PR 188^ BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME FROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF 1891 A^-i(?-<^-^-^ Mtq 593« Cornell University Library PR 2422.H94 1889 Beaumont and Fletcher; or, The finest see 3 1924 013 127 638 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013127638 BOHN'S STANDARD LIBRARY. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEE. BY LEIGH HUNT. BEAUMONT and FLETCHEE; OB, THE iimi Sfms, f grits, »«^ fft|tr %tMm OF THOSE TWO POETS, SELECTED trom the WHOLE op theie 'WOEES, OPINIONS OP DISTINatriSHED CRITICS, NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND OTHERWISE, AND A GENERAL INTEODUCTORT PREFACE, BY LEIGH HUNT. LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS. YORK STREET, COYENT GARDEN. 1889. P|.'L-)t>G67 LONDOH : PKTKTED BY WIIXIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIHITBD. ETAUrOBD STBSET AHD CHABIKO GItOnS. REMARKS 0^' BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER IKCIDENTAL TO THIS SELECTION. It is not customary, I believe, to ■write prefaces to books of selection. " Beauties" are understood to speak for them- selves ; and the more they deserve the name, the less pohtic it may be considered to dilate on the merits of the writings from which they have been cuUed. A wit who was shown the collection of detached passages called the Beauties of Shakspeare, is reported to ha,ve said : " Where are the other nine volumes ?" There are such especial reasons, however, why a selection from the works of Beaumont and Fletcher is a thing not only warrantable but desirable (to Bay nothing of the difference of this volume from collections of merely isolated thoughts and fancies), that it is proper I should enter into some explana- tions of them ; and for this purpose I must begin with a glance at the lives of the two poets. Feaitois Beaitmoitt, youngest son of a judge of the Common Pleas, is supposed to have been born about the year 1584, at the abbey of Grace-Dieu, in Leicestershire, which, at the dissolution of the monasteries, had become possessed by the judge's father, who was recorder of the county, and subse- quently a judge himself. The poet was intended tor the family profession, and, after studying awhile at Oxford, was entered of the Middle Temple ; but on becoming acquainted with the stage, he probably felt that his vocation had been otherwise destined. The date of his first acquaintance with Fletcher is unknown ; but it must of necessity have been when he was young ; and the intimacy became so close, that the two friends are said not only to have lived in the same house (which was on the Surrey side of the Thames, near the Globe Theatre), but to have possessed everything in common. Yl BEMABKS. Beaumont however, if not Fletcher, married ; and he haa not paBsed what is called the prime of life, when he died ; for, according to Ben Jonson, he had not completed his thirtieth year. But there is reason to believe otherwise. He was buried in 'Westminster Abbey. John Flxtohxb, son of a Bishop of London who had ac- quired an unenviable celebrity as one of the troublers of the last moments of Mary Queen of Scots, was born at Eye, ii Sussex, in the year 1579. He appears to have been educateu at Cambridge, and to have led a life whoUy theatrical. There 18 nothing to prove that he ever married ; though, on the other hand, there is nothing to disprove that he was the " John Fletcher" whose marriage with " Jono Herring" in the year 1612 is on record in the Southwark books. Be this as it may, he continued to live and write in the parish of St. Saviour long after the death of the friend who had kept house with him ; and he died there, and was buried in the church, in the year 1625. He himself had not lived to be old ; for he was not forty-six. His death was occasioned by an accident. Bequiring a new suit of clothes for a visit to which he had been invited in the country, he stopped in town to have it made, and the consequence was a seizure by the plague, which sent him on the journey from which " no traveller returns." Nothing is known of the personal habits of these iUu8- trious men except that they were intimate with other cele- brated poets, Ben Jonson in particular ; that Beaumont (and doubtless Fletcher) frequented the famous Mermaid Tavern,^ of which he has recorded the merits ; that Fletcher, though dissatisfied with his plays when he saw them acted, hated to bespeak &vour for them in prologues; and that neither Beaumont nor Fleteher entortained much respect for their critics in general. The very talk of the two friends is said to have been " a comedy." A certain aristocratical tone, as weU as the ultra-loyal breeding which has been noticed in them, is, I think, discernible in their writings, though qualified occa- siondly as genius is sure to qua£fy it. Ben Joason told Drummond that Beaumont thought too much of himself, — BEMAEKS. VU probably because Beaumont had joined the rest of the world in saying the same thing of Ben ; but this did not hiader them, or had not hindered them, from giving one another the warmest praises. Of Shakspeare, who said nothing of any- body, Beaumont and Fletcher