : what, my Lord, my Lord, My Lord Fernando Per. Who calls ? Bian. My Lord : Sleeping, or waking ? Fer. Ha, who is 't ? Bian. 'Tis I : Have you forgot my voice \ or is your ear But useful to your eye ? Fer. Madam the Duchess ! Bian. She, 'tis she ; sit up : Sit up and wonder, whiles my sorrow swell : : The nights are short and I have much to say. ' Fer. Is 't possible 'tis you ? \ Bian. 'Tis ])Ossible : ,j Why do you think I come ? ;i LOVE'S SACRIFICE. 21 J Fer. Why ? to crown joys, And make me mastei' of my best desires. Bian. 'Tis true, you guess aright ; sit up and Usten. With shame and passion now I must confess, Since first mine eyes beheld you, in my heart You have been only king. If there can be A violence in love, then I have felt That tyranny ; be record to my soul The justice which I for this folly fear. Fernando, in short words, howe'er my tongue Did often chide thy love, each word thou spak'st Was music to my ear : was never poor Poor wretched woman liv'd, that lov'd like me ; So truly, so unfeignedly. Fer.' Oh. Madam Bian. To witness that 1 speak is truth, look here ; Thus singly I adventure to thy bed, And do confess my weakness : if thou tempt'st My bosom to thy pleasures, I will yield. Fer. Perpetual happiness ! Bian. Now hear me out : When first CarafFa, Pavy's Duke, my Lord, Saw me, he lov'd me, and (without respect Of dower) took me to his bed and bosom, Advanc'd me to the titles I possess. Not mov'd by counsel, or remov'd by greatness : Which to requite, betwixt my soul and heaven I vow'd a vow to live a constant wife. I have done so : nor was there in the world A man created, could have broke that truth, For all the glories of the earth, but thou. But thou, Fernando. Do I love thee now ? Fer. Beyond imagination. Bian, True, I do. Beyond imagination : if no pledge Of love can instance what I speak is true, But loss of my best joys, here, here, Fernando, Be satisfied and ruin me. Fer. What do you mean 1 Bian. To give my body up to thy embraces ; 216 LOVE'S SACRIFICE. A pleasure that I never wish'd to thrive in Before this fatal minute : mark me now ; If thou dost spoil me of this robe of shame, By my best comforts here, I vow again, To thee, to heaven, to the world, to time. Ere yet the morning shall new christen day, I '11 kill myself. Fer. How, Madam, how ! Bian. I will : Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice ; what say ye ? Fer. Pish, do you come to try me ? tell me first, Will you but grant a kiss \ Bian. Yes, take it ; that. Or what thy heart can wish : I am all thine. Fer. Oh me come, come, how many women, pray. Were ever heard or read of, gi'anted love. And did as you protest you will ! Bian. Fernando ! {^Kneels. Jest not at my calamity : I kneel : By these dishevel'd hairs, these wretched tears, By all that 's good, if what I speak, my heart Vows not eternally ; then think, my Lord, Was never man sued to me I denied, Think me a common and most cunning whore. And let my sins be A\Titten on my grave, My name rest in reproof. Do as you list. Fer. I must believe ye ; yet I hope anon, When you are parted from me, you will say I was a good cold easy-spirited man. Nay, laugh at my simplicity : say, will ye 1 Bian. No ; by the faith I owe my bridal vows : But ever hold thee much much dearer far Than all my joys on earth ; by this chaste kiss. Fer. You have prevail'd : and heaven forbid that I Should by a wanton appetite profane This sacred temple. 'Tis enough for me. You 'U please to call me servant. Bian. Nay, be thine : Command my power, my bosom, and I '11 write This love within the tables of my heart. f PERKIN WARBECK. 217 Fer. Enough : I '11 master passion, and triumph In being conquer'd, adding to it this, In you my love as it begun shall end. Bian. The latter I new vow but day comes on : What now we leave unfinish'd of content, Each hour shall perfect up. Sweet, let us part. Fcr. Best Life, good rest. THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. By John Ford. Perkin Warbeck and his Followers are 6?/ Lord Dawbney presented to King Henry as Prisoners. Dawb. Life to the King, and safety fix his throne, I here present you, royal Sir, a shadow Of majesty, but in effect a substance Of pity ; a young man, in nothing grown To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy : Perkin ; the christian world's strange wonder ! King H. Dawbney, We observe no wonder ; I behold ('tis true) An ornament of nature, fine, and polisht, A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him. How came he to thy hands ? Daivh. From sanctuary At Bewley, near Southampton ; registred. With these few followers, for persons privileged. King H. I must not thank you, Sir ; you were to blame To infringe the liberty of houses sacred : Dare we be irreligious ? Dawb. Gracious Lord, They voluntarily resign'd themselves. Without compulsion. Kiyig H. So ? 'twas very well ; 'Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes, Young man, upon thyself and thy past actions. What revels in combustion through our kingdom VOL. I. L 218 PERKIN WARBECK, A frenzy of aspiring youth hath danc'd : Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt To break thy neck. Warb. But not my heart : my heart Will mount, till every di*op of blood be frozen By death's perpetual winter. If the sun Of majesty be darkned, let the sun Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse Lasting, and universal. Sir ; remember. There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond fNot aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly, For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's Court. Richard, who sway'd the sceptre, was reputed A tyrant then ; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day, When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore, At Milford Haven. Daiob. Whither speeds his boldness ? Check his rude tongue, great Sir. King H. let him range : The player 's on the stage still ; 'tis his part : He does but act. What follow'd ? Warh. Bosworth field : Where at an instant, to the world's amazement, A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied : Fate wliich crowu'd these attempts, when least assured, Might have befriended others, like resolv'd. [gundy, King H. A pretty gallant ! thus your Aunt of Bur- Your Duchess Aunt, iuform'd her nephew ; so The lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded Into familiar dialogue, oft rehears'd. Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now receiv'd for truth. Warh. Truth in her pure simplicity wants art To put a feigned blush on ; scorn weai's only Such fashion, as commends to gazers' eyes Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath The sphere of majesty : in such a court Wisdom and gravity are proper robes. By which the sovereign is best distinguish'd From zanies to his greatness. PERKIN WARBECK. 219 King H. Sirrah, shift Youi" antick pageantry, and now appear ' In your own nature ; or you '11 taste the danger Of fooling out of season. Wo.rh. I expect No less than what severity calls justice, And politiciana safety ; let such beg, j As feed on alms : but if there can be mercy 1 In a protested enemy, then may it ■ Descend to these poor creatures *, whose engagements To the bettering of their fortunes, have incurr'd j A loss of all : to them if any charity \ Flow from some noble orator, in death ] I owe the fee of thankfulness. ■ King H. So brave ? What a bold knave is this ! , We trifle time with follies. i Urswick, command the Dukeling, and these fellowst, j To Digby the Lieutenant of the Tower : j With safety let them be convey'd to London. j It is our pleasure, no uncivil outrage, 1 Taunts, or abuse, be suff'er'd to their persons : ] They shall meet fairer law than they deserve. \ Time may restore their wits, whom vain ambition j Hath many years distracted. I WarJ). Noble thoughts Meet freedom in captivity. The Tower : Our childhood's dreadful nui'sery ! King H. Was ever so much impudence in forgery % The custom sure of being sty I'd a King, \ Hath fast'ned in his thought that he is such. Warbeck is led to his death. Oxford. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed To wait on ye in death. Warb. Why, Peers of England, l We '11 lead 'em on courageously. I read ! A triumph over tyranny upon i Their several foreheads. Faint not in the momeut j Of victory ! our ends, and Warwick's head, j * His Followers. L 2 ! 220 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WHORE. Innocent Warwick's head, (foi' we are prologue But to his tragedy) conclude the wonder Of Henry's fears : and then the glorious race Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines In this last issue male. Heaven be obey'd, Impovei-ish time of its amazement, friends ; And we will prove as trusty in our payments, As prodigal to nature in our debts. Death ! pish, 'tis but a sound ; a name of air ; A minute's storm ; or not so much : to tumble From bed to bed, be massacred alive By some physicians for a month or two, In hope of freedom from a fever's torments, Might stagger manhood ; here, the pain is past Ere sensibly 'tis felt. Be men of spirit ; Spurn coward passion : so illustrious mention Shall blaze our names, and style us Kings o'er Death. 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WHORE : A Tragedy. By John Ford. GiovAN.vr, a Young Gentleman of Parma, entertains an iUicit love for his Sister. He asks counsel o/Bonavkntura, a Friar *. Friar. Giovaxnt. Friar, Dispute no more in this, for know, young man. These are no school-points ; nice philosophy May tolerate unlikely arguments, But heaven admits no jests ! wits that presumed On wit too much, by striving how to prove There was no God, with foolish grounds of art, Discover'd first the nearest way to hell ; And fill'd the world with devilish atheism. Such questions, youth, are fond ; far better 'tis To bless the sun, than reason why it shines ; * The good Friar in this Play is evidently a Copy of Friar LaTvrence in Romeo and Juliet. He is the same Idnd Physician to the Souls of his young Charges ; but he has more desperate Patients to deal with. •TIS PI I Y SnE 'S A WHORE. 221 Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun. No more ; I may not hear it. Glo. Gentle fatlier, To you have I unelasp'd my burtlien'd soul, Emptied the store-house of my thoughts and heart, Made myself poor of secrets ; have not left Another word untold, which hath not spoke All what I ever durst, or think, or know ; And yet is hei-e the comfort I shall have ? Must I not do what all men else may, love ? Friar. Yes, you may love, fau' son. Gio. Must I not px-aise That beauty which, if framed anew, the Gods Would make a God of, if they had it there ; And kneel to it, as I do kneel to them ? Friar. Why, foolish madman ! Gio. Shall a peevish sound, A customary form, from man to man, Of brother and of sister, be a bar 'Twixt my perpetual happiness and me ? Friar. Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art lost, Gio. No, father : in your eyes I see the change Of pity and compassion : from your age, As from a sacred oracle, distils The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man, What cure shall give me ease in these extremes 1 Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin : For thou hast moved a majesty above With thy unguarded almost blasphemy. Gio. O do not speak of that, dear confessor. Friar. Art thou, my son, that miracle of wit, Who once within these three months wert esteem'd A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia I 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. Giovanni, hast thou left the schools 222 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WHORE. Of knowledge, to converse with lust and death ? Foi' death waits on thy lust. Look through the And thou shalt see a thousand faces shine [world, r.Iore glorious than this idol thou adorest. Leaveher, 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 flows and ebbs, than to dissuade my vows. Friar. Then I have done, and in thy wilful flames Already see thy ruin ! heaven is just. Yet hear my counsel ! Gio. As a voice of life. Friar. Hie to thy father's house, there lock thee fast Alone within thy chamber, then fall down On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground ; Cry to thy heart, wash every word thou utter'st In tears, and (if 't be possible) of blood : Beg heaven to cleanse the leprosy of lust That rots thy soul ; acknowledge what thou art, A wretch, a worm, a nothing : weep, sigh, pray Three times a day, and three times every niglit ; For seven days' space do this, then, if thou find'st No change in thy desires, return to rae ; I 'U think on remedy. Pray for thyself x\t home, whilst I pray for thee here ; away. My blessing with thee we have need to pray. GrovANXi discloses his Passion to his Sister Annabella. — Thep compare their unhappy Loves. Anna. Do you mock me, or flatter me ? [F{e has been praising her beauty. Gio. If you would see a beauty more exact Than art can counterfeit, or nature frame. Look in your glass and there behold your own. Anno.. you are a trim youth. Gio. Here. [Offers his dag fjer to her. Anna. What to do ? Gio. And here 's my breast. Strike home, Hip up my bosom ; there thou shalt behold A heart, in which is writ the truth I speak. W hy stand you ? Anna. Are you in earnest l 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WIIORE. 223 1 Gio. Yes, most earnest. j You cannot love. Anna. Whom ? Gio. Me. My tortur'd soul Hath felt affliction in the heat of death. i Annabella, I am quite undone, I The love of thee, my sister, and the view Of thy immortal beauty, have untuned All harmony both of my rest and life. Why do you not strike I ; Anna. Forbid it, my just fears, I If this be true 'twere fitter I were dead, I Gio. True, Annabella ! 'tis no time to jest; ' 1 have too long suppressed my hidden flames, That almost have consum'd rne : I have spent Many a silent night in sighs and gi'oans, Ean over all my thoughts, despis'd my fate, Eeasou'd against the reasons of my love, E'one all that smooth-cheek'd vii-tue could advise, j But found all bootless : 'tis my destiny j That you must either love, or I must die. ! An'iKi. Comes this in sadness from you k \ Gio. Let some mischief : Befall me soon, if I dissemble aught. ; Anna. You are my brother, Giovanni. i Gio. You 1 My sister, Annabella, I know this : j And could afford you instance why to love < So much the more for this. — He gives some sophistical Reasons, and resumes. Must I now live or die ? Anna. Live : thou hast won i 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 tell thee now) j For every sigh that thou hast spent for me, 1 have sigh'd ten ; for every tear shed twenty : \ And not so much for that 1 lov'd, as that j I durst not say I lov'd, nor scarcely think it. i Gio. Let not this music be a dream, ye gods, For pity's sake 1 beg ye. j 224 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WHORE. Anna. On my knees, \_She hieeU. 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, [Re hmels. Sister, even by my mother's dust, I charge you, Do not betray me to your mirth or hate ; Love me, or kill me, sister. Anna. You mean good sooth, then 1 Gio. In good truth I do ; And so do you, I hope : say, I 'ra in earnest. Anna. I '11 swear it ; and I. Gio. And I. I would not change this minute for Elysium. Annabella proves pregnant by her Brother. Sorano, her Hus- hand, to whom she is newly married, discovers that she is pregnant, but cannot make her con/ess by whom. At length by means o/ Vasques, his servant, he comes to the truth of it. He feigns forgiveness aiid reconcilement with his Wifi : and makes a sumptuous Feast to which are invited Anna- bella 's old Father, with Giovanni, and all the chief CvA- zens in Parma ,- meaning to C7itrap Giovanni by that bcit to his death.— AssABELLA suspects his drift. Giovanni. Annabella. Gio. What, chang'd so soon ? does the fit come on you, to prove treacherous To your past vows and oaths ? Anna. Why should you jest At my calamity, without all sense Of the approaching dangers you are in 1 Gio. What danger 's half so great as thy revolt ! Thou art a faithless sister, else thou know'st, Malice or any treachery beside Would stoop to my bent brows : why, I hold fate Clasp'd in my fist, and could command the course Of time's eternal motion, had'st thou been One thought m.ore steady than an ebbing sea. Anna. Brother, dear brother, know what I have And know that now there 's but a dining time [been ; 'Twixt us and our confusion : let 's not waste These precious houx*s in vain and useless speech. 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WIIORE. 225 Alas, these gay attires were not put on But to some end ; this sudden solemn feast Was not ordain'd to riot and 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 a 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 consumed to ashes in a minute. Anna. So I have read too. Gio. But 'twere somewhat strange To see the waters burn. Could I believe This might be true, I could believe as well Thei-e might be hell or heaven. Anna. That 's most certain. But, Good brother, for the present, how do you mean To free yourself from danger ? some way think How to escape. I 'ra sure the guests are come. Gio. Look up, l(jok here ; what see you in my face ? Anna. Distraction and a troubled conscience. Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath yet look, What see you in mine eyes ? Anna. Methinks you weep. Gio. I do indeed ; these are the funeral tears Shed on your grave : these furrow'd up my cheeks. When first I 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 niglit, 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 shew a matchless beauty to the world. Which in an instant, ere it scarce was seen, The jealous destuiies requiT'd again. L 3 226 'TIS PITY SHE 'S A WHORE. Pray, Annabellaypray ; since we must part, Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne Of innocence and sanctity in heaven. Pray, pray, my sister. Anna. Then I see your drift. Ye blessed angels, guard me ! Gio. Give me your hand. How sweetly life doth run In these well-color'd veins ! how constantly This pulse doth premise health ! But I could chide With Nature for this cunning flattery ! Forgive me. Anna. With my heart. Gio. Farewell. Anna. Will you he 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. Anna. What means this ? \_Stahs her, Gio. To save thy fame. Thus die, and die by me, and by my hand ; Revenge is mine, honor doth love command. Anna. Forgive him, heaven, and me my sins. Fare- well. Brother unkind, unkind [Dies. [Sir Thomas Browne in the last Chapter of his Enquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors, rehukes such Authors as have chosen to relate prodigious and nameless Sins. The Chapter is entitled, Of come Relations u-hose Truth ice fear. His reasoning is solemn and fine. — " Lastly, as there are many Relations whereto we can- not assent, and make some doubt thereof, so there are divers others whose verities we fear, and heartily wish there were no truth therein. INIany other accounts like these Me meet sometimes in Historj-, scandalous unto Christianity, and even unto humanity ; whose not only verities but relations honest minds do deprecate. For of sins heteroclital, and such as want either name or prece- dent, there is oft-times a sin even in their histories. We desire no records of such enormities ; sins should be accounted new, that so they may be esteemed monstrous. They omit of monstrosity, as they fall from their rarity : for men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and foolishly conceive they diride a sin in its Bociety. The pens of men may sufficiently expatiate without these singularities of villainy : for, as they increase the hatred of we in some, so do they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And THE BROKEN HEART. 227 this is one thing that may make latter ages worse than were the former : foF the vicious example of ages past, poison the curiosity of these present, affording a hint of sin unto seduceable spirits, and soliciting those unto the imitation of them, whose heads were never so perversely principled as to invent them. In things of this nature silence' commendeth History ; 'tis the veniable part of things lost, wherein there must never rise a Pancii'ollus * nor re- main any register but that of Hell."] THE BROKEN HEART: A Tragedy, By John Ford. Iteocles l0ves Calantha, Princess of Sparta ; and would have his sister Fbnthba plead _/or him ivith the Princess. She objects to him her own wretched condition, made miserable by a Match, into ivhich he forced her ivilh Bassanes, when she was precontracted by her dead Father's Will, and by inclination, to OmirLus ; but at last she consents. Ithocles. Penthea. Ith. Sit nearer, sister to me, nearer yet ; We had one father, in one womb took life, Were brought up twins together, jet have Hv'd At distance like two strangers. I could wish, That the first pillow whereon I was cradled Had prov'd to me a grave. Pen. You had been happy : Then had you never known that sin of life Which blots all following glories with a vengeance ; For forfeiting the last will of the dead, 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 lover-blest heart, to grind it into dust ; For which mine 's now a breaking. Pen. Not yet, heaven, I do beseech thee : first let some wild fires Scorch, not consume it ; may the heat be cherish'd With desires infinite but hopes impossible. * ^^^lo wrote Be Antiquis Depcrditis, or of the Lost luventione of Antiquity. 2-28 THE BROKEN HEART. Itli. Wrong' d soul, thy pi'ayers are heard. Pen. Here, lo, I breathe, A miserable creature, led to ruin By an unnatural brother. Itli. I consume In languishing affections for that trespass, Yet cannot die. Pen. The handmaid to the wages, The untroubled * of couuti-y toil, drinks streams. With leaping kids, and with the bleating lambs, And so allays her thirst secure ; while I Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears. Itli. The labourer doth eat his coarsest bread, Earn'd with his sweat, and lies him down to sleep ; While every bit X touch turns in digestion To gall, as bitter as Penthea's curse. Put nie 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 iu friendship, be again Brother and sistex' 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 mirtle, if thy pity Unto a yielding brother's pressure lend One finger but to ease it. Pen. O no more. Itli. Death waits to waft me to the Stygian banks. And free me from this chaos of my bondage ; And till thou wilt forgive, I must endure. Pen. Wlio is the saint you serve ? Itli. Friendship, or nearness Of birth, to any but my sister, durst not * A word seems defective here. THE BROKEN HEART. 220 Have mov'd that question : as a secret, sister, I dare not murmur to myself. Pen. Let me, By your new protestations I conjure ye, Partake her name. I Ith. Her name 'tis 'tis— I dare not — j Pen. All your respects are forg'd, I Ith. They are not — Peace. — | Calantha is the princess, the king's daughter, ' Sole heir of Sparta. Me most miserable, | Do I now love thee ? For my injuries, j Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip 1 My treasons to the king's ears. Do ; Calantha i Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus my nearest. ' Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not j Split even your very soul to see her father j 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 reconciled. ■ Alas, Sir, being children, but two branches i Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide. j Have comfort, you may find it. i Ith. Yes, in thee, \ Only in thee, Penthea mine. i Pen. If sorrows \ Have not too much dull'd my infected brain, 1 I '11 cheer invention for an active strain. \ Penthea recommends her Brother as a dying bequest tu the Princess. • Calaijtha. Penthea. Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted : The opportunity you sought, and might i At all times have commanded. 1 Pen. 'Tis a benefit I Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for. j My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes Bemaining to run down ; the sands are spent : 230 THE BROKEN HEART. 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 *, By varied pleasures sweetned in the mixture, But tragical in issue. 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 I'emedy Must be a winding sheet, a fold of lead, And some untrod on corner in the earth. Not to detain your expectation, Princess ; I have an humble suit. Cal. Speak, and enjoy it. Pen. Vouchsafe then to be my Executrix ; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I 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 mast not live ; I hope I cannot. Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness ; Thou turnst me too much woman. Pen. Her fair eyes Melt into passion : then I have assurance Encoui'agiug my boldness. In this paper My will was character'd ; which you, with pardon, Shall now know from mine own mouth. Cal. Talk on, prithee ; It is a px'etty earnest. THE BROKEN HEART, 231 Pen. I have left me But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is My youth ; for though 1 am much old in griefs, In years I am a child. CaJ. To whom that ? Pen. To virgin wives ; such as abuse not wedlock By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love Rather than ranging of their blood : and next, To married maids ; such as prefer the number Of honorable 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 chanty 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, ^ladam, Is dearly precious to me ; you must use The best of your discretion, to employ This gift as I intend it. Cal. Do not doubt me. Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart ; Long I have liv'd without it : but in stead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir, By service bound, and by aftection vow'd, I do bequeath in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles. Cal. What saidst thou ? Pen. Impute not, heav'n-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 ; 232 THE BROKEN HEART. How like the ghost of what he late appear'd He moves before you. Col. 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 divme looks, but with low-bent thoughts Accusing such presumption : as for words, He dares not utter any but of sei'vice ; Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a Princess In sweetness as in blood ; give him his doom, Or raise him up to comfort. Cal. What new change Appears in my behaviour, that thou darest Tempt my displeasui-e ? Pen, I must leave the world, To revel in Elysium ; and 'tis just To wish my l)rother 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. 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 i-emember I am 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 *. IVhile Calantha, (Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the Nup. tials of Pkophilus and Euphranea at Court v>Uh Music and Dancing, one enters to inform her that the King her Father, is Bead ; a second brings (tie News that Penthea * It is necessary to the understanding of the Scene which fol- lows, to know that the Princess is won by these solicitations of Penthea, and by the real deserts of Ithocles, to requite his love, and that they are contracted with the consent of the King her Father. THE BROKEN HEART, 233 (Sister to Ithocles) is Starved ; and a third comes to tell that Ithoclbs himself (to whom the Frincesa is contracted) is cruelly murdered. Calantha. Prophilus. EtPHRANEA. Nkap.chus. Ckotolov. Christalla. Philema, and others. 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 : {To Nearchus). Dear cousin, hand you the bride; the bridegroom must be Intrusted to my courtship : be not jealous, Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. Fall to our dance. They Dance the first Change, during tchich Armostes enters. Arm. The King your Father's dead. Cal. To the other change. Arm. Is it possible 1 They Dance again .- Bassanes enters, Bass. O Madam, Penthea, poor Penthea 's starv'd. Cal. Beshrew thee. Lead to the next. Bass. Amazement dulls my senses. They Dance again : Orgilus enters. Org. Bi'ave Ithocles is murder'd, niurder'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 thunder-stx'uck. 234 THE BROKEN HEART. Hiey Dance the last Change. The Llusic ceases. Cal. So, let us breathe awhile : hath not this motion Rais'd fresher colour on your cheeks ? \_To Nearchus. Near. Sweet Princess, A perfect pui'ity of blood enamels The beauty of your white. Cal. We all look chearfully : And, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures Before their own sour censure, to interrupt The custom of this ceremony bluntly. Near. None dares, Lady. 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 you Your Mother's wedding-inng, which here I tender. Crot. Jilost strange. Cal. Peace crown his ashes : we are Queen then. Near. Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign Queen. All. 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 murder'd. Cal. By whose hand ? Org. By mine : this weapon Was instrument to my revenge. The reasons f Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then Never hv'd gentleman of greater merit, Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom. Cat. Wc begin our reign * "Wife to Bassanes, t Penthea (sister to Ithocles) was betrothed at first to Orgilus, but compelled by her brother to marry Bas-anes : by which forced match she becoming miserable, refused to take food, and died. THE BROKEN HEART. 235 With a first act of justice : thy confession, Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence ; But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence Shall be excus'd : give, Crotolon*, a blessing To thy lost son ; Euphraneaf, take a fai-ewell : And both begone. (To Orgilus.) Bloody relater of thy stains in blood ; For that thou hast reported him (whose fortunes And hfe by thee are both at once snatch'd from him) With honorable 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. Orr/. 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 owed to nature One time or other. Use dispatch, my lords. — We '11 suddenly prepare our Coronation. [Fxif. Arm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never Her female pity. [touch on Bass. She has a raasculme spirit. The Coronation of the Princess takes place after the ejcccution of Orgilus.— S/j€ enters the Temple, dressed in White, having a Crown on her Head. She kneels at the Altar. TJie dead Body o/Ithocles (u-hom she should have married) is home on a Hearse, in rich Robes, having a Crown on his Head ; and placed by the side of the Altar, where she kneels. Her devotions ended, she 7-ises.— Calantha. Nearchus. Prophilus. Crotolox. Eassanes Armostes. Euphranea, AMELua Chbistalla, Ph;le.^ia< and others. Cal. Our orisons are heard, the gods are merciful. * His Father. t His Sister. 236 THE BROKEN HEART. 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 vii-gin ; Who have been ever fortunate in princes Of masculine and stirring composition. A woman has enough to govern wisely Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions. A nation warlike, and inured to practice Of policy and labour, cannot brook A feminate authority : we therefore Command your counsel, how you may advise us In choosing of a husband, whose abilities Can better guide this kingdom. Near. Royal Lady, Your law is in your will. Arm. We have seen tokens Of constancy too lately to mistrust it. Crot. Yet if your Highness settle on a choice By your own judgment both allow'd and liked of, Sparta may grow in power and proceed To an increasing height. Col. Cousin of Argos. Near. Madam. Cal. Were I presently To choose you for my Lord, I '11 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 Be Sparta's marshall : The multitudes of high employments could not But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, Groneas and Lemophil, with worthy pensions, Should wait upon your person in your chamber. I would bestow Christalla on Amelus ; She '11 prove a constant wife : and Philema Should into Vesta's Temple. THE BROKEN HEART. 237 Bass. This is a testament ; It sounds not like conditions on a marriage. Nea7\ All this should be perform'd. Cal. Lastly, for Prophilus, He should be (cousin) solemnly invested In all those honors, titles, and preferments. Which his dear friend and my neglected husband Too short a time enjoy 'd. Proph. I am unworthy To live in your remembrance. Eu2)h. Excellent Lady. [band ? Near. Madam, what means that word, neglected hus Cal. Forgive me : Now I turn to thee, thou shadow [r; Whose mother dying left her very young I Unto her father's charge, who carefully ] Did breed her up until she came to years j Of womanhood, and then provides a match i Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. But she, who to another shepherd had, Call'd Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, Could not by all her father's means be wrought j To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, I Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell \ As inmates both together, walking forth i With other maids to fish upon the shore ; ' Estrays apart, and leaves her company. To entertain herself with her own thoughts : ] And wanders on so far, and out of sight, 1 240 HYMEN'S TRIUMPH. As she at length was suddenly surpris'd By pirates, who lay lurking underneath Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize. And notwithstanding all her piteous cries, Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force Into their ship, which in a little creek Hard by at anchor lay. And presently hoisted sail and so away. When she was thus inshipp'd and woefully Had cast her eyes about to view that hell Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd, She spies a woman sitting with a child Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife. To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies ; " woman, if that name of a woman may " Move you to pity, pity a poor maid ; " The most distressed soul that ever breath'd ; " And save me from the hands of those fierce men. " Let me not be defil'd and made unclean, " Dear woman, now, and I will be to you " The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress serv'd ; " Never poor soul shall be more dutiful, " To do whatever you command, than I. " No toil will I refuse ; so that I may " Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, " Which is all I will ever seek. For know " It is not fear of death lays me thus low, " But of that stain will make my death to blush." All this would nothing move the woman's heart. Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought ; " woman, by that infant at your bi'east, " And by the pains it cost you in the birth, " Save me, as ever you desire to have " Your babe to joy and prosper in the world : *' Which will the better prosper sure, if you " Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid ! " Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too The infant's feet ; and, " Oh, sweet babe," (said she) " Couldst thou but to thy mother speak for me, **' And crave her to have pity on ray case, HYMEN'S TRIUMPH. 