said as little. Their only allusions to his writings look very like banters. Perhaps the artificial superiority of their birth and breeding, and the tone of fashionable society in which they excelled, con- spired with a natiu-al jealousy to make them fancy him a less man than he was; as, on the other hand, Shakspeare' s extrar ordinary silence with regard to his contemporaries may have originated in habits of self-suppression, attributable to aflything but pride of position. Whatever Beaumont and Fletcher may have thought in this particular instance, little did the two young poets suspect, that the advantages of rank and training on which they pro- bably valued themselves, as giving their genius its solidest opportunities and most crowning grace, were the very things destined to do it the greatest mischief, and to threaten their names with extinction. Though poets truly so called, and therefore naturally possessed of earnestness of mind and a tendency to believe in whatsoever was best and wisest, they had not sufficient complexional strength to hinder a couple of lively and flattered young men from falling in with the tone of the day and the licenses in fashion ; and unfortu- nately for their repute in a day to come, they entered on their career at a time when the example in both these respects happened to be set by a court which was the vulgarest in its language, and the most profligate in its morals, of any that ever disgraced the country : for the court of Charles the Second, however openly dissolute, and (compared with our present refinement) coarse in its language, was elegance itself in comparison with that of James the First ;— to say nothing of depths of crime and enormity, with which our poets had assuredly nothing in common. It is interesting to see how the diviner portion of spirit inherent in aU true genius saved these extraordinary men from being corrupted to the core, and losing those jioblest powers of utterance which nothuig but sincerity and right feeling can bestow ; how, in the midst of the grossest efieminacy, they delighted Till EEMASK8. in painting the manliest characters ; how they loved sim- plicity and tenderness, and never wrote so well as when speaking their language ; and how, when on the very knees of the slavishest of the doctrines in which they had been bred, their hearts could rise against the idols of their worship, and set above all other pretensions the rights of justice and humanity. To read one of the pages of the beautiful por- tions of their works, you would think it impossible that such writers should frame their lips to utter what disgraces the page ensuing : yet there it is, like a torrent of feculence beside a chosen garden ; nay, say rather like a dream, or a sort of madness, — the very spite and riot of the tongue of a disordered incontinence for the previous self-restraint. And this was the privilege of their position ! the gain they had got by their participation of polite life in the days of James the Krst, and their right to be considered its perfect expo- nents! Had Beaumont been fortunate enough to have been the son of a briefless barrister, or Fletcher's father, happily for himself, have risen no higher in the Church than his ministry in the village of Eye, — the two dramatistSjUnhurt by those blighting favours of the day, and admonished to behave themselves as decorously as their brethren, might now have been in possession of a thoroughly delightful fame, and such a volume as the one before us have been a thing out of the question ; but the son of the judge, and the son of the bishop, unluckily possessed rank as well as gaiety enough to constitute themselves the representatives of what in the next age was styled the " gentleman of vpit and pleasure about town ; " and the consequence was, that while on the serious side of their natures they were thoughtful and beautiful poets, and probably despised nine-tenths of the persons whom they amused, — on the other side, and in the intoxication of success, they threw themselves with their whole stock of wit and spirits into the requirements of the ribaldry in fashion, and, by a combination peculiar to the reigns of the Stuarts, became equally the delight of the " highest" and the " lowest circles." Not that there was wanting in those times a circle of a less nominal altitude, in which their condemnation wa? already commencing; for though the gloomier class of Puritans were as vulgar in their way, as the Im-puritans were in theirSj SS1UU.BEE. U yet a breeding alien to both prevailed in the families which the young Milton frequented ; and when the author oiAClegro and Penseroso spoke of the dramatists who attracted him to the theatre, he tacitly reproved the two Mends by limiting his mention 6f names to those of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson; though how he admired the culprits, apart from their mis demeanours as fine gentlemen, is abundantly proved by his imitations of them in those very poems, and in the masque of Comus. It might be asked by those who know Beaumont and Eletcher by name only, or by little else than the modern adaptations of one or two of their plays, whether this view of their offences against decency is not exaggerated, and whether it was possible for any British court to set so low an example. It is not pleasant to be under the necessify of satisfying doubts of this nature, especially with a book mil of beauties before us, taken from the authors who are found so much fault with ; and it is impossible, for obvious reasons, to pro- duce proofs from the authors themselves, and so do the very thing we object to, and quote what is not fit to be read. Nevertheless, it is proper to show from what an amount of deformity those beauties have been rescued ; and it will be sufficient for this purpose to bring the testimony of two witnesses, who may fairly represent all the others, and both of whom would far rather have found the poets faidtless, than blameable. The first is Schlegel, one of the fondest as well as ablest critics of our national drama ; the other, the latest editor of the works of Beaumont and Iletcher, Mr. Dyce. " There is an incurable vulgar side of human nature," observes Schlegel, " which the poet should never approach but with a certain bashfulness, when he cannot avoid allowing it to be perceived ; but instead of this, Beaumont and Fletcher throw no veil whatever over nature. They express everything bluntly in words : they make the spectator the unwilling confidant of all that more noble minds endeavour to hide even from themselves. The indecencies in which these poets allowed themselves to indulge, exceed all con- ception. The licentiousness of the language is the least evil ; many scenes, nay, whole plots, are so contrived, that S BEUA.BES. the very idea of them, not to mention the sight, is a gross iasult to modesty. I Aristophanes is a bold interpreter of sensnsility ; but like the Grecian statuary in the figures of satTTS, Ac. he banishes them into the animal region to which they wholly belong ; and judging him according to the morality of his times, he is much less offensive. But Beau- mont and Fletcher exhibit the impure and nauseoua colouring of vice to our view in quite a different sphere; their compo- sitions resemble the sheet full of pure and impure animals in the vision of the Apostle. This was the universal inclination of the dramatic poets under James and Charles the Krst. They seem as if they purposely wished to justify the Puritans, who" affirmed that .the theatres were so many schools of se- duction, and chapels of the Devil."* It might have been more philosophical in the excellent German critic, if, instead of the words " incurably vulgar," at the commencement of this passage, he had said, " of. necessity repulsive ;" for we must not say of Nature, in relation to any of her works, human or otherwise, that she has done anything vulgar or incurable. Nothing requires cure, but what she has rendered curable ; and vulgarity, in the offensive sense of the word, though for wise purposes she has rendered us sensible of such an impression in relation to one another, is not to be thought predicable of herself. It was in some measure, most probably, out of a mistaken sense of this truth, and from a certain hearty universality natural to poets, that Beaumont and Fletcher allowed them- selves to go to the extremes they did, against the other extreme of the Puritans ; forgetting, that a genial boldness is not a shameless audacity, and that the absence of all restraint tends to worse errors than formality. Too true is the charge of Schlegel against them. With rare and beautiful exceptions, they degrade love by confining it to the animal passion : they degrade the animal passion itself, by associating it with the foulest impertinences ; they combine, by anticipation, Eochester and Swift, — make chas- tity and unchastity almost equally offensive, by indecently * Ledum on Dramatic Art and Literature, Black's TranslatioD, voL ii. p. 308. (Bohn's' edition, p. 470.) BEMABE8. XI and extravagantly contrasting them ; nay, put into the mouths of their chastest persons a language evincing the grossest knowledge of vice, sometimes purposely assuming its character, and pretending, in zeal ior its de&at, to be intoxicated with its enjoyment ! And these fatal mistakes occur not on]y in one, two, or six, or twenty, or thirty of their plays, but more or less in all of them, — in every one of the whole fifty-two ; sometimes ji patches and small scenes, sometimes in great ones, often throughout a great part of the play, frequently as its foun- dation and main interest, and almost always in some offensive link or other with the very finest passages, from which you are obliged to cut it away. It is like a disease; Eke' cankers ; the plague-spots of the drama, at the time wheu it was infected with the presence of king James the First. \ " The many offences against decency which our poets « have committed," says Mr. Dyce, " can only be extenuated on the plea that they sacrificed their own taste and feelinga to the fashion of the times. / There can be little doubt that the most unblushing licentiousnesa, both in conversation and practice, prevailed among the courtiers of James the First: we know too that ' to be like the court was a playe's praise';' and