241 " Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much " Although I cannot ; child, ha, could'st thou speak." The infant, whether by her touching it, Ur by instinct of nature, seeing her weep, Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks Upon the mother, then on her again. And then it cries, and then on either looks : Which she perceiving ; "blessed child," (said she) " Although thou canst not speak, yet dost thou cry " Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child, " Dear mother, it 's for me it cries, " It 's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries, " Save me at his request from being defil'd : " Let pity move thee, that thus moves the child." The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude. Yet having veins of nature, could not be But pierceable, did feel at length the point Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears, (Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought Her husband to bestow on her that prize, With safeguard of her body at her will. The captain seeing his wife, the child the nymph. All crying to him in this piteous sort, Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears ; And so they wept all four for company : And some beholders stood not with dry eyes ; Such passion wrought the passion of their prize. Never was there pardon, that did take Condemned from the block more joyful than This grant to her. For all her misery Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd, By being thus saved from impurity : And from the woman's feet she would not part, Nor trust her hand to be without some hold Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd Within the ship, which in few days ai'rives At Alexandria, whence these pirates were ; And there this woeful maid for two years space Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife, (Who would not lose the benefit of her VOL. I. M 242 HYMEN'S TRIUMPH. Attendance, for her profit otherwise) But daring not in such a place as that To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd That she might be apparel'd like a boy ; And so she was, and as a boy she served. At two years end her mistress sends her forth Unto the port for some commodities, Wliich whilst she sought for, going up and down, She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk. Who spake that language the Arcadians did, And were next neighbours of one continent. To them, all wrapt with passion, down she kneels, Tells them she was a poor distressed boy, Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took, And made a slave in Egypt ; and besought Them, as they fathers were of children, or Did hold their native country dear, they would Take pity on her, and relieve her youth From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd : For which she hop'd that she had friends ahve Would thank them one day, and rew^ard them too ; If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do. The merchants moved with pity of her case. Being ready to depart, took her with them. And landed her upon her country coast : Where when she found herself, she prostrate falls, Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods, Thanks them who had been her deliverers, And on she trudges through the desart woods, Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep, Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs, Sustained only by the force of love ; Until she came unto the native plains. Unto the fields where first she drew her breath. There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air. Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all : And, " Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she, " Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, " I am the same I was to thee ; a pure, " A chaste, and spotless maid." ALA [I AM: A Tragedy. By Fulke Greville, Lokd Brooke. Alaham, second Son to the King 0/ Ormus, deposes his Father : whose Eyes, and the Eyes of his elder Brother Zophi, (acting upon a maxim of Oriental Policy), he causes to be put out. They, blind, and fearing for their Lives, wander about. In this Extremity they are separately met by the King's Daughter C^elica, toho conducts them to places of Refuge ; hiding her Father ar.iid the Vaults of a Temple, and guiding her Brother to take Sanctuary at the Altar. Ki.vG. C.?:lica. King. Ctelica ; thou only child, whom I repent Not yet to have begot, thy work is vaiu : Thou run'st against my destiny's intent. Fear not ray fall ; the steep is fairest plain ; And error safest guide unto his end, Who nothing but mischance can have to friend. We parents are but natui*e's nursery ; When our succession springs, then ripe to fall. Privation unto age is natural. Age there is also in a prince's state, Which is contempt, grown of misgoveruraent ; Where love of change begetteth princes' hate : For hopes must wither, or grow violent, If fortune bind desires to one estate. Then mark ! Blind, as a man : scorn'd, as a king ; A father's kindness loath'd, and desolate : Life without joy, or light : what can it bring, But inward horror unto outward hate 1 O safety ! thou art then a hateful thing, When children's death assures the father's state. No, safe I am not, though my son were slain, My frailty would beget such sons again. Besides, if fatal be the heavens' will. Repining adds more force to destiny ; Whose iron wheels stay not on fleshly wit, M 2 244 ALAHAM. But headlong run down steep necessity. And as in danger, we do catch at it That comes to help ; and unadvisedly Oft do our friends to our misfortune knit : So with the harm of those who would us good Is destiny impossibly withstood. Cselica, then cease ; impoi'tune me no more : My son, my age, the state where tilings are now, Require my death. Who would consent to live Where love cannot revenge, nor truth forgive ? CoElica. Though fear see nothing but extremity, Yet danger is no deep sea, but a ford, Where they that yield can only drowned be. lu wrongs, and wounds. Sir, you are too remiss. To thrones a passive nature fatal is. King. Occasion to my son hath turn'd her face ; i\Iy inward wants all outward strengths betray ; And so make that impossible I may. Ccelica. Yet live : Live for the state. King. Whose ruins glasses are, Wherein see errors of myself I must, And hold my life of danger, shame, and care. Ccelica. When fear propounds, with loss men ever choose. King. Nothing is left me but myself to lose, Ccelica. And is it nothing then to lose the state ? King. Where chance is ripe, there counsel comes too late. Cselica, by all thou ow'st the gods and me, I do conjure thee, leave me to my chance. What 's past was error's way ; the truth it is, Wherein I wi'etch can only go amiss. If nature saw no cause of sudden ends, She, that but one way made to draw our breath, Would not have left so many doors to death. Ccelica. Yet, Sir, if weakness be not such a sand As neither wrong nor counsel can manure ; Choose and resolve what death you will endure. Kin4j. This sword, thy hands, may offer up my breatli And plague my life's remissness in my death. ALA HAM. 245 Ccdica. Unto that duty if these hands be born, I must think God, and truth, wei-e names of scorn. Again, this justice were if Ufe were loved. Now merely grace ; since death doth but forgive A life to you, which is a death to live. Pain must displease tliat satisfies offence. King. Chance hath left death no more to spoil but sense. \ Ccdica. Then sword, do justice' office thorough me : | I offex- more than that he hates to thee. i lOffa-s to kill herself. 1 KiiKj. Ah ! stay thy hand. My state no equal hath, | And much more matchless my strange vices be : | One kind of death becomes not thee and me. Kings' plagues by chance or destiny should fall ; Headlong he perish must that ruins all. Ccelica. No cliff or rock is so precipitate. But down it eyes can lead the blind away ; Without me live, or with me die you may. j King. Cselica, and wilt thou Alaham exceed ? { His cruelty is death, you torments use ; I He takes my crown, you take myself from me ; i A prince of this fall'n empire let me be. j Ccelica. Then be a king, no tyrant of thyself : i Be ; and be what you will : what nature lent j Is still in hers, and not our government. ' King. If disobedience, and obedience both, Still do me hurt ; in what strange state am I ? ; But hold thy course : it well becomes my blood, j To do their parents mischief with their good, \ Ccelica. Yet, Sir, hark to the poor oppressed tears The just men's moan, that suffer by your fall ; A prince's charge is to protect them all. And shall it nothing be that I am yours ? The world without, my heart within, doth know, i I never had unkind, unreverent powers. . If thus you yield to Alaham's treachery. He ruins you : 'tis you, Sir, ruin me. King. Ccelica, call up the dead ; awake the blind ; ; Turn back the time ; bid winds tell whence they come : ' As vainly strength speaks to a broken mind. 246 ALAHAM. Fly from me, Cselica, bate all 1 do : ^Misfortunes have in blood successions too. Ccellca. Will you do that which Alaham cannot 1 He hath no good ; you have no ill, but he : This mar-right yielding 's honor's tyTanny. King. Have I not done amiss ? am I not ill, That ruin'd have a king's authority % And not one king alone : since princes all F.eel part of tliose scorns, whereby one doth fall. Treason against me cannot treason be : All laws have lost authority in me. Ccdica. The laws of power chaiu'd to men's humors be. The good have conscience ; the ill (like instruments) Are, in the hands of wise authority, Moved, divided, used, or laid down ; Still, with desire, kept subject to a crown. Stir up all states, all spirits : hope and fear. Wrong and revenge, are current every where. King. Put down my son : for that must be the way: A father's shame : a prince's tyranny ; The sceptre ever shall misjudged be. Ca'Iica. Let them fear rumour that do work amiss ; Blood, torments, death, horrors of cruelty. Have time, and place. Look through these skins of fear, Which still persuade the better side to bear. And since thy son thus trait'rously conspires, Let him not prey on all thy race, and thee : Keep ill example from postei'ity. Ki7ig. Danger is come, and must I now unarm, And let in hope to weaken resolution ? I'assion ! be thou my legacy and will ; To thee I give my life, crown, reputation ; My pomps to cloud ; and (as foi^lorn with men) My strength to women ; hoping this alone, Though fear'd, sought, and a king, to live unknown. Caslica, all these to thee ; do thou bestow This living darkness, wherein I do go. Calica. My soul now joys. Doing breathes horror out. Absence roust be our first step. Let us fly : A pause in rage makes Alaham to doubt ; Which doubt may stir in people hope, and fear, ALAIIAM. 247 With love, or hate, to seek you every where. For princes' lives are fortune's misery : As dainty sparks, which till men dead do know, To kindle for himself each man doth blow. But hark ! what 's this ? Malice doth never sleep : I hear the spies of power drawing near. Sir, follow me : Misfortune's worst is come ; Her strength is change : and change yields better doom. Choice now is past. Hard by there is a pile, Built under color of a sacrifice ; If God do grant, it is a place to save ; If God denies, it is a ready grave. ZoPHi appears. Ccelica. What see I here ? more spectacles of woe ! And are my kindred only made to be Agents and patients in iniquity ? Ah forlorn wTetch ! ruin's example right ! Lost to thyself, not to thy enemy, Whose hand even while thou fliest thou fall'st into ; And with thy fall thy father dost undo. Save one I may : Nature would save them both ; But Chance hath many wheels. Rage many eyes. What, shall I then abandon Innocents * ? Not help a helpless brother thrown on me ? Is nature narrow to adversity ? No, no. Our God left duty for a law ; Pity, at large ; love, in authority ; Despair, in bonds ; fear, of itself in a^\ e : That rage of time, and power's strange liberty, Oppressing good men, might resistance find : Nor can I to a brother be less kind. Dost thou, that canst not see, hope to escape ? Disgrace can have no friend ; contempt no guide ; Right is thy guilt ; thy judge iniquity ; Which desolation casts on them that see. ZopJd. Make calm thy rage : pity a ghost distrest : My right, my liberty, I freely give : Give him, that never harni'd thee, leave to live. Ccelica. Nay, God, the world, thy parents it deny ; * Zophi is represented as a prince of weak understanding. 248 ALAHAJI. A brother's jealous heart ; usurped might Grows friends with all the world, except thy right. Zophi. Secure thyself. Exile me from this coast : My fault, suspicion is ; my judge, is fear ; Occasion, with myself, away I bear. Ccelica. Fly unto God : for in humanity Hope there is none. Reach me thy fearful hand : I am thy sister ; neither fiend, nor spy Of tjTant's rage ; but one that feels despair Of thy estate, which thou dost only fear. Kneel down ; embrace this holy mystery ; A refuge to the worst for rape and blood, And yet, I fear, not hallow'd for the good. Zophi. Help, God ! defend thine altar ! since thy In earth, leaves innocents no other right. [might, Ccelica. Eternal God ! that see'st thyself in us, If vows be more than sacrifice of lust, Rais'd from the smokes of hope and fear in us, Protect this Innocent, calm Alaham's rage ; By miracles faith goes from age to age. Affection trembles ; reason is opprest ; Nature, methinks, doth her own entrails tear : In resolution ominous is fear. Alaham causes Search to be made after his Father and Brother. Zophi is discovered, and C.elica ; who, being questioned by Alaham ivhere she has hid her Father, dissembles as though she thought that the King was dead ,- but being threatened with the rack, her Exclamations call her Father from his hiding-place ; ivho, together with her, and her Brother Zophi, arc sentenced by Alaham to the Flames. Alaham. Attendants. Alaham. Sirs, seek the city, examine, torture, rack ; Sanctuaries none let there be ; make darkness known ; Pull down the roofs, dig, burn, put all to wrack ; And let the guiltless for the guilty groan. Change, shame, misfortune, in their 'scaping lie, And in their finding our prosperity. He sees C.t:lica, Good fortune welcome ! We have lost our care. And found our loss : Ctelica distract I see. The Idng is near : She is her father's eyes. He sees ZopHr. Behold ! the forlorn wretch, half of my fear, Takes sanctuary at lioly altar's feet : Lead him apart, examine, force, and try ; These bind the subject not the monarchy. j Cajlica ! awake : that God of whom you crave Is deaf, and only gives men what they have. j Ccelica. Ah cruel wretch ! guilty of parent's blood ! Might I, poor innocent, my father free, My murther yet were less impiety. But on ; devour : fear only to be good : Let us not scape : thy glory then doth rise, . When thou at once thy house dost sacrifice. | Alaham. Tell me where thy father is. Ccelica. bloody scorn, i Must he be kill'd again that gave thee breath ? ' Is duty nothing else in thee but death 1 Alaham. Leave off this mask ; deceit is never wise ; Though he be blind, a king hath many eyes. Ccelica. twofold scorn ! God be reveng'd for me. Yet since my father is destroy'd by thee. Add still more scorn, it sorrow multiplies. Alaham. Passions are learn'd, not born within the That method keep : Order is quiet's art. [heart. Tell where he is : for look w^hat love conceals, Pain out of nature's labyrinths reveals. 1 C(xlica. This is reward which thou dost threaten me If terror thou wilt threaten, promise joys. Alaham. Smart cools these boiling styles of vanity. Ccelica. And if my father I no more shall see, ; Help me unto the place where he remains : \ To hell below, or to the sky above. The way is easy where the guide is love. I Alaham. Confess ; where is he hid ? 1 Ccelica. Rack not my woe. \ Thy glorious pride of this unglorious deed Doth mischief ripe, and therefore falling, shew. Alaham. Bodies have place, and blindness must be Graves be the thrones of kings when they be dead. [led. ^ Ccelica. He was (unhappy) cause that thou art now; - Thou art, ah wicked 1 cause that he is not, i M 3 j J 250 ALAHAM. And fear'st thou parricide can be forgot ? Bear witness, though Almighty God on high, And you black powers inhabiting below, That for his life myself would yield to die. Alaham. Well, Sirs, go seek the dark and secret caves, The holy temples, sanctified cells, All parts wherein a hving corpse may dwell. Ccelica. Seek him amongst the dead, you placed him there : Yet lose no pains, good souls, go not to hell ; And, but to heaven, you may go every where. Guilty, with you, of his blood let me be. If any more I of my father know, Than that he is where you would have him go. Alaham. Tear up the vaults. Behold her agonies ! Sorrow subti-acts, and multiplies, the spirits ; Care, and desire, do under anguish cease ; Doubt curious is, affecting piety ; Woe loves itself ; fear from itself would fly. Do not these trembling motions witness beai% That all these protestations be of fear 1 Ccelica. If aught be quick in me, move it with scorn : Nothing can come amiss to thoughts forlorn. Alaham. Confess in time. Revenge is merciless. Ccelica. Reward and pain, fear and desii'e too, Are vain in things impossible to do. Alaham. Tell yet where thou thy father last did see. Ccelica. Even where he by his loss of eyes hath won That he no more shall see his monstrous son. First in perpetual night thou mad'st him go ; His flesh the grave ; his life the stage, where sense Plays all the tragedies of pain and woe. And wouldst thou trait'rously thyself exceed, By seeking thus to make his ghost to bleed ? Alaham. Bear her away : devise ; add to the rack Torments, that both call death and turn it back. Ccelica. The flattering glass of power is others' pain. Perfect thy work ; that heaven and hell may know. To worse I cannot, going from thee, go. Eternal life, that ever liv'st above ! If sense there be with thee of hate, or love : ALAIIAM. 251 Revenge my king and father's overtlirow. O father ! if that name reacli up so high, And be more than a proper word of art, To teach respects in our humanity ; Accept these pains, whereof you feel no smart. The Kixo comes forth. King. What sound is this of Ccelica's distress ? Alaham, wrong not a silly sister's faith. 'Tis plague enough that she is innocent ; My child, thy sister ; born (by thee and me) With shame and sin to have affinity. Break me ; I am the pi'ison of thy thought : Crowns dear enough with father's blood are bought. Alaham. Now feel thou shalt, thou ghost unnatural, Those wounds which thou to my heart did'st give, When, in despite of God, this state, and me. Thou did'st from death mine elder brother free. The smart of king's oppression doth not die : Time rusteth malice ; rust wounds cruelly. King. Flatter thy wickedness ; adorn thy rage ; To wear a crown, tear up thy father's age. Kill not thy sister : it is lack of wit To do an ill that brings no good with it. Alaham. Go, lead them hence. Prepare the funeral. Hasten the sacrifice and pomp of woe. Where she did hide him, thither let them go. A NuNTius {or Messenger) relates to Alaham the manner of his Father's, Brother's, and Sister's deaths; and the popular discontents which followed. Alaha.m b>j the sudden working of Remorse is distracted, and imagines that he sees their Ghosts. Alaham. Nuntius. Nuntius. The first which burnt, as Cain * his next of In blood your brother, and your prince in state, [kin, Drew wonder from men's hearts, brought horror in. This innocent, this soul too meek for sin. Yet made for others to do harm withal, * The execution, to make it plausible to the people, is colored with the pretext, that the being burnt is a voluntary sacrifice of themselves by the victims at the funeral of Cain a bashaw and relative. 