for the sake of such praise Beaumont and Metcher did not scruple to deform their dramas with ribaldry, — Kttle imagining how deeply, in consequence of that base alloy, their reputation would eventually suffer ' at the coming of the better day.' In this respect they sinned more grievously than any of their contemporary play- wrights ; but most of the others have enough to answer for ; nor was Shakespeare himself completely proof against the contaminating ii^uence of his age. The example of Charles the First is generally supposed to have given a higher tone to the morals of our nobility and gentry ; yet, shortly before the death of that monarch, we find Lovelace extolling the art with which in the present play (The Custom of the Country) a veil of seeming modesty is thrown over obscefnity : 'Tiew here a loose thought said with such a grace, Minerva might have spoke in Venus' face ; So well disguis'd, that 'twas conceiv'd by none Sat Cupid had Biana's linen on.' XU BEUABE8. It would be curious, observes Mr. Dyce, " to know what was Lovelace's idea of downright coarseness." This very play, as the same critic remarks, was _ the one which Dryden instanced, in self-defence, as containing more indecency than all the plays of his own time put together. " A very bold assertion," continues Mr. Dyce. " If Dryden and the other dramatists of Charles the Second's time did not equal their predecessors in open licentiousness (and of that they have a tolerable share), they far exceeded them in wanton inuendos and allusions. The truth is, the greater part of the eighteenth century had passed away before indecency was wholly banished from the writings of our countrymen: even in the pages of Addison, who did so much towards the purification of English literature, there are passages which may occasion some slight uneasiness to one reading aloud in a family circle."* So true is this remark on the Spectator, that the passageB alluded to could not, with propriety, be read aloud at all. Th^are harmless, as far as mere coarseness is harmless ; and Steele (for the benefit of conjugality) ventures a luxu- riance now and then, which to readers who can take it as he meant, is equally so. But if caution has become necessary in reading Addison, who is justly designated as one of the purifiers of our literature, and whose name has been held synonymous with propriety, it may easily be supposed how abundant the necessity is rendered in the case of the| two most licentious writers of a licentious age. Fortunately they wrote much, and beautifully; and it has been still more fortunate for them, that genius and purity go best together ; so that my selection has not only been enabled to be copious as well as spotless (thanks to the facilities afibrded to excision by the authors themselves), but with the exception of a few of their sentences, not so easily detach- able, and of the equally few incidents connected with them, contains, I think I may say, the whole of their finest vn-iting, and every presentable scene that has been deservedly admired. Not that indecency has been the sole bar to approval * Works of Beaumont and Fletcher, vol. i p. (of Memoir) xlvii. EEMAEKS. Xlll for the same haste to please, and want of diserfetion iu the mode of pleasing, — -joined perhaps to necessities for re- cruiting the purse (Beaumont being a younger brother, and rieteher's father, the bishop, having at least been free from the scandal of leaving his family rich), — ^induced these illus- trious " gentlemen about town" to put up with im2robablfi_ ^otSjgratuitDaisw»drdisgoiBted--scenea,_£5tea2^^ mid aT ^ose other su batitutiona-of_the surprising for the s^s^toryjjES]^loserJ(hfi_dramatistjnto the_melodramatist, ' and have abundantly subjecteJ even these great geniuses to the mortifying consequences. The same imperfection of moral discernment, or carelessness to sharpen it, led them into mistakes ofsentm"^"<''a1is"' fnr^jgTTJJTTieiTtjjvjnlfinnf! for sincerity, antfheapings of superlaiive~pEraseB for paint- ing8"T3f^character. The truth fs, that, great geniuses as they were, and exquisite in a multitude of passages, few even of the lovers of books read their works through. The most willing admirers are not only repelled by the ribaldry, but tired by ^ejant of tnitlLandJby the positive ■ trash. They grow impatient of exits and entrances that have no ground but the convenience of the writers ; of childish adventures, inconsistent speeches, substitutions of the authors themselves for their characters, sudden conver- sions of bad people to good, and heaps of talking for talk- ing's sake. If they hurry the perusal, they perc^^^othing distinctly ; if they proceed step by step, the i^^piiments become vexatious ; and if, nevertheless, they resolve to read everything, they are always finding themselves in those foul places which delighted the courtiers of James the I'irst, and which nauseate a modern reader to the soul. I have as little respect for prudery as anybody, and should be the last man in the world to formalise honest passion, or to deny to poetry and geniality that right poetic luxury of ex- pression which is analogous to the utterances of Nature