252 ALAHAM. With his self-pity tears drew tears from us ; His blood compassion had ; his wrong stirr'd hate : Deceit is odious in a king's estate. Repiningly he goes unto his end : Strange visions rise ; strange furies haunt the flame People cry out, Echo repeats, his name. These words he spake, even breathing out his breath " Unhappy weakness ! never innocent ! " If in a crown, yet but an instrument. " People ! observe ; this fact may make you see, " Excess hath ruin'd what itself did build : " But ah ! the more opprest the more you yield." The next was He whose age had reverence. His gesture something more than privateness ; Guided by One, whose stately grace did move Compassion, even in hearts that could not love. As soon as these approached near the flame, The wind, the steam, or furies, rais'd their veils ; And in their looks this image did appear : Each unto other, life to neither, dear. These words he spake. " Behold one that hath lost " Himself within ; and so the world without ; " A king, that brings authority in doubt : " This is the fruit of power's misgovernment. " People ! my fall is just ; yet strange your fate, " That, under worst, will hope for better state." Grief roars aloud. Your sister yet remain'd ; Helping in death to him in whom she died ; Then going to her own, as if she gain'd, These mild words spake with looks to heaven bent. " God ! 'Tis thou that suff''rest here, not we : " Wrong doth but like itself in working thus : " At thy will. Lord ! revenge thyself, not us." The fire straight upward bears the souls in breath : Visions of horror circle in tlie flame With shapes and figures like to that of Death, But lighter-tongued and nimbler wing'd than Fame : Some to the church ; some to the people fly : A voice cries out ; " revenge and liberty. " Princes, take heed ; your glory is your care ; " And power's foundations, strengths, not vices, aye," MUSTAPHA. 253 Alaliam. What change is this, that now I feel within ? Is it disease that works this fall of spirits ? Or works this fall of spirits my disease I Things seem not as they did ; hoiu'or appears. What Sin embodied, what strange sight is this ? Doth sense bring back but what within me is ? Or do I see those sliapes which haunt the flame 1 What summons up remorse ? Shall conscience rate Kings' deeds, to make them less than their estate ? Ah silly ghost ! is 't you that swarm about ? Would'st thou, that art not now, a father be ? These body laws do with the life go out. What thoughts be these that do my entrails tear ? You waad'ring spii'its frame in me your hell ; I feel my brother and my sister there. MUSTAPHA : A Tragedy. By Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. RossA, Wife to SoLYMAN the Turkish Emperor, persuades her Husband, that Mcstapha, his Son hy a former Marriage, and Heir to his Crown, seeks his life: that she may make way, by the death o/JMusTAPHA,/or the advancement of her oicn children, Zanger and Camexa. Camexa, the virtuous Daughter o/Rossa, defends the Innocence of Mustapha, i)i a Conference which she holds uith the Emperor. Camena. Solymax. Cam. They that from youth do suck at fortune's bx'east, And nurse their empty hearts with seeking higher, Like dropsy-fed, their thirst doth never rest ; For still, by getting, they beget desire : Till thoughts, like wood, while they maintain the flame Of high desires, grow ashes in the same. But virtue ! those that can behold thy beauties, Those that suck, from their youth, thy milk of goodness, Their minds grow strong against the storms of fortune, And stand, like rocks in winter-gusts, unshaken ; Not with the blindness of desire mistaken. virtue therefore ! whose thrall I think fortune. 254 MUSTAPHA. Thou who despisest not the sex of women, Help me out of these riddles of my fortune, Wherein (methinks) you with yourself do pose me : Let fates go on : sweet virtue ! do not lose me. My mother and my husband have conspired. For brother's good, the ruin of my brother : My father by my mother is inspired, For one child to seek rum of another. I that to help by nature am required, While I do help, must needs still hurt a brother. While I see who conspire, I seem conspired Against a husband, father, and a mother. Truth bids me run, by truth I am retired ; Shame leads me both the one way, and the other. In what a labyrinth is honour cast. Drawn divers ways with sex, with time, with state, In all which, error's course is infinite, By hope, by fear, by spite, by love, and hate ; And but one only way unto the right, A tliorny way, where pain must be the guide, Danger the light, offence of power the praise : Such are the golden hopes of iron days. Yet virtue, I am thine, for thy sake grieved (Since basest thoughts, for their ill-plac'd desires, In shame, in danger, death, and torment, glory) That I cannot with more pains write thy story. Chance, therefore, if thou scornest those that scorn thee Fame, if thou hatest those that force thy trumpet To sound aloud, and yet despise thy sounding ; Laws, if you love not those that be examples Of nature's laws, whence you are fall'n corrupted ; Conspire that I, against you all conspired, Joined with tyrant virtue, as you call her. That I, by your revenges may be named, For virtue, to be ruin'd, and defixmed. My mother oft and divei'sly I warned, What fortunes were upon such courses builded : That fortune still must be with ill maintained, Which at the first with any ill is gained. I Rosten * warn'd, that man's self-loving thought * Uer Husband. MUSTAPHA. 255 Still creepeth to the rude-embracing might Of princes' grace : a lease of glories let, Which shining burns ; breeds serenes when tis set. And, by this creature of my motliei*'s making, This messenger, 1 Mustapha have warn'd, That innocence is not enough to save, Where good and greatness, fear and envy have. Till now, in reverence I have forborn To ask, or to presume to guess, or know My father's thoughts ; whereof he might think scorn : For dx'eadful is that power that all may do ; Yet they, that all men fear, are fearful too. Lo where he sits ! Virtue, work thou in me. That what thou seekest may accomplish'd be. SohjM. Ah death ! is not thyself sufficient anguish, But thou must borrow fear, that threatning glass, • Which, while it goodness hides, and mischief shows. Doth lighten wit to honor's overthrows ? But hush ! methinks away Camena steals ; Murther, belike, in me itself reveals. Camena ! whither now ? why haste you from me ? Is it so strange a thing to be a father ? Or is it I that am so strange a father ? Cam. My lord, methought, nay, sure I saw you busy : Your child presumes, uncall'd, that comes unto you. Solym. Who may presume with fathers, but their own, Whom nature's law hath ever in protection. And gilds in good belief of dear affection 1 Cam. Nay, reverence. Sir, so children's worth doth As of the fathers it is least espy'd. [hide, Solym. I think 'tis true, who know their children least. Have greatest reason to esteem them best. Cam. How so, my lox'd ? since love in knowledge lives, Which unto strangers therefore no man gives. Solym. The life we gave them soon they do forget, While they think our lives do their fortunes let. Cam. The tenderness of life it is so great. As any. sign of death we hate too much ; And unto parents sons, perchance, are such. Yet nature meant her strongest unity Twixt sons and fathers ; making parents cause 256 MUSTAPnA. Unto the sons, of their humanity ; And children pledge of theii' eternity. Fathers should love this image in their sons. Solym. But streams backtotheir springs do never run. Cam. Pardon, my lord, doubt is succession's foe : Let not her mists poor children overthrow. Though streams from springs do seem to run away, Tis nature leads them to their mother sea. Solym. Doth nature teach them, in ambition's strife, To seek his death, by whom they have their life ? Cam. Things easy, to desire impossible do seem : Why should fear make impossible seem easy ? Solym. Monsters yet be, and being are believed. Cam. Incredible hath some inordinate progression : Blood, doctrine, age, corrupting liberty, Po all concur, where men such monsters be. Pardon me, Sir, if duty do seem angry : Affection must breathe out afflicted breath, Where imputation hath such easy faith. Solym. Mustapha is he that hath defil'd his nest ; The wrong the greater for I loved him best. He hath devised that all at once should die. Rosten, and Rossa, Zanger, thou, and I. Cam. Fall none but angels suddenly to hell ? Are kind and order grown precipitate 1 Did ever any other man but he In instant lose the use of doing well ? Sir, these be mists of greatness. Look again : For kings that, in their fearful icy state, Behold their children as their winding-sheet, Do easily doubt ; and what they doubt, they hate. Solym. Camena ! thy sweet youth, that knows no ill, Cannot believe thine elders, when they say, That good belief is great estates' decay. Let it suffice, that I, and Rossa too. Are privy what your brother means to do. Cam. Sii', pardon me, and nobly, as a father. What I shall say, and say of holy mother ; Know I shall say it, but to right a brother. My mother is your wife : duty in her Is love : she loves : which not well govern'd, bears MUSTAPHA. 257 The evil angel of misgiving fears ; Whose many eyes, whilst but itself they see, Still makes the worst of possibility : Out of this fear she Mustapha accuseth : Unto this fear, perchance, she joins the love Which doth in mothers for their children move. Perchance, when fear hath shew'd her yours must fall, In love she sees that hers must rise withall. Sir, fear a frailty is, and may have grace, And over-care of you cannot be blamed ; Care of our own in nature hath a place ; Passions are oft mistaken and misnamed ; Things simply good grow evil with misplacing. Though laws cut off, and do not care to fashion, Humanity of error hath compassion. Yet God forbid, that either fear, or care, Should ruin those that true and faultless are. Sohjm. Is it no fault, or fault I may forgive. For son to seek the father should not live ? Cam. Is it a fault, or fault for you to know, My mother doubts a thing that is not so ? These ugly works of monstrous parricide, Mark from what hearts they rise, and where they bide: Violent, despair'd, where honor broken is ; Fear lord, time death ; where hope is misery ; Doubt having stopt all honest ways to bliss ; And custom shut the windows up of shame. That craft may take upon her wisdom's name. Compare now Mustapha with this despair : Sweet youth, sure hopes, honor, a father's love, No infamy to move, or banish fear. Honor to stay, hazard to hasten fate : Can horrors work in such a child's estate ? Besides, the gods, whom kings should, imitate. Have placed you high to rule, not overthrow ; For us, not for yourselves, is your estate : Mercy must hand in hand with power go. Your sceptre should not strike with arms of fear. Which fathoms all men's imbecility. And mischief doth, lest it should mischief bear. As reason deals within with frailty, 353 MUSTAPHA. Wliich kills not passions that rebellious are, But adds, subti'acts, keeps down ambitious spii'its. So must powei' form, not ruin insti'uments : For flesh and blood, the means 'twixt heav'n and hell, Unto extremes extremely racked be ; Which kings in art of government should see : Else they, which cu'cle in themselves with death, Poison the air wherein they draw their breath. Pardon, my lord, pity becomes my sex : Grace with delay grows weak, and fury wise. Remember Theseus' wish, and Neptune's haste, Kill'd innocence, and left succession waste. Soh/m. If what were best for them that do offend, Laws did enquii-e, the answer must be grace. If mercy be so large, where 's justice' place ? Ca/H. Where love despairs, and where God's pro- For mercy is the highest reach of wit, [mise ends. A safety unto them that save with it : Born out of God, and unto human eyes, Like God, not seen, till fleshly passion dies. Sol tj III. God may forgive, whose being, and whose Ax*e far removed from reach of fleshly arms : [harms But if God equals or successors had, Even God of safe revenges would be glad. Cam. While he is yet alive, he may be slain ; But from the dead no flesh comes back again. Solym. While he remains alive, I live in fear. Co/ni. Though he were dead, that doubt still living were. Solym. None hath the power to end what he begun. Cam. The same occasion follows every son. Solym. Their greatness, or their worth, is not so much. Cam. And shall the best be slain for being such ? Solym. Thy mother, or thy brothei', are amiss ; I am betray'd, and one of them it is. Cam. ]\ly mother if she errs, errs virtuously ; And let her err, ere Mustapha should die. Solym. Kings for their safety must not blame mistrust. Cam. Nor for surmises sacrifice the just. Solym. Well, dear Camena, keep this secretly : I will be well advised before he die. MUSTAPHA. 259 ITeli a Priest acquaints Mustapha ivith the intentions of his Father towards him, and coitnsels him to seek his safety in the Destruction of Rossa and her Faction. Mustapha refuses to save his Life at the Expense of the Public Peace.- and being sent for by his Father, obeys the Mandate to his Desirtiction. Priest. Thy father purposeth thy death. Must. What have I to my father done amiss 1 Priest. That wicked Rossa thy step-mother is. Must. Whereiu have I of Rossa ill-deserved ? Priest. In that the empire is for thee reserved. Miist. Is it a fault to be my father's son ? Ah foul ambition ! which like water floods Not channel-bound dost neighbours over-run, And growest nothing when thy rage is done. Must Rossa's heirs out of my ashes rise ? Yet, Zanger, I acquit thee of my blood ; For I believe, thy heart hath no impression To ruin Mustapha for his succession. But tell what colors they against me use. And how my father's love they first did wound ? Priest. Of treason towards him they tliee accuse : Thy fame and greatness gives their malice ground. 3Iust. Good world, where it is danger to be good ! Yet grudge I not power of myself to power : This baseness only in mankind 1 blame. That indignation should give laws to fame. Shew me the truth. To w^hat rules am I bound ? Priest. No man commanded is by God to die, As long as he may persecution fly. Must. To fly, hath scorn, it argues guiltiness, Inherits fear, weakly abandons friends. Gives tyrants fame, takes honor fi'om distress Death do thy worst ! thy greatest pains have end. Priest. Mischief is like the cockatrice's eyes, Sees first, and kills ; or is seen first, and dies. Fly to thy strength, which makes misfortune vain. Rossa intends thy ruin. What is she ? Seek in her bowels for thy father lost : Who can redeem a king with viler cost ! 3h(st. O false and wicked colors of desire ! 260 MUSTAPHA. Eternal bondage unto him that seeks To be possest of all things that he likes ! Shall I, a son and subject, seem to dare, For any selfness, to set realms on fire ; Which golden titles to rebellions are ? Heli, even you have told me, wealth was given The wicked, to corrupt themselves and others ; Greatness and health to make flesh proud and cruel, Where in the good, sickness mows down desire, Death glorifies, misfortune humbles. Since therefore hfe is but the throne of woe. Which sickness, pain, desire, and fear inherit, Ever most worth to men of weakest spirit ; Shall we, to languish in this brittle jail, Seek, by ill deeds, to shun ill destiny ; And so, for toys, lose immortality ? Priest. Fatal necessity is never known Until it strike ; and till that blow be come, Who falls is by false visions overthrown. Must. Blasphemous love ! safe conduct of the ill ! What power hath given man's wickedness such skill I Pi^iest. Ah servile men ! how are your thoughts bewitch'd With hopes and fears, the price of your subjection, That neither sense nor time can make you see, The art of power will leave you nothing free ! Must. Is it in us to rule a Sultan's will ? Priest. We made them first for good, and not for ill. Must. Our Gods they are, their God remains above. To think against anointed power is death. Priest. To worship tyrants is no work of faith. Must. 'Tis rage of folly that contends with fate. Priest. Yet hazard something to preserve the state. Must. Sedition wounds what should preserved be. Priest. To wound power's humors, keeps their honors free. Must. Admit this true : what sacrifice prevails ? Priest. Force the petition is that never fails. Must. Where then is nature's place for innocence ? Priiest. Prosperity, that never makes offence. Must. Hath destiny no wheels but mere occasion ? MUSTAPIIA. 