her- self in the glowing beauty of her works ; but some years ago, in attempting a regular perusal of Beaumont and Fletcher, I found myself desisting on these accounts at the fifth or sixth play. I have just now finished the whole fifty-two ; and though my task ^as been rewarded by the beautiful volume before ub, and by the consciousness of haviug Xir B£MABEB. done a service both to the authors and to the public, I feel a strong conviction, that none but antiquarian editors, or persons with very strange tnstes indeed, could ever make such a thorough-going perusal a labour of love. Beaumont and Fletcher, says Sir Walter Scott, may " be said to have taken for their model the boundless license of the Spanish stage, from which many of their pieces are ex- pressly and avowedly derived. The acts of their plays are so detached from each other, in substance and consistency, that the plot can scarce be said to hang together at all, or to have, in any sense of the word, a beginning, progress, and conclusion. It seema as if the play began bbcause the_cur.' tain rosej^djended becausait JeUT' "Beaumont and Fletcher's plots," observes Coleridge, " are wholly inartificial ; they only care to pitch a character into a position to make him or her talk ; you must swallow all their gross improbabilities, and, taking it aU for granted, attend only to the dialogue." These two judgments are quoted by Mr. Peter Cun- ningham in the notes to his edition of Campbell's Specinpena of British Poets ;* and they occasion him to observe, that, " you could not publish tales from their plays, but scenes and incidents of truth and beauty without number." I was happy to find my project so felicitously prejudged. These scenes and incidents, it is trusted (as I have already intimated), the reader will find in the collection before him ; though it must needs go to prove them not exactly " without number." If two or three of the most popular should be sup- posed absent — such as lively passages of dialogue in the Chances, and Leon's taming of his bride in Aule a Wife and Have a Wife — it is to be borne in mind, that those acquaintances of the old play-goer are not printed as the authors wrote them, but as they were adapted to the modern stage, and that my reasons for omitting the originals are the same which caused the adaptation. It is to be regretted that much of the vrit of Beaumont and Fletcher is so inextricably interwoven with freedoms no longer endured, that it has ceased to be pro- ducible either in theatres or private circles ; but, saving the * Edition of 1841. EEMAEKS. X> talk of King James's gentlemen, enough remains to show what it was ; and even of that, when it became decent, — " which," as Autolycus says, "was odd," — intimations will not be found wanting. If Don John and , Don Frederick are not here, talking of nurses and surgeons, yet here is Bessm, the ^jrince of cowards ; and Lazdrillo, who worships a good dish ; and Count Valore, who introduces him ; and La Writ, the Little French Lawyer, who bustles himself into being a duellist ; and Monsieur Mount-Marine, who is hoaxed up through all the degrees of nobility with as many whisks of a sword ; and the Scornful Lady, who anticipates the style of Congreve ; and Diego, in the Spanish Curate, who cheats a lawyer, and bequeaths vast estates out of no- thing ; besides many an airy passage in transitu, that wUl not leave the best tone of the day, or of any day, undis- cernible. Again, if wit was the most popular, and seemed as if it would have been the most lasting quality of Beaumont and Fletcher, it has not turned out to be so. They were authors , destined to survive only in fragments ; and the fragments for which they have been most admired, are serious ones, not comic, — speeches of forlorn maidens, descriptions of inno- cent boys, effusions of heroism and of martyrdom, songs of solitudes and of graves. Here are all those, and many to keep them company. Here are the most striking passages of their best and (as far as they could be given) of their worst characters, of their noble Caratachs and Mirandas, their good and wicked parents, their affecting children, their piteous sweet Euphrasias, Ordellas, and Julianas, — creations, many of which it did honour to the poets' hearts to conceive, and which, I have no doubt, their own conduct could have matched in corresponding manly worthiness, had circum- stances occurred to challenge it ; for though they were not Miltous, they were not Wallers, — mueh less the Eochesters whom they condescended to foreshadow. They did not grow baser, as they grew older ; nor, when a noble character pre- sented itself to their minds, did they fail, notwithstanding . the weaknesses that beset them, to give it the welcome of uudoubtiug hearts, and of expression to its height. In the XTl BEMABES. tragedy of The False One Septimius enters with the head of Pompey, which he has cut off, exclaiming — 'Tig here ! 