2fil Priest. Could east upon the west else make invasion ? Must. Confusion follows where obedience leaves. Priest. The tyrant only that event deceives. Must. And are the ways of truth and honor such ? Priest. Weakness doth ever think it owes too much. Must. Hath fame her glorious colors out of fear 1 Priest. What is the world to him that is not there ? Must. Tempt me no more. Good-will is then a pain. When her words beat the heart and cannot enter. I constant in my counsel do remain, And more lives for my own life will not venture. My fellows, rest : our Alcoran doth bind, That I alone should first my father find. A Messenger enters. Messenger. Sir, by our lords commandment, here I To guide you to his presence, [wait, Where, like a king and father, he intends To honor and acquaint you with his ends. Must. Heli, farewell, all fates are from above Chain'd unto humors that must rise or fall. Think what we will : men do but what they shall. AcHjfAT describes the manner of Mustapha's Execution to Zanger, ACHMAT. ZaNGER. Achrii. When Solyman, by cunning spite Of Rossa's witchcrafts, from his heart had banish'd Justice of kings, and lovingness of fathers, To wage and lodge such camps of heady passions. As that sect's cunning practices could gather ; Envy took hold of worth : doubt did misconstrue ; Renown was made a lie, and yet a terror : Nothing could calm his rage, or move compassion : Mustapha must die. To which end fetch'd he was, Laden with hopes and promises of favor. So vile a thing is craft in every heart, As it makes power itself descend to art. While Mustapha, that neither hoped nor feared, Seeing the stoi*ms of rage and danger coming. Yet came ; and came accompanied with power. But neither power, which warranted his safety, 262 MUSTAPHA. Nor safety, that makes violence a justice, Could hold him from oljedience to this throne : A p:ulph, which hath devoured many a one. Zang. Alas ! could neither truth appease his fury, Nor his unlook'd humility of coming, Nor any secret-witnessing remorses ? Can nature from herself make such divorces ? Tell on, that all the world may rue and wonder. Achm. There is a place environed with trees. Upon whose shadow'd centre there is pitch'd A large embroider'd sumptuous pavilion ; The stately throne of tyranny and murder ; Where mighty men are slain, before they know That they to other than to honor go. Mustapha no sooner to the port did come. But thither he is sent for and conducted By six slave eunuchs, either taught to color Mischief with reverence, or forced, by nature, To reverence true virtue in misfortune. While Mustapha, whose heart was now resolved, Not fearing death, which he might have prevented ; Nor craving life, which he might well have gotten, If he would other duties have forgotten ; Yet glad to speak his last thoughts to his father, Desired the eunuchs to entreat it for him. They did ; wept they, and kneeled to his father. But bloody rage that glories to be cruel. And jealousy that fears she is not fearful. Made Solyman refuse to hear, or pity. He bids them haste their charge : and bloody-eyed Beholds his son, while he obeying died. Zang. How did that doing heart endure to suffer \ Tell on. Quicken my powei's, harden'd and dull to good, Which, yet unmoved, hear tell of brother's blood. A chn. While these six eunuchs to this charge appointed (Whose hearts had never used their hands to pity, Whose hands, now only, trembled to do murder) With reverence and fear stood still amazed ; Loth to cut off such worth, afraid to save it : Mustaplia, with thoughts resolved and united, MUSTAPIIA. 263 Bids them fulfil their charge and look no further. Their hearts afraid to let their hands be doing, The cord, that hateful instrument of murder, They lifting up let fall, and falling lift it : Each sought to help, and helping hinder'd other. Till Mustapha, in haste to be an angel, With heavenly smiles, and quiet words, foreshows The joy and peace of those souls where he goes. His last words were ; " father now forgive me ; " Forgive them too that wrought my overthrow : " Let my grave never minister offences. *' For since my father coveteth my death, " Behold with joy 1 off'er him my breath." The eunuchs roar : Solyman his rage is glutted : His thoughts divine of vengeance for this murder : Rumor flies up and down : the people murmur : Sorrow gives laws before men know the truth : Fear prophecieth aloud, and threatens ruth. RosTEN describes to Achmat the popular Fury which foUoti-ed upon the Execution of Mustapha. RosTEN. Achmat. Ros» When Mustapha was by the eunuchs strangled, Forthwith his camp grew doubtful of his absence ; The guard of Solyman himself did murmur : People began to search their prince's counsels : Fury gave laws : the laws of duty vanisht : Kind fear of hun they lov'd self-fear had banisht. The headlong spirits were the heads that guided : He that most disobeyed, was most obeyed. Fury so suddenly became united. As while her forces nourished confusion, Confusion seem'd with discipline delighted. Towards Soljinan they run : and as the waters, 1 hat meet with banks of snow, makes snow grow water: So, even those guards, that stood to interrupt them, Give easy passage, and pass on amongst them. Solyman, who saw this storm of mischief coming, Thinks absence his best argument unto them : Retires himself, and sends me to demand. What they demanded, or whnt meant their coming ? 264 MUSTAPHA. I speak : they cry'd for Mustaplia and Aclimat. Some bid away ; some kill ; some save ; some hearken. Those that cried save, were those that sought to kill me. Who cried hark, were those that first brake silence : They held that bade me go. Humility was guilty ; Words were reproach ; silence in me was scornful ; They answer'd ere they ask'd ; assured, and doubted. I fled ; their fury follow 'd to destroy me ; Fury made haste ; haste multiplied their fury ; Each would do all ; none would give place to other. The hindmost sti-ake ; and while the foremost lifted Theu' arras to strike, each weapon hinder'd other : Their running let their strokes, strokes let their running. Desire, mortal enemy to desire, Made them that sought my life, give life unto me. [These two Tragedies of Lord Brooke might with more propriety have been termed pohtical treatises, than plays. Their author has strangely contrived to make passion, character and interest, of the highest order suhsenient to the expression of state dogmas and mysteries. He is nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, for one part Sophocles or Seneca. In this writer's estimate of the faculties of his own mind, the understanding must have held a most tjTan- nical pre-eminence. "Whether we look into his plays, or'his'most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, the utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially com- prized in the actions and speeches of Caelica and Camena. Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar dehght in contem- plating womanly perfection, whom for his many sweet images of female excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to love, has not raised the ideal of the female character higher than Lord Brooke in these two women has done. But it requires a study equivalent to the learning of a new language to understand their meaning when they speak. It is indeed hard to hit : Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day Or seven though one shovdd musing sit. It is as if a being of pure intellect shovdd take upon him to ex- press the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all ioiowledge, but sj-mpathetic expression would be wanting.] 265 THE CASE IS ALTERED. A Comedy. By Ben. Jonson. The present Humour to be followed, AuRELiA, Phcenixella, Sisfers : their Mother being lately dead. Aur. Room for a case of matrons, color'd black : How motherly my mother's death hath made us ! I would I had some girls now to bring up ; I could make a wench so virtuous, She should say gi'ace to every bit of meat, And gape no wider than a wafer's thickness, And she should make French court'sies so most low That every touch should turn her over backward. Phcen. Sister, these words become not your attire, Nor your estate ; our virtuous mother's death Should print more deep effects of sorrow in us, Than may be worn out in so little time. Aur. Sister, i' faith you take too much tobacco. It makes you black within as you 're without. What, true-stitch sistei', both your sides alike ! Be of a slighter work ; for, of my word. You shall be sold as dear, or rather dearer. Will you be bound to customs and to rites. Shed profitable tears, weep for advantage ; Or else do all things as you are inclined 1 Eat when your stomach serves, saith the physic an Not at eleven and six. So, if your humour Be now affected with this heaviness. Give it the reins, and spare not ; as I do In this my pleasurable appetite. It is Precisianism to alter that. With austere judgment, that is giv'n by nature. 1 wept (you saw) too, when my mother died ; For then I found it easier to do so. And fitter with my mode, than not to weep : But now 'tis otherwise. Another time VOL. I. N 266 THE CASE IS ALTERED. Perhaps I shall have such deep thoughts of her. That I shall weep afresh some twelvemonth hence ; And I will weep, if I be so disposed ; And put on black as grimly then as now. — Let the mind go still with the body's stature : Judgment is fit for judges ; give me nature. Presentiment of Treacher^/, vanishing at the sight of the person suspected. Lord Paulo Farneze. (Speaking to hijnself of Akgelo.) My thoughts cannot propose a reason Why T should fear or faint thus in my hopes Of one so much endeared to my love : Some spark it is, kindled within the soul, Whose light yet breaks not to the outward sense, That propagates this timorous suspect. His actions never carried any force Of change, or weakness ; then T injure him. In being thus cold-conceited of his faith. here he comes. [ While he speaks Angelo enters. Angela. How now, sweet Lord, what 's the matter ? Pcml. Good faith, his presence makes me half ashamed Of my stray'd thoughts. Jaques (a Miser) worships his Gold. Jac. Tis not to be told What servile villainies men will do for gold. it began to have a huge strong smell, With lying so long together in a place : 1 '11 give it vent, it shall have shift enough ; And if the devil, that envies all goodness. Have told them of my gold, and where I kept it, I '11 set his burning nose once more a work To smell where I removed it. Here it is ; I '11 hide and cover it with this horse-dung. Who will suppose that such a precious nest Is crown'd with such a dunghill excrement ? In, my dear life, sleep sweetly, my dear child, Scarce lawfully begotten, but yet gotten. And that 's enough. Rot all hands that come near thee, Except mine own. Burn out all eyes that see thee. POETASTER. 267 Except mine own. All thoughts of thee be poison To their enamour'd hearts, except mine own. I '11 take no leave, sweet prince, great emperor, But see thee every minute : king of kings, I '11 not be rude to thee, and turn my back In going fi'om thee, but go backward out, With my face toward thee, with humble courtesies. [The passion for •wealth has vrom out much of its grossness by tract of time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of money as able to confer a distinct gratification in itself, not alone considered simply as a symbol of wealth. Tlie oldest poets, when they introduce a miser, constantly make him address his gold as his misti-ess ; as something to be seen, felt, and hugged ; as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least. The substitution of a thin unsatisfying medium for the good old tangible gold, has made avarice quite a Platonic affection in comparison with the seeing, touching, and handling pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank note can no more satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than Creusa could return her husband's embrace in the shades. See the Cave of Mammon in Spenser : Barabas's contemplation of his wealth, in the Jew of Malta ; Luke's raptures in the City Madam, &c. Above all hear Guzman, in that excel- lent old Spanish Novel, The Rogue, expatiate on the "ruddy cheeks of your golden Ruddocks, your Spanish Pistolets, your plump and full-faced Portuguese, and your clear-skinn'd pieces of eight of Castile," which he and his'fellows the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did "privately enjoy in a plentiful man- ner. " " For to have them, for to pay them away, is not to enjoy them ; to enjoy them is to hove them Ijing by us, having no other need of them than to use them for the clearing of the eye-sight, and the comforting of our senses. These we did can-y about mth us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets near unto the heart, and as close to the sldn as we could handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative."] POETASTER ; Or, His Arraignment. A Comical Satyr. Bv Ben. Jonson. Ovid bewails his hard condition in being banished from Court and the Society of the Princess Julia. Ovid. Banish'd the court ? let me be banish'd life, Since the chief end of life is there concluded. Within the court is all the kingdom bounded ; N 2 268 POETASTER, And as her saci^ed sphere doth comprehend Ten thousand times so much, as so much place In any part of all the emph'e else, So every body, moving in her sphere. Contains ten thousand times as much in him As any other her choice oi'b excludes. As in a circle a magician, then, Is safe against the spirit he excites, But out of it is subject to his rage, And loseth all the virtue of his art, So I, exil'd the circle of the court, Lose all the good gifts that in it I joy'd. No virtue current is, but with her stamp ; And no vice vicious, blanch 'd with her white hand. The court 's the abstract of all Rome's desert. And my dear Julia th' abstx-act of the court. Methinks, now I come near her, I respire Some air of that late comfort I receiv'd : And while the evening, with her modest veil, Gives leave to such poor shadows as myself To steal abroad, I, like a heartless ghost, Without the living body of my love, Will here walk, and attend her. For I know Not far fi'om hence she is imprisoned, And hopes of her strict guardian to bribe So much admittance, as to speak to me. And cheer my fainting spirits with her bi'eath. Julia appears above at her Chamber-windoic. Jul. Ovid ! my love ! Ovid. Here, heav'nly Julia. Jul. Here ! and not here ! how that word doth play With both our fortunes, differing, like ourselves ; But one, and yet divided, as opposed ; I high, thou low ! this our. plight of place Doubly presents the two lets of our love, Local and cei'emonial height and lowness ; Both ways, I am too high, and thou too low. Our minds are even, yet : why should our bodies That are their slaves, be so without their rule ? I '11 cast myself down to thee ; if I die, POETASTER. 2G9 j I '11 ever live with thee : no height of birth, i Of place, of duty, or of cruel power, i Shall keep me from thee ; should my father lock ! This body uj) within a tomb of brass, ' Yet I '11 be with thee. If the forms, I hold \ Now in my soul, be made one substance with it ; That soul immortal ; and the same 'tis now ; Death cannot raze tlae effects she now retaineth : 1 And then may she be any where she will. '. The souls of parents rule not children's souls ; 1 When death sets both in their dissolv'd estates, j Then is no child nor father : then eternity Frees all from any temporal respect. ; I come, my Ovid, take me in thine arms ; " And let me breathe my soul into thy breast. ^ Ovid. stay, my love ; the hopes thou dost conceive ' Of thy quick death, and of thy future life, Are not authentical. Thou choosest death, i So thou might'st joy thy love in th' other life. ] But know, my princely love, when thou art dead, ] Thou only must survive in perfect soul ; ] And in the soul are no affections : ,i We pour out our affections with our blood ; '< And with our blood's afTections fade our loves. 1 No life hath love in such sweet state as this ; | No essence is so dear to moody sense, i As flesh and blood, whose quintessence is sense. j Beauty, compos'd of blood and flesh, moves more. And is moi^e plausible to blood and flesh. Than spiritual beauty can be to the spirit. Such apprehension as we have in dreams (When sleep, the bond of senses, locks them up) Such shall we have when death destroys them quite. If love be then thy object, change not life ; Live high and happy still ; I still below. Close with my fortunes, in thy height shall joy. Jul. Ay me, that virtue, whose brave eagle's wings With every stroke blow stars in burning heaven, Should like a swallow (preying toward storms) Fly close to earth ; and, with an eager plume Pursue those objects which none else can see, 270 POETASTER. But seem to all the world the empty air. Thus thou, poor Ovid, and all ■\drtuous men, Must prey like swallows on invisible food ; Pursuing flies, or nothing : and thus love, And every worldly fancy, is transpos'd By worldly tyranny to what plight it list. O, father, since thou gav'st me not my mind, Strive not to rule it ; take but what thou gav'st To thy disposure : thy affections Rule not in me ; I must bear all ray griefs ; Let me use all my pleasures : Virtuous love Was never scandal to a goddess' state. But he 's inflexible ! and, my dear love. Thy life may chance be shorten'd by the length Of my unwilling speeches to depart. Farewell, sweet life : though thou be yet exil'd Th' officious court, enjoy me amply still : My soul, in this my breath, enters thine ears ; And on this turret's floor will I lie dead, Till we may meet again. In this proud height, I kneel beneath thee in my prostrate love. And kiss the happy sands that kiss thy feet. Great Jove submits a sceptre to a cell ; And lovers, ere they part, will meet in hell. Ovid. Farewell all company, and, if I could, Ail light, with thee : hell's shade should hide my brows. Till thy dear beauty's beams I'edeem'd ray vows. Jul. Ovid, my love : alas I may we not stay A little longer, think'st thou, undiscern'd ? Ovid. For thine own good, fair goddess, do not stay. Who would engage a firmament of fires, Shining in thee, for me, a falling star ? Begone, sweet life-blood : if I should discern Thyself but touch 'd for my sake, I should die. Jul. I will begone then ; and not heav'n itself Shall draw me back. Ovid. Yet, Julia, if thou wilt, A little longer stay. Jul. I am content. Ovid. O mighty Ovid ! what the sway of heav'n Could not retire, my breath hath turned back. POETASTER. 271 J%d. Who shall go first, rny love ? my passionate eyes Will not endure to see thee turn from me. Ovid. If thou go first, my soul will follow thee. Jul. Then we must stay. Ovid. Ay me, there is no stay In amorous pleasures. If both stay, both die. I hear thy father. Hence, my deity. [Julia goes in. Fear forgeth sounds in my deluded ears ; I did not hear him : I am mad with love. There is no spirit, under heav'n, that works With such illusion : yet, such witchcraft kill me, Ere a sound mind, without it, save my life. Here on my knees I worship the blest place, That held my goddess ; and the loving air, That clos'd her body in his silken arms. Vain Ovid ! kneel not to the place, nor air : She 's in thy heart ; rise then, and worship there. The truest wisdom, silly men can have. Is dotage on the follies of their flesh. AuocsTos discourses with his Courtiers concerning Poetry. C^SAR, Mec^nas, Gallus, Tibullus, Horacb. Equites Romani. Cces. We, that have conquer'd still to save the conquer'd. And loved to make inflictions fear'd, not felt ; Griev'd to reprove, and joyful to reward, More proud of reconcilement than revenge. Resume into the late state of our love Worthy Cornelius Gallus and Tibullus *. You both are gentlemen ; you Cornelius, A soldier of renown, and the first provost That ever let our Roman Eagles fly On swarthy Egypt, quarried with her spoils. Yet (not to bear cold forms, nor men's out-terms. Without the inward fires, and lives of men ) You both have virtues, shining through your shapes ; To shew, your titles are not writ on posts, * They had offended the Empei-or by concealing the love cf Ovid for the Princess Julia. 