'Tb done ! — Behold, you fearful viewers. Shake, and behold the model of the world here, The pride and strength ! Look ; look again i 'tis finish'd! That which whole armies, nay, whole nations, Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at, Have fled before, wing'd with their fears and terrors. That steel'd War waited on, and Fortune courted, That high-plum'd Honour built up for her own ; Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness. Behold that child of war, with aU his glories. By this poor hand made breathless AMllat. Thou poor Boman, It was a sacred head I durst not heave at ; Nor heave a thought. And King Ptolemy, coming in, says — Stay J come no nearer ; Methinks I feel the very earth shake under me! And then Csesar, to whom the head is presented as a trophy, addresses it as the whole awful man, and as a thing sacred : — O thou conqueror ! Thou glory of the world once, now the pity. Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ! What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on, To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian P The light and life of Borne to a blind stranger. That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was! Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven ; No pyramids set off his memories. But the eternal substance of his greatness. So when Ordella, in the tragedy of Thierry and Theodoret, is prepared to undergo any infliction for the good of the state, Thierry says — Suppose it death. Ord. I do. Thi. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetne^. B'EMABES. XVII With youtli, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason ! For in the silent gmve no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careftil father's counsel, nothing's heard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion. Dust and an endless darkness. And dare you, vroman, Desire this place p Ord. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest. Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, And kings, &om height of aU their painted glories, Fall like spent exhalations to this centre. — Thi. Then you can suffer P Ord, As willingly as say it. Thi. {to his friend Martett). Martell, a wonder! Here is a woman that dares die. — Yet, tell me. Are you a wife p Ord. I am, sir, Thi. And have children ? She sighs and weeps. Ord. Oh, none, sir. But the reader must turn to the rest. I shall be repeating the volume. Here, in a word, is all the best passion and poetry of the two friends, such as I hope and believe they would have been glad to see brought together ; such as would have re- minded them of those happiest evenings which they spent in the same room, not perhaps when they had most wine in their heads, and were loudest, and merriest, and least pleasied, but when they were most pleased both with them- selves and with all things, — serene, sequestered, feeling their companionship and their poetry sufficient for them, without needing the ratification of it by its fame, or echo ; such evenings as those in which they wrote the description of the boy by the fountain's side, or his confession as Euphrasia, or Caratach's surrender to the Bomans, or the address to Sleep in Falentinian, or the divine song on Melancholy, which must have made them feel as if they had created a solitude of their own, and heard the whisper of it stealing by their window. How, at such times, or on some rare and particular even- ng at such times (I hope not oftener), must they not have Been disposed to hate and abhor what they had conde- scended to write for the purpose of pleasing the court and fVlll KEMABirS. the canaille .' — how not have wished it all unsaid, and the money returned to the manager ; or that somebody could take the passages out of the books, and even squeeze the volumes together into one small tome, all poetry and pas- sion, dainty as spices from Araby, and rescued from cop" ruption*! Let me hope (if the hope itsfelf be not immodest) that something of the kind has here been done. ^ Beaumont and Fletoher were two bom poets, possessed of a noble and tender imagination, of great fancy and wit, and of an excess of companionabiUty and animal spirits, which, by taking them off from study, was their ruin. They had not patience to construct a play like Ben Jonaon, yet (their sensibility and their purer vein of poetry have set xhem above him, even as dramatists. By the side of merely conventional or artificial poets they are demigods : by the /side of Shakspeare they were striplings, who never arrived at years of discretion. 11 Yet even as such, they show themselves of ethereal race ; and as lyrical poets, they sur- passed even Shakspeare. There was nothing to compare with their songs, for tenderness and sweetness, till the appearance of Percy's Religues, — and some of the best touches even of those were found to be from their hands. Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain ; "Ear violets plucl'd the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again. This exquisite image is from a song in the Queen of Corinth. The very cheeks of youth and innocence are not simpler and sweeter than these productions of Beaumont and Fletcher. - Tou accept them as vou would actual sorrow, or the sight of artless tears. Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew ; Maidens, willow branches bear ; Say I died true. , Hy love was iaise, but I was firm From my hour of birth ; TTpon my buried body lie Iiightly, gentle earth. HEMAEKS. XIX So, the conclusions of the two beautiful stanzas in thp Captain, beginning Away, delights, go seek some other dwelling : — the mourner says to Love, *, Alas ! for pity go, And fire their hearts That have been hard to thee : mine was not so. And the cry of the poor maidens who would fain be resting like tBe one th'.t is dead — Men cannot mock us in the clay. But I shall be repeating the whole set. They haunt the memory, like airs of music. It is observable, that though Beaumont was his friend's junior by some years, and though he died earlier, and wrote by far the less number that are collected as their joint pro- duction, his name always precedes that of his associate. This has been attributed to various causes. If it was not simply owing to the alphabetical j)recedence of an initial leVter (a great adjuster of such ceremonies), it may have fjiginated in the superior standing of Beaumont's family, which was very ancient, and allied to royalty. I agree, however, with those who attribute it, either to his having had the greater share in the composition of the plays first published, or to a feeling of respect towards the memory of the dead. Perhaps-t;here was something in it also ot that reputation for superior judgment which has been awarded 'iiim by tradition, and in which my late attentive perusal of the plays has forced me to believe. I cannot help think- mg, that in those in which he is supposed to have been most concerned, there is a certain weight, both of style and sen- timent, in which the tread of his presence is discernible.' Not but what I ara of opinion that there was a thorough sympathy of power on both sides, and that each of the two friends could either be grave or gay, witty or imaginative, as he thought proper : — nothing else, it appears to me, could account for their writing so much in conjunction, and of a nature which for the most part is held to be so undistinguish- BEMABE.S. able. Beaumont had spirits as well as wit enough to let himself go all lengths with his friend in the first instance (borne away by the robuster temperament of the man who lived longest) ; andFletcher was wise enough to be called back " on reflection," and to allow, that, pleasant as the extra- vagance was, it was not to be hazarded with " the dullards." I think also that Beaumont checked a certain mannerism and excess in Fletcher's versification ; though I still hold the opinion, however well contested it was by Mr. Darley, that in the more judicious moments of their ventures in that direction there were the germs of a finer, freer, more impul- sive, and therefore more suitably various system of musical modulation — that is to say, rhythmical as contradistinguished from metrical — than is supplied by the noble but conventional harmony of Shakspeare himself, and such as' might have struck a new note in our versification in general, or at all events in that of our drama. And Mr. Darley himself, who had not ouly a fine ear, but a profovmd sense both of the formative and modulative necessity of verse to poetry, as the shaper of its emotions into all their analogous beauty, ended his objectioiis with expressing a wish to see a perfection which he despaired of.* Beaumont's death, however, and Fletcher's impatience, probably left their system undeveloped, supposing them to have consciously entertained it, or that it was anything better than an impulse. Such a novelty, too, might have required a nation more musically educated than ours", — perhaps of a more musical tendency by nature; and Beaumont, who had already expressed himself indignant against censurers " Whose very reading made verse senseless prose" (perhaps in allusion to difficulties created by his experiments) would have had many a pang to undergo at finding his most scientific harmonies taken for discord. But this is not the place to discuss a theory ; and I must bring my preface to a close. In making the selection no requisite trouble has been • Introduction to the first of the two editions published by Mr. Hoxon 7ol. i/ p. xli, Mr. Dyce's was the second. BEMAEKS. XXI spared. I have not busied myself with tasks befitting editors of entire works, such as collating texts witk every possible copy, arbitrating upon every different reading, or even amending obviously corrupt ones ; though the latter abound in every edition, and the temptation to notice them is great. On the other hand, where readings were disputed, I have not failed to pay attention to the dispute, and make such conclusion as seemed best. I first perused the plays in succession, pen in hand, marking everything as it struck me ; then made the selection from the marked passages, on re-perusal ; and finally compared my text with that of the latest editions, and added the critical and expla- natory notes. I felt some hesitation with regard to such of the notes as contain encomiums from celebrated writers ; fearing that passages thus distinguished might throw a slur on the rest. But I reflected, that approbation in those cases does not imply the reverse ia the others ; that the mere fact of selection conveys the tacit approbation which the selector may be qualified to give ; and above all, that poets like Beaumont andPletcher can " speak for themselves," and readers be often quite willing that they should do so. I must add, that though omissions, for obvious reasons, have been abundant, not a word has been altered. Above aU, I must observe, that of the passages needing rejection, not a particle has been spared. The most cautious member of a family may take up the volume at random, and read aloud from it, without misgiving, in circles the most refined. CONTENT? [ntrodactoiy Bemarks PAOA Iee Woiuir-HA.TSE — Beaumont and lUneier. Adoration of a Dish , . Poetical Mystification Court Sights and Welcomes Song of a Sad Heart . . Fhilastee ; OB, LovB Lies a.-BjxbiiisG — Beaumont and Tletcher. Love Made by a IJady. . Love Loth to Part with the Objetl of its Worship Ijove Described by Love A Threat of Vengeance Lore Poigiven by Love An Lmndation A Disclosure . 9 14 15 IS IT 39 41 ib. The Mud's Tba:0KDT — Beakmjmt and Fletcher. Tan Forlorn 49 XXIV OOHTElfTS. Passages &om a Masque performed on the Wedding I7ig of Amintor and Svadne . . • t^- Self-pity Demanding Sympathy . . ,51 A Wife Penitent and Forgiven . . .53 Death Sought by Two Despairing Women, one Violent and the other GtfjL^ . . . ,56 A. Kisa AND No Kurd — Beaumont and Fletcher, GChe FhUoBophy of Kicks and Beatings . , 66 Tee ScoBinnrL Lady — Beaumont and Fletcher. An Elderly Serring-maid looking Marriage-wards . 74 An Accepted Lover depressed . . .76 A " Dominie" Bantered . . . . 7S The Cvbtou op the Couhtbt — Beaumont and Fletcher. Heroic Hospitality . , . .80 Wit Without 'HLos-si—Beaumiont ami Fletcher. A New Beceiver Qeneral . . , .84 The Littix Ebench IiAWIBS.— Beaumont and Fletcher. An Extempore Duellist . . . .87 Intoxication of Unlooked-for Success , .04 BONDUCA — Beaumont and Fletcher. Boasting Bebuked . . . ,99 Valour permitting itself to be made Over-cautious oj Piqne . . , • .104 CONTENTQ. ^^* Roman Valour and Griory . . • Ascendancy must not Despair . . Innocence of an Infimt Hero . • Lost Honour Despairing . > A Little Victim of War ; and Homage to a Great One rxae 109 110 115 119 126 The ENiaHi os Malta — Beaamoni and Fletcher. Sensual Passion No Love . . ■ 130 Loving Self-sacrifice .... 133 Xhs Cozcoub — Beaumont and Fletcher. Drunkenness Bepented .... 145 The Drunken Penitent Forgiven ... 149 Wit at SbtbkaIi Weapohb — Beaitmont and Fletcher. A "Poached Scholar" . . . .153 IsE EimaHT OP the BuBimra Pestle — Beaumont and Fletcher. Londoners and their Favourite Plays and Legends Bantered ..... 154 Books of Knight-errantry Bantered . . 158 Animal Spirits, Motherly Partiality, and a Child's Hypo- crisy . . . . . 166 Traitorous Nature of Sadness, and Vitality of Mirth . 170 CuriD's RETENflE — Beaumont and Fletcher. A Godlike Appearance .... 171 Excess of Provocation . , . it. Simple and Truthful Death for Love . . 172 IXVl COIfTENTS. PAaB Thisbby and Thkodobbt — Beaumont and Ueleier. Tears, Good and Evil . . . • 172 A Coward Proved and Exposed . . • 173 A WaUng Martyr . . . .177 Thb Hoirssi Milf'B FoBimra — Beaumont and Fletcher. Superiority to Misfortune . • • 138 Calamity's Last and D'oblest Consolation , . ii' Heart of Oak ... • «4- VALEVTHnAN — Beaumottt and Fletcher. Scorn of Love Admonished . . • 18S A Tyrant Poisoned . . . 189 The Double MABBiAas — Beaumont and Fletcher. Fatal Mistake . . . . .194 .Four Plats, ob Mobal Befbebeittations, in One — Beaumont and Fletcher. Childbirth Comforted . . . 199 The Masqite cm the Innes Teuflb and Gbay's Ijtn — Beaumont. A Celestial Dance .... 201 Xhe Eldeb 'BBOTBB&— Fischer. A G-lutton of Books . . » . 201 Prejudice sir; Laz. G-ive it me ! [Reads on the owtaide. " A bill of all the several services this day appointed for every table in the court." Aye, this is it on which my hopes rely ; Within this paper aU my joys are closed ! Boy, open it, and read with reverence. Croit-garlered^, A fashion of the day. ' taniojle, foot-cloth riders.'] Eideis in pantoflea, » kind of slipper, who needed doths hanging across their horses, to protect their feet. '' Stocks.'] Stocks were stockings, and short-paned hoae breecher hsYjng iiaites, er stripes, of different colours. THE WOMAK-HATEE. « Boy. [Eea«f«.] "For the captain of the guard'a table three chines of beef and twogbles of sturgeon." Lag. A portly service ; But gross, gross. Proceed to the duke's own table. Dear boy, to the duke's own table ! Boy. " For the duke's own table, the head of an umbrana." Laz. Is it possible ? Can heaven be so- propitious to the duke ? , Boy. Yes, I'll assure- you, sir, 'tis possible ;■ Heaven is so propitious to him. Lae., Why then, he is the richest prince alive I He were the wealthiest monarch in all Europe-,. Had he no other territories, dominions. Provinces, seats, nor palaces, but only That umbrana's head. Boy. Tia very fresh and sweet, sir ; the fish was taken but- this night, and the head, as a- rare novelty, appointed by special commandment for the duke's own table; thiii^ dinner. Las. If poor unworthy I may come to eat Of this most sacred dish, I here do vow • (If that blind huswife Fortune will