272 POETASTER. Or hollow statues ; which the best men are, Without Promethean stuffings reach'd from heaven Sweet Poesy's sacred garlands crown your gentry : Which is, of all the faculties on earth, The most abstract, and perfect, if she be TxMie born, and nurst with all the sciences. She can so mould Rome, and her monuments, Within the liquid marble of her lines. That they shall stand fresh and miraculous, Even when they mix with innovating dust ; In her sweet streams shall our brave Roman spirits Chase, and swim after death, with their choice deeds Shining on their white shoulders ; and therein Shall Tyber, and our famous rivers, fall With such attraction, that th' ambitious line Of the round world shall to her centre shrink, To hear their music. And for these high parts, Caesar shall reverence the Pierian arts. Mec. Your majesty's high grace to poesy Shall stand 'gainst all the dull detractions Of leaden souls ; who for the vain assumings Of some, quite worthless of her sovereign wreaths, Contain her worthiest prophets in contempt. Gal. Happy is Rome of all earth's other states, To have so true and great a president. For her inferior spirits to imitate. As Csesar is ; who addeth to the sun Influence and lustre, in increasing thus His inspirations, kindling fire in us. Ilor. Phoebus himself shall kneel at Caesar's shrine And deck it with bay-garlands dew'd with wine, To quit the worship Csesar does to him : Where other princes, hoisted to their thrones By Fortune's passionate and disorder'd power, Sit in their height like clouds before the sun, Hind'ring his comforts ; and (by their excess Of cold in virtue, and cross heat in vice) Thunder and tempest on those learned heads, Whom Caesar with such honour doth advance. Tib. All human business Fortune doth command Without all order ; and with her blind hand, POETASTER. 273 She, blind, bestows blind gifts : that still have nurst, \ They see not who, nor how, but still the worst. Cces. Csesar, for his rule, and for so much stuff As fortune puts in his hand, shall dispose it (As if his hand had eyes, and soul, in it) With worth and judgment. Hands that part with gifts, Or will restrain their use, without desert, i Or with a misery, numb'd to Virtue's right, Work, as they had no soul to govern them, . And quite reject her : sev'ring their estates ' From human order. Whosoever can, ] And will not cherish Virtue, is no man. i Eques. Virgil is now at hand, imperial Csesar. \ Cces. Rome's honour is at hand then. Fetch a chair, i And set it on our right-hand ; where 'tis fit, [ Rome's honour and our own should ever sit. "I Now he is come out of Campania, ] I doubt not he hath finish'd all his ^Eneids ; I Which, like another soul, I long t' enjoy. ; What think you three of Virgil, gentlemen, ! (That are of his profession though rank'd higher) \ Or, Horace, what sayst thou, that art the poorest, \ And likeliest to envy or to detract ? ] Hot. Ceesar speaks after common men in this, j To make a difference of me for my poorness : I As if the filth of poverty sunk as deep \ Into a knowing spirit, as the bane j Of riches doth into an ignorant soul. ! No, Caesar ; they be pathless moorish minds, i That being once made rotten with the dung j Of danmed riches, ever after sink j Beneath the steps of any villainy. , But knowledge is the nectar, that keeps sweet A perfect soul, even in this grave of sin ; ^ And for my soul, it is as free as Caesar's : ] For what I know is due I '11 give to all. He that detracts, or envies virtuous merit, i Is still the covetous and the ignorant spirit. Cces. Thanks, Horace, for thy free and wholesome \ sharpness : '; Which pleaseth Caesar more than servile fawns. ' N 3 i 274 POETASTER. A flatter'd prince soon turns the prince of fools. And for thy sake, we '11 put no difference more Between the great and good for being poor. Say then, loved Horace, thy true thought of Vii'gil. Hor. I judge him of a rectified spirit, By many revolutions of discourse, (In his bright reason's influence) refined From all the tartarous moods of common men ; Bearing the nature and similitude Of a right heavenly body ; most severe In fashion and collection of himself : And then as clear and confident as Jove. Gal. And yet so chaste and tender is his ear, In suff'ering any syllable to pass. That he thinks may become the honour'd name Of issue to his so examined self ; That all the lasting fruits of his full merit In his own poems, he doth still distaste ; As if his mind's piece, which he strove to paint, Could not with fleshly pencils have her right. Tih. But to approve his works of sovereign worth. This observation (methinks) moi'e than serves ; And is not vulgai'. That which he hath writ. Is with such judgment labour'd, and distill'd Through all the needful uses of our lives. That could a man remember but his lines, He should not touch at any serious point, But he might breathe his spirit out of him. C(BS, You mean he might repeat part of his works, As fit for any conference he can use 1 Tlh. True, royal Csesar. dm. Worthily observed : And a most worthy virtue in his works, What thinks material Horace of his learning ? Hot'. His learning savours not the school-like gloss, That most consists in echoing words and terms : And soonest wins a man an empty name : Nor any long, or far fetch'd circumstance, Wrapt in the curious general'ties of arts ; But a direct and analytic sum Of all the worth and first effects of arts. POETASTER. 276 And for his poesy, 'tis so raram'd with life, I That it shall gather strength of life, with being, ' And live hereafter more admired than now. C(t;s, This one consent, in all your dooms of him. And mutual loves of all your several merits, Argues a truth of merit in you all. Virgil enters. See here comes Virgil ; we will rise and greet him : I Welcome to Ctesar, Virgil. Ctesar and Virgil \ Shall differ but in sound ; to Ciesar, Virgil \ (Of his expressed gi'eatncss) shall be made ( A second sir-name ; and to V^irgil, Caesar. ] Where are thy famous /Eneids ? do us grace ] To let us see, and surfeit on their sight. Vir. Worthless they are of Cccsar's gracious eyes. If they were perfect ; much more with their wants : \ Which yet are more than my time could supply. 1 And could great Ccesar's expectation \ Be satisfied with any other service, ] I would not shew them. \ Cces. Virgil is too modest ; j Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more. 1 Shew them, sweet Vii-gil. ] Vir. Then, in such due fear | As fits presenters of great works to Ctesar, i I humbly shew them. Cces. Let us now behold i, A human soul made visible in life : ; And more refulgent in a senseless paper, j Than in the sensual complement of kings. \ Read, read, thyself, dear Virgil ; let not me ; Pi'ofane one accent with an untuned tongue : 1 Best matter, badly shown, shews worse than bad. > See then this chair, of purpose set for thee, ! To read thy poem in ; refuse it not. : Vii'tue, without presumption, place may take ■ Above best kings, whom only she should make. ■ Vir. It will be thought a thing ridiculous j To pi'esent eyes, and to all future times -j A gi'oss untruth ; that any poet (void 275 POETASTER, Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity), Should, with decorum, transcend Caesar's chair. Poor virtue raised, high birth and wealth set under. Crosseth heav'ns courses, and makes worldlings wonder. Cces. The course of heaven, and fate itself, in this Will Caesar cross ; much more all worldly custom. Hor. Custom in course of honour ever errs : And they are best, whom fortune least pi'efers. Cces. Horace hath (but more strictly) spoke our thoughts. The vast rude swinge of general confluence Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense : And therefore reason (which in right should be The special rector of all harmony) Shall shew we are a man, distinct by it From those, whom custom rapteth in her press. Ascend then, Virgil ; and where first by chance We here have turn'd thy book, do thou first read. Vir. Great Caesar hath his will : I will ascend. 'Twere simple injury to his free hand. That sweeps the cobwebs from un-used virtue. And makes her shine proportion'd to her worth, To be more nice to entertain his grace, Than he is choice and liberal to afford it. Cas. Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors, And let none enter ; peace. Begin, good Virgil. ViRGFL reads part of Ms fourth Mneid. Vir. Mean while, the skies 'gan thunder, &e. I^This Roman Play seems written to confute those enemies of Ben. Jonson in his own days and ours, who have said that he made a pedantical use of his learning. He has here re\ived the whole court of Augustus, by a learned speU. We are admitted to the society of the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Ti- huUus, converse in our own tongue more finely and poetically than they expressed themselves in their native Latin. Nothing can be imagined more elegant, refined, and court-like than the scenes between this Lewis the Fourteenth of Antiquity and his Literati. — The whole essence and secret of that kind of intercourse is contained therein. The economical liberality by wliich greatness, seeming to wave some part of its prerogative, takes care to lose none of the essentials ; the prudential liberties of an inferior which flatter by commanded boldness and soothe with complimental sincerity.] 277 SEJANUS HIS FALL: A Tragedy. By Ben. Jonson. Sejanus, the morning he is condemned by the Senate, receives some tokens tchich presage his death. Sejanus. Pomponius. MiNurrus. Terentics, &c. Ter. Ave these things true ? Min. Thousands are gazing at it in the streets, Sej. What 's that ? Ter. Minutius tells us here, my Lord, That a new head being set upon your statue, A rope is since found wreath'd about it ! and But now a fiery meteor in the form Of a great ball was seen to roll along The troubled air, where yet it hangs unperfect, The amazing wonder of the multitude. Sej. No more. — Send for the tribunes ; we will straight have up More of the soldiers for our guard. Minutius, We pray you go for Cotta, Latiaris, Trio the consul, or what senators You know are sure, and ours. You, my good Natta, For Laco provost of the watch. Now, Satrius, The time of proof ecmes on. Arm all our servants, And without tumult. You, Poraponius, Hold some good correspondence with the consul ; Attempt him, noble friend. These things begin To look like dangers, now, worthy my fates. Fortune, I see thy worst : Let doubtful states And things uncertain hang upon thy will ; Me surest death shall render certain still. Yet why is now my thought turn'd toward death, Whom fates have let go on so far in breath Uucheckt or unreprov'd ? I, that did help To fell the lofty cedar of the world, Germanicus ; that at one sti-oke cut down 278 SAD SHEPHERD. Drusus that upright elm ; withered his vine ; Laid Silius and Sabiaus, two strong oaks, Flat on the earth ; besides those other shrubs, Cordus, and Sosia, Claudia, Pulchra, Furnius, and Gallus, which I have grubb'd up ; And since, have set my axe so strong and deep Into the root of spreading Agrippina ; Lopt off and seatter'd her proud branches, Nero, Drusus, and Caius too, although replanted : If you will, destinies, that after all I faint now ere I touch my period. You are but cruel ; and I already have done Things great enough. All Rome hath been my slave; The senate sate an idle looker on. And witness of my power : when I have blush'd More to command, than it to suffer ; all The fathers have sate ready and prepar'd To give me empire, temples, or their throats. When I would ask 'em ; and (what crowns the top) Rome, senate, people, all the world, have seen Jove but my equal, Ccesar but my second. 'Tis then your malice, Fates, who (but your own) Envy and fear to have any power long known. THE SAD SHEPHERD : OR, A TALE OF ROBIN HOOD. By Ben. Jonsox. Alken, an old Shepherd, instructs Robin Hood's Men how to find a Witch, and hoio she is to he hunted. Robin Hood. Tuck. Little John. Scarlet. Scathlock. George. Alken. Clarion. Tuch. Hear you how Poor Tom, the cook, is taken ! all his joints Do crack, as if his limbs were tied with points : His whole frame slackens, and a kind of rack Runs down along the spondils of his back ; A gout, or cramp, now seizeth on his head. SAD SHEPHERD. 279 Then falls into liis feet ; his knees are lead ; And he can stii^ his either hand no more Than a dead stump to his office, as befoi'e. Alk. He is bewitch'd. Cla. This is an argument Both of her malice, and her power, we see. AlTc. She must by some device restrained be. Or she '11 go far in mischief. Roh. Advise how, Sage shepherd ; we shall put it straight in practice. A ll\ Send forth your woodmen then into the walks, Or let them prick her footing hence ; a witch Is sure a creature of melancholy. And will be found, or sitting in her fourm, Or else at relief, like a hare. Cla. You speak, Aiken, as if you knew the sport of witch-hunting. Or starting of a hag. Rob. Go, Sirs, about it. Take George here with you, he can help to find her. John. Rare sport, I swear, this hunting of the witch Will make us. Scar. Let 's advise upon 't, like huntsmen. Geo. An we can spy her once, she is our o-wn. Scath. First think which way she fourmeth, on what Or north, or south. [wind : Geo. For, as the shepherd said, A witch is a kind of hare. Scath. And marks the weather, As the hare does. John. Where shall we hope to find her ? Alk. Know you the witches dell ? Scar. No more than I do know the walks of hell. Alk. Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell, Down in a pit o'er grown with bi'akes and briars, Close by the ruins of a shaken abbey, Torn with an earthquake down unto the ground, 'Mongst graves, and grots, near an old charnel house. Where you shall find her sitting in her fourm, As fearful, and melancholic, as that She is about ; with catei'pillars' kells, 280 SAD SHEPHERD. A.nd knotty cobwebs, rounded in with spells. Thence she steals forth to relief, in the fogs, And rotten mists, upon the fens and bogs, Down to the drowned lands of Lincolnshire ; To make ewes cast their lambs, swine eat their farrow ! The house-wife's tun not work, nor the milk churn ! Writhe children's wrists, and suck their breath in sleep ! Get vials of their blood ! and where the sea Casts up his slimy ooze, search for a weed To open locks with, and to rivet charms, Planted about her, in the wicked seat Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold. John. I wonder such a story could be told Of her dire deeds. Geo. I thouglit, a witches banks Had enclosed nothing but the merry pranks Of some old woman. Scar. Yes, her malice more, Scath. As it would quickly appear, had we the store Of his collects. Cfeo. Aye, this good learned man Can speak her right. Sca?\ He knows her shifts and haunts. Alk. And all her wiles and turns. The venom'd plants Wherewith she kills ! where the sad mandrake grows, Whose groans are deathful ! the dead numbing night- shade ! The stupifying hemlock ! adder's-tongue. And martegan ! the shrieks of luckless owls, We hear ! and croaking night-crows in the air ! Green-belUed snakes ! blue fire drakes in the sky ! And giddy flitter-mice with leather wings ! The scaly beetles, with their habergeons That make a humming murmur as they fly ! There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell, And span-long elves that dance about a pool. With each a little changeling in their arms ! The airy spirits play with falling stars, And mount the sphere of fire, to kiss the moon ! While she sits reading by the glow-worm's light, Or rotten wood, o'er which the worm hath cre})t., CATILINE. 281 The baneful schedule of her nocent charms, And binding characters, througli which slie wounds Her puppets, the SiijiUa of lier witchcraft. All this I know, and I will find licr for you ; And shew you her sitting in her fourm ; I '11 lay My hand upon her ; make her throw her scut Along her back, when she doth start before us. But you must give her law ; and you shall see her Make twenty leaps and doubles, cross the paths, And then squat down beside us. Jolm. Crafty croan, I long to be at the sport, and to report it. Scar. We '11 make this hunting of the witch as famous, As any other blast of venery. Geo. If we could come to see her, cry so haw once — AlTc. That I do promise, or I 'm no good hag-finder. CATILINE HIS COXSPIRACY: A Tragedy. By Ben. Jonson. The morning of the Conspiracy. — Lextulus, Cethegus, and Catiline meet, before the other Conspirators are ready. Lent. It is methinks a morning full of fate. It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. She is not rosy-finger'd, but swoln black. Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, And her sick head is bound about with clouds, As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day. It does not look as it would have a hail Or health wisli'd in it, as on other morns. Get. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus : our coming Is not for salutation : we have business. Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where 's Autro- Cet. Is he not come ? [nius \ Cat. Not here. Cet. Not Vargunteius ? Cat. Neither. 282 CATILINE. Cet. A fire in their beds and bosoms, That so well sei've their sloth rather than virtue. They are no Romans, and at such high need As now Lent. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius, Fulvius, Gabinus, gave me word last night, By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here, And early. Cet. Yes ! as you, had I not call'd you. Come, we all sleep, and are mere dormice ; flies A little less than dead : more dulness hangs On us than on the morn. We 're spirit-bound, In ribs of ice ; our whole bloods are one stone ; And honour cannot thaw us, nor our wants, Though they burn hot as fevers to our states. Cat. I muse they would be tardy at an hour Of so great purpose. Cet. If the gods had call'd Them to a purpose, they would just have come With the same tortoise speed ; that are thus slow To such an action, which the gods will envy ; As asking no less means than all their powers Conjoin'd to effect. I would have seen Rome burnt By this time, and her ashes in an urn : The kingdom of the senate rent asunder : And the degenerate talking gown run frighted Out of the air of Italy. Cat. Spirit of men, Thou heart of our great enterprise, how much I love these voices in thee ! Cet. the days Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword took leave To act all that it would ! Cat. And was familiar With entrails, as our augurs Cet. Sons kill'd fathers. Brothers their brothers Cat. And had price and praise : All hate and licence giv'n it ; all rage reins. Cet. Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd himself CATILINE. 283 To seem more huge : whilst to his stained thighs The gore he drew flovv'd up, and carried down Whole heaps of limbs and bodies through his arch. No age was spar'd, no sex. Cat. Nay, no degree Cet. Not infants in the porch of life were free. The sick, the old, that could but hope a day Longer by nature's bounty, not let stay. Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives. All died. Cat. 'Twas crime enough that they had lives. To strike but only those that could do hurt. Was dull and poor. Some fell, to make the number ; As some, the prey. Cet. The rugged Charon fainted. And ask'd a navy rather than a boat, To ferry over the sad world that came : The maws and dens of beasts could not receive The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; And even the graves were fiU'd with men yet living. Whose flight and fear had mix'd them with the dead. Cat. And this shall be again, and more, and more, Now Lentulus, the third Cornelius, Is to stand up in Rome, Lent. Nay, urge not that Is so uncei'tain. Cat. How! Lent. 1 mean, not clcar'd ; And therefore not to be reflected on. Cat. The Sybil's leaves uncertain ! or the comments, Of our grave, deep, divining men, not clear ! Lent. All prophecies, you know, suffer the torture. Cat. But this already hath confess' d, without ; And so been weigh'd, examin'd, and compai"'d. As 'twere malicious ignorance in him Would faint in the belief. Lent. Do you believe it ? Cat. Do I love Lentulus, or pray to see it ? Lent. The augurs all are constant I am meant. Cat. They had lost their science else. Lent. They count from Cinna 284 NEW INN. Cat. And Sylla next and so make you the third ; All that can say the sun is ris'n, must think it. Lent. Men mark me more of late as I come forth ! Cat. Why, what can they do less 1 Cinna and Syllj Are set and gone ; and we must turn our eyes On him that is, and shines. Noble Cethegus, But view him with me here ! He looks already As if he shook a sceptre o'er the senate, And the aw'd pui'ple dropt their rods and axes. The statues melt again, and household gods In groans confess the travails of the city : The very walls sweat blood before the change ; And stones start out to I'uin, ere it comes. Cet. But he, and we, and all, are idle still. Lent. I am your creature, Sergius ; and whate'er The great Cox'uelian name shall win to be, It is not augury, nor the Sybil's books, But Catiline, that makes it. Cat. I am a shadow To honour'd Lentulus, and Cethegus here ; Who are the heirs of ]\Iars. THE NEW INN; OR, THE LIGHT HEART. A Comedy, By Ben. Jonson, LovEL discovers to the Host of the New Inn, his Love /or the Lady Frances, and his reasons/or concealing his Passion from her. Lov. There is no life on earth, but being in love ! There are no studies, no delights, no business, No intercourse, or trade of sense, or soul. But what is love ! I was the laziest creature, The most unprofitable sign of nothing, The veriest drone, and slept away my life Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love ! And now I can out-wake the nightingale. Out-watch an usurer, and out-walk him too. Stalk like a ghost that haunted 'bout a treasure ; And all that fancied treasure, it is love ! NEW INN. 285 Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well ? I would know that. Lov. I do not know it myself, Whether it is. But it is love hath been The hereditary passion of our house, My gentle host, and, as I guess, my friend ; The truth is, I have loved this lady long, And impoteutly, with desire enough, But no success : for I have still forborne To express it in my person to her. Host. How then ? Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and anagrams, Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended, But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess. Host. This was a pi-etty riddling way of wooing ! Lov. I oft have been too in her company, And look'd upon her a whole day, admir'd her, Loved her, and did not tell her so, loved still, Look'd still, and loved ; and loved, and luok'd, and But, as a man neglected, I came off, [sigh'd ; And unregarded. Host. Could you blame her, sir, When you were silent and not said a word ? Lov. but I loved the more ; and she might read it Best in my silence, had she been Host. as melancholic. As you are. Pray you, why would you stand mute, sir 1 Lov. thereon hangs a liistory, mine host. Did you ever know or hear of the Lord Beaufort, Who serv'd so bravely in France ? I was his page, And, ere he died, his friend ! I foliow'd hiin First in the wars, and in the times of peace I waited on his studies ; which were right. He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicl'eers, No Knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls, Primalious, and Pantagruels, public nothings ; Abortives of the fabulous dark cl'oister, Sent out to poison courts, and infest manners : But great Achilles', Agamemnon's acts. Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses' sleights, Tydides' fortitude, as Homer wrought them 286 NEW INN. In his immortal fancy, for examples Of the heroic virtue. Or, as Virgil, That master of the Epic Poem, limu'd Pious ^neas, his religious prince. Bearing his aged parent on his shoulders, Rapt from the flames of Troy, with his young SOR, And these he brought to practise and to use. He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge, Then shower'd his bounties on me, like the Hours, That open-handed sit upon the clouds, And press the liberality of heaven Down to the laps of thankful men ! But then, The trust committed to me at his death Was above all, and left so strong a tye On all my powers as time shall not dissolve. Till it dissolve itself, and bury all : The care of his brave heir and only son ! Who being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful lord, Hath cast his first affections on this lady. And though I know, and may presume her such. As, out of humour, will return no love, And therefore might indifferently be made The courting-stock for all to practise on, As she doth practise on us all to scorn : Yet out of a religion to my charge, And debt profess'd, I have made a self-decree, Ne'er to express my person though my passion Burn me to cinders. LovEL, in the presence of the Lady Frances, the young Lord Beaufort, and other Guests of the New Inn, defines what Love is. Lov. What else Is love, but the most noble, pure affection Of what is truly beautiful and fair ? Desire of union with the thing beloved ? Beau. I have read somewhere, that man and woman Were, in the first creation, both one piece, And being cleft asunder, ever since Love was an appetite to be rejoin'd. Lov. It is a fable of Plato's, in his banquet, And utter'd there by Aristophanes. NEW INN. 287 Host. 'Twas well remember 'd here, and to good use. But on with your description what love is. Desire of union with the thing beloved. Lov. I meant a definition. For I make The efficient cause, what 's beautiful and fair. The formal cause, the appetite of union. The final cause, the union itself. But larger, if you '11 have it, by description : It is a flame and ardour of the mind, Dead in the proper corps, quick in another's : Transfers the lover into the loved. That he, or she, that loves, engraves or stamps The idea of what they love, first in themselves : Or, like to glasses, so their mmds take in The forms of their belov'd, and them reflect. It is the likeness of aff"ections, Is both the parent and the nurse of love. Love is a spiritual coupling of two souls, So much more excellent as it least relates Unto the body ; circular, eternal ; Not feign'd, or made, but born : And then, so precious, As nought can value it, but itself. So free, As nothing can command it but itself. And in itself so round and liberal. As, where it favours, it bestows itself. But we must take and understand this love Along still as a name of dignity, Not pleasure. True love hath no unworthy thought, no light Loose unbecoming appetite, or strain ; But fixed, constant, pure, immutable. Beau. I relish not these philosophical feasts ; Give me a banquet o' sense, like that of Ovid ; A form, to take the eye ; a voice, mine ear ; Pure aromatics to my scent ; a soft Smooth dainty hand to touch ; and, for my taste, Ambrosiac kisses to melt down the palate. Lov. They are the earthly, lower form of lovers. Are only taken with what strikes the senses. And love by that loose scale. Altho' I grant, We like what 's fair and graceful in an object. 288 NEW INN. And (true) would use it, in them all we tend to, Both of our civil and domestic deeds, In ordering of an army, in our style, Apparel, gesture, building, or what not ? All arts and actions do affect their beauty. But put the case, in travel I may meet Some gorgeous structure, a brave frontispiece. Shall 1 stay captive in the outer court, Surpriz'd with that, and not advance to know Who dwells there, and inhabiteth the house ? There is my friendship to be made, within ; With what can love me again ; not with the walls, Doors, windows, architrabes, the frieze, and cornice. My end is lost in loving of a face. An eye, lip, nose, hand, foot, or other part, Whose all is but a statue if the mind !Move not, which only can make the return. The end of love is, to have two made one In will, and in affection, that the minds Be first inoculated, not the bodies. The body's love is frail, subject to change, And alter still with it : The mind's is firm. One and the same, proceedeth first from weighing, And well examining what is fair and good ; Then what is like in reason, fit in manners ; That breeds good will : good will desire of union. So knowledge first begets benevolence, Benevolence breeds friendship, friendship love : And where it starts or steps aside from this, It is a mere degenerous appetite, A lost, oblique, deprav'd affection. And bears no mark or character of love. Nor do they trespass within bounds of pardon, That giving way and licence to their love, Divest him of his noblest ornaments, Which are his modesty and shamefac'dness : And so they do, that have unfit designs Upon the parties they pretend to love. For what 's more monstrous, more a prodigy, Than to hear me protest truth of affection Unto a person that I would dishonour ? ALCHEmST. 209 And what 's a more dishonoui*, than defacing Another's good with forfeiting mine own, And drawing on a fellowship of sin ? From note of which though for a while we may Be both kept safe by caution, yet the conscience Cannot be cleans'd. For what was hitherto Cali'd by the name of love, becomes destroy'd Then, with the fact ; the innocency lost, The bating of affection soon will follow ; And love is never true that is not lasting : No more than any can be pure or perfect, That entertains more than one object. [These and the preceding extracts may serve to shew the poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged old Bard. A thousand beautiful passages might be adduced from those numerous court masques and entertainments which he was in the daily habit of furnishing, to prove the same thing. But they do not come within my plan. That which foUows is a spe- cimen of that talent for comic humour, and the assemblage of ludicrous images, on which his reputation chiefly rests. It may serve for a variety after so many serious extracts.] THE ALCHEMIST : A CoMBDY, By Ben. Jonson. Epicure Mammo.v, a Knight, deceived by the pretensions of Subtle (the Alchemist), glories in the prospect of obtain- ing the Philosopher's Stone; and promises what rare things he will do tvith it, Mammox. Surly, his Friend. The Scene, Subtle's House. Mam. Come on, sir. Now you set your foot on shore In novo orbe. Here 's the rich Peru : And there within, sir, are the golden mines, Great Solomon's Ophir ! He was sailing to 't Three years, but we have reach'd it in ten months. This is the day wherein to all my friends I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich. This day you shall be spectatissimi. You shall no more deal with the hollow dye, Or the frail card. No more be at charge of keeping VOL. I. 290 ALCHEMIST. The livery punk for the young heir, that must Seal at all hours in his shii't. No more, If he deny, ha' hira beaten to 't, as he is That brings hira the commodity. No more Shall thirst of sattin, or the covetous hunger Of velvet entrails for a rude- spun cloke To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, make The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets ; Or go a feasting after drum and ensign. No more of this. You shall start up young Viceroys, And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly : And unto thee I speak it first, Be rich. Wliere is my Subtle there ? within ho Face answers from within. Sir, He '11 come to you by and by. Mam. That 's his fire-drake, His Lungs, his Zephyrus, he that puffs his coals Till he firk Nature up in her own centre. You are not faithful, sir. This night I '11 change All that is metal in thy house to gold : And early in the morning will I send To all the plumbers and the pewterers, And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Lothbury, For all the copper. Sur. What, and turn that too ? [wall, Mam. Yes, and I '11 purchase Devonshire and Corn- And make them perfect Indies ! You admire now ? Sur. No, faith. Mam. But when you see the efiects of the great medicine ! Of which one part projected on a hundred Of Mercury, or Venus, or the Moon, Shall turn it to as many of the Sun ; Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : You will believe me. Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will. Mam. Ha ! why, ALCHEMIST. 291 Do you think I fable with you ! I assure you, He that has once the flower of the Sun, The perfect Ruby, which we call Elixir, Not only can do that, but by its virtue Can confer honour, love, respect, long life, Give safety, valour, yea, and victory, To whom he will. In eight and twenty days I '11 make an old man of fourscore a child. Siir. No doubt ; he 's that already. Mam. Nay, I mean. Restore his years, renew him like an eagle. To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters, Young giants, as our philosophers have done (The ancient patriax'chs afore the flood) But taking, once a week, on a knife's point The quantity of a grain of mustard of it, Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. Su7\ The decay'd vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank That keep the fire alive there. [you, Mam. Tis the secret Of Nature naturized 'gainst all infections. Cures all diseases, coming of all causes ; A month's grief in a day ; a year's in twelve ; And of what age soever, in a month : Past all the doses of your drugging doctors. I '11 undertake withal to fright the plague Out o' the kingdom in three months. Sur. And I '11 Be bound, the players shall smg your praises, then, Without their poets. Mam. Sir, I '11 do't. Meantime, 1 '11 give away so much unto my man. Shall serve th' whole city with preservative Weekly ; each house his dose, and at the rate — Sur. As he that built the water-woi'k, does with water? Mam. You are inci'edulous. Sur. Faith, I have a humour, I would not willingly be guU'd. Your Stone Cannot transmute me. Mam. Pertinax Surly, Will you beUeve antiquity 1 Records ? 2 292 ALCHEMIST. I 'U shew you a book, where Closes, and his sister, And Solomon, have written of the Art ? Ij and a treatise penn'd by Adam. SiO'. How ? Mam. Of the Philosopher's Stone, and in High Dutch. Sur. Did Adam write, Sir, in High Dutch ? Mean. He did, Which proves it was the primitive tongue. Su7\ What paper ? Mean. On cedar-board. Sur. that, indeed, they say, Will last 'gainst worms. Mam, Tis hke your Irish wood 'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of Jason's Fleece too, .Which was no other than a book of -Alchemy, Writ in large sheep-skin, a good fat ram- vellum. Such was Pythagoi-as' Thigh, Pandora's Tub, And all that fable of jNIedea's charms, The manner of our work : the bulls, our furnace, Still breathing fire : our Argent-rive, the Dragon : The Dragon's teeth, Mercury sublimate, That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting : And they are gather' d into Jason's helm (Th' Alembick) and then sow'd in Mars his field, And thence sublim'd so often, till they are fix'd. Both this, the Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' Story, Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' Eyes, Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract riddles of our Stone. Face enters. How now ? Do we succeed ? is our day come ? and holds it 1 Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir ; You have colour for it, crimson : the red ferment Has done his office. Three hours hence prepare you To see projection. Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, Again I say to thee aloud, Be rich. This day thou shalt have ingots, and to-morrow Give lords th' affi-ont. Is it, my ZephjTUS, right ? Blushes the Bolt's-head ? ALCHEMIST. 2£ Face. Like a wench with child, sir, That were but now discover'd to her master. Mam. Excellent witty Lungs ! My only care is, Where to get stuff enough now, to project on. This town will not half serve me. Face. No, sir ? buy The covering off o' churches. Mam. That 's true. Face. Yes. Let 'era stand bare, as do their auditory ; Or cap 'em new with shingles. Mam. No ; good thatch : Thatch will lie light upon the rafters. Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace ; I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe, Lost in the embers ; and repair this brain Hurt with the fume o' the metals. Face. I have blown, sir, Hard for your worship ; thrown by many a coal, When 'twas not beech ; weigh'd those I put in, just, To keep your heat still even ; these blear'd eyes Have waked to read your several colours, sir. Of the pale citron, the green lyon, the crow, The peacocFs tail, the plumed swan Mam. And lastly. Thou hast descried the Jloiver, the sanguis agni ? Face. Yes, sh*. Mam. Where 's master ? Face. At his prayers, sir, he, Good man, he 's doing his devotions For the success. Mam. Lungs, I will set a period To all thy labours : thou shalt be the master Of my seraglio. For I do mean To have a list of wives and concubines Equal with Solomon, who had the Stone Alike with me : and I will make me a back With the Elixir, that shall be as tough As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. Thou art sure thou saw'st it blood? Face. Both blood, a,n(i spirit, sir. 294 ALCHEMIST. Mam. I will have all my beds blown up ; not stuft : Down is too hard. And then, mine oval room Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took From Elephantis, and dull Aretine But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse And multiply the figures, as I walk Naked between my Succubce. My mists I '11 have of perfume, vapour'd 'bout the room, To lose ourselves in ; and my baths, like pits To fall into ; from whence we will come forth, And roll us dry in gossamour and roses. (Is it arriv'd at Ruby ?) — Where I spy A wealthy citizen, or rich lawyer. Have a sublim'd pure wife, unto that fellow I '11 e<}nd a thousand pound to be my cuckold. Fa€<}. And I shall carry it ? Mam. No, I '11 have no bawds, But fathers and mothers. They will do it best. Best of all others. And my flatterers Shall be the pure and gravest of divines That I can get for money. My meet fools, Eloquent burgesses ; and then my poets, The same that writ so subtly of the Fart : Whom I will entertain still for that subject. The few that would give out themselves to be Court and town stallions, and each -where belie Ladies, who are known most innocent (for them) Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of : And they shall fan me with ten estrich tails A piece, made in a plume, to gather wind. We will be brave, PufFe, now we ha' the medicine My meat shall all come in in Indian shells, Dishes of Agate set in gold, and studded With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies : The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' heels, Boil'd i' the spirit of Sol, and dissolv'd pearl, (Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy) And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, Headed with diamant and carbuncle. My foot-boy sliall eat pheasants, calver'd salmons, ALCHEMIST. 895 Knots, godwits, lampreys : I myself will have The beards of barbels serv'd, in stead of sallads ; Oil'd mushrooms ; and the swelling unctuous paps Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off, Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce : For which, I '11 say unto my cook, " There 's gold, Go forth, and be a knight." Face. Sir, I '11 go look A little, how it heightens. Mam. Do. — My shirts I '11 have of taffata-sarsnct, soft and light As cobwebs ; and, for all my other raiment, It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, Were he to teach the world riot anew. My gloves of fishes' and birds' skins, perfum'd With gums of paradise, and eastern air. Sur. And do you think to have the Stone with this ? Mam. No, I do think to have all this with the Stone. Sur. Why, I have heard, he must be homo frugi, A pious, holy, and religious man. One free fi'om mortal sin, a very virgin Mam. That makes it Sir, he is so. But I buy it. My venture brings it me. He, honest \vretch, A notable, supei'stitious, good soul, Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald, With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, let him Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes. Not a profane word, afore him : 'tis poison. [The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the torrent of images, words, and book-knowledge with which Mammon con- founds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive strokes of Nilus. They " doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe effects before we have testimony for their causes : as a lively description of the joys of heaven sometimes passes for an argument to prove the existence of such a place. If there be no one image whith rises to the height of the subhme, yet the con- fluence and assemblage of them all produces an effect equal to the gi'andest poetry. Zerxes' army that drank up whole rivers from their numbers may stand for single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most deterniined offspring of the author. It has the whole " matter and copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown : " It is jxist such a swaggerer as contemporaries have 206 VOLPONE. described old Ben to be. Meercraft,Bobadil, the Host of the New Inn, have all his " image and superscription : " but Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir Sampson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another lying overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure IVIammon. What a " tow'ring bravery " there is in his sensuality ! He affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if " Egj'pt with Assyria strove in luxury."] VOLPONE ; OR, THE FOX : A CoMEDv. By Bkx. Jonson. VoLPONE, a rich Venetian nobleman, tcho is without children, feigns himself to be dying, to draw gifts from such as pay their court to him in the expectation of becoming his heirs. MoscA, his knavish confederate, persuades each of these men in tur?i, that he is named for the inheritance, and by this means extracts from their credulity many costly presents. YohvosE, as on his death-bed. MoscA. Corbaccio, an oW gentleman. Mos. Signior Corbaccio, You are very welcome, sir. Corh. How does your patron 1 Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends. Corh. What ? meuds he ? Mos. No, sir, he is rather worse. Corh. That 's well. Where is he ? Mos. Upon his couch, sir, uewly fall'n asleep. Corh, Does he sleep well ? Mos. No wink, sir, all tliis night, Nor yesterday ; but slumbers. Corh. Good ! he shall take Some counsel of physicians : I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor — Mos. He will not hear of drugs. Corh. Why I I myself Stood by, while 'twas made ; saw all th' ingredients ; And know it cannot but most gently work. My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. Volp. I, his last sleep if he would take it. VOLrONK. 297 Mos. Sir, He has no faith in physic. Corb. Say you, say you 1 3Ios. He has no faith in physic : he does think, Most of your doctors are tlie greatest danger, A worst disease t' escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir. Corb. Not I his heir 1 Mos. Not your physician, sir. Corb. 0, no, no, no, I do not mean it. Mos. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook : he says they flay a man, Before they kill him. Corb. Right, I do conceive you. Mos. And then, they do it by experiment ; For which the law not only doth absolve 'em. But gives them great reward ; and he is loth To hire his death so. Corb. It is true, they kill, With as much hcence as a Judge. 3fos. Nay, more ; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too. Corb. I, or me ; Or any man. How does his apoplex ? Is that strong on him still ? Mos. Most violent. His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawn longer than 'twas wont. Corb. How ? how ? Stronger than he was wont ? Mos. No, sir : liis face Drawn longer than 'twas wont. Corb. 0, good. Mos. His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. Co^-b. Good. Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints^ And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. Corb. 'Tis good. Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull. Corb. Good symptoms still. Mos. And from his brain — Corh. Ha ? how 1 not from his brain ! Mos. Yes, sir, and from his brain — Corh. I conceive you, good, Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. Corl. Is 't possible ? yet I am better, ha ! How does he with the swimming of his head ? Mos. 0, sir, 'tis past the scotomy ; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort : You hardly can perceive him that he breathes. Corh. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast liim This makes me young again a score of years. Mos. I was coming for you, sir. Corb. Has he made his will ? What has he giv'u me 1 Mos. No, sir. Cvrh. Nothing ? ha ? Mos. He has not Corh. Oh, oh, oh. What then did Voltore the lawyer here ? Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament ; As I did urge him to it for your good — Co^rh. He came unto him, did he ? I thought so. Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. Corh. To be his heir ? Mos. I do not know, sir. Corh. True, I know it too. J/os. By your own scale, sir. [look Corh. Well, T shall prevent him yet. See Mcsca, Here I have brought a bag of bright cecchines, Will quite weigh down his plate, Mos. Yea marry, sir, This is true physic, this your sacred medicine ; No talk of opiates, to this great elixir. Corh. Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. Mos. It shall be miuister'd to him in his bowl ? Corh. I, do, do, do. VOLPONE. 299 Mos. Most blessed cordial. This will recover him. Corb. Yes, do, do, do. Mos. I think it were not best, sir. Cori. What? Mos. To recover him. Corb. O, no, no, no ; by no means. Mos. Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect if he but feel it. Co-rh. 'Tis true, therefore forbear, I '11 take my Give me 't again. [venture ; 3Ios. At no hand ; pardon me You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all. Corb. How? Afos. All sir, 'tis your right, your own ; no man Can claim a part ; 'tis yours without a rival. Decreed by destiny. Corb. How ? how, good Mosca 1 Mos. I '11 tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. Corb. 1 do conceive you. Mos. And on first advantage Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament : And shew him this. Co7'b. Good, good. 3Ios. 'Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir. Corb. Yes, with all my heart. [speed ; 3fos. Now would I counsel you, make home with Thei'e frame a will ; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir. Corb. And disinherit My son ? Mos. O sir, the better ; for that colour Shall make it much more taking. Corb. 0, but colour ? Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce (as I will do) Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present. 300 VOLPONE. And last produce your will ; where (without thought, Or least regard unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting) The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir : He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, But out of conscience, and mere gratitude Corh. He must pronounce me his ? Mos. 'Tis true. Corh. This plot Did I think on before. Mos. I do believe it, Corb. Do you not believe it ? Mos. Yes, sir. Carl). Mine own project. Mos. Which when he hath done, sir — Corh. Published me his heir ? Mos. And you so certain to survive him — Corh. I. Mos. Being so lusty a man Corh. 'Tis true. Mos. Yes, sir — Corh. I thought on that too. See how he should be The very organ to express my thoughts ! Mos. You have not only done yourself a good Corh. But multiplied it on my son. Mos. 'Tis right, sir. Corh. Still my invention. Mos. 'Las, sir, heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care (I e'en grow grey with all) how to work things Corh. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. Mos. You are he, ji For whom I labour, here. 9 Corh. I, do, do, do : <' I '11 straight about it. Mos. Rook go with you, raven. Corh. I know thee honest. Mos. You do lie, sir — Corh. And — — Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. VOLPONE. 301 Cwl. I do not doubt to be a father to thee. Mos. Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing. Corh. I may ha' my youth restored to me, why not ! Mos. Your worship is a precious ass Corh. What say'st thou ? Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. Corh. 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. \_Exit. Volp. 0, I shall burst ; Let out my sides, let out my sides Mos. Contain Your flux of laughter, sir : you know this hope Is such a bait it covers any hook. Volp. 0, but thy working, and thy placing it ! I cannot hold : good rascal, let me kiss thee : I never knew thee in so rare a humour. Mos. Alas, sir, I but do, as I am taught ; Follow your gi'ave instructions ; give 'em words : Pour oil into their ears : and send them hence. Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment Is avarice to itself ! Mos. I, with our help, sir. Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age. Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with 'em, their limbs faint. Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going. All dead before them ; yea their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them : Yet this is reckou'd life ! Nay here was one, Is now gone home, that wishes to Hve longer ! Feels not his gout, not palsy, feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age, With confident belying it, hopes he may With charms, like yEson, have his youth restored : And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate Would be as easily cheated on as he : And all turns air ! Who 's that there, now ? a third ? [Another knocks. Mos. Close to your couch again : I hear his voice. It is Corvino, otu' spruce merchant. Volp. Dead. 302 VOLPONE. Mas. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. Who 's there \ CoRviNo, a Merchant, enters. Mos. Siguior Corvino ! come most wisht for ! 0, How happy were you, if you knew it now ! Cow. Why ? what ? wherein ? Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir. Corv. He is not dead ? Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good ; He knows no man. Corv. How shall I do then ? Bios. Why, sir ? Corv. I have brought him here a pearL Mos. Perhaps he has So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir : He still calls on you : nothing but your name Is in his mouth : is your pearl orient, sir ? Corv. Venice was never owner of the like. Volp. Signior Corvino. Mos. Hai'k. Volp. Signior Corvino. Mos. He calls you, step and give it him. He 's here, And he has brought you a rich pearl. [sir, Corv. How do you, sir ? Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract. Mos. Sir, He cannot understand, his hearing 's gone : And yet it comforts him to see you Corv. Say, I have a diamond for him too. jl Mos. Best shew 't, sir, ■ Put it into his hand ; 'tis only there 11 He apprehends : he has his feeling yet. See how he gx'asps it ! Corv. 'Las, good gentleman ! How pitiful the sight is ! Mos. Tut, forget, sir. The weeping of an heir should still be laughter. Under a visoi*. Corv. Why, am I his heir ? i VOLPONE. 3(;3 Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will, Till he be dead : but, here has been Corbaccio, Here has been Voltore, here were others too, I cannot number 'em, they were so many, All gaping here for legacies; but I, Taking the vantage of his naming you, (Siguier Corvino, Signior Cor vino) took Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him, Whom he would have his heir ? Corvino. Who Should be executor ? Corvino, And To any question he was silent to, I still interpreted the nods, he made [others. Through weakness, for consent : and sent home the Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry, and curse. Corv. O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us ? Mos. No more than a blind harper. Heknowsnoman, No face of friend, nor name of any servant. Who 't was that fed him last, or gave him drink ; Not those he hath begotten, or brought up, Can he remember. Corv. Has he children 'i Mos. Bastards, Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, Gypsies, and Jews, and black-moors, when he was drunk : Knew you not that, sir ? 'Tis the common fable, The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his : He 's the true father of his family, In all, save me : but he has given 'em nothing. Coi'v. That 's well, that 's well. Art sure he does not hear us ? Mos. Sure, sir ? why look you, credit your own sense. The pox approach, and add to your diseases, If it would send you hence the sooner, sir, For your incontinence, it hath deserv'd it Throughly, and throughly, and the plague to boot. (You may come near, sir) would you would once close Tliose filthy eyes of your's that flow with sUme, Like two frog-pits : and those same hanging cheeks, Cover'd with hide, instead of skin : (nay help, sir) That look like frozen dish-clouts set on end. Corv. Or, like an old smok'd wall, on which the rain Ran down in streaks. 304 VOLPONE. Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out ; You may be louder yet : a culvering Discharged in his ear, would hardly bore it. Corv. His nose is like a common sewer, still running. Mos. 'Tis good ; and what his mouth ? Corv. A very draught. Mos. 0, stop it up Cwv. By no means. Mos. Pray you let me. Faiih I could stifle him rarely with a pillow, As well as any woman that should keep him. Co'rv. Do as you will, but I '11 begone. Mos. Be so ; It is your presence makes him last so long. Corv. I pray you use no violence. Mos. No, sir, why ? Why should you be thus scrupulous ? 'Pray you, sir. Coi'v. Nay, at your discretion. il/os. Well, good sir, be gone. Corv. I will not trouble him now, to take my pearl. Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless care Is this afflicts you ? Is not all here yours ? Am not I here, whom you have made your creature. That owe my being to you ? Corv. Grateful Mosca ! Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, My partner, and shall share in all my fortunes. lExit. Volp. My divine !Mosca ! Thou hast to-day out gone thyself. END OF VOL. I. LONDON ; BBADBURI AND EVANS, PRINTEBS, WHITEFBIARS. f3 (.3 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNI Santa Barbara STACK COLLECTI THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAS STAMPED BELOW. %x:r^ ■ 3 1205 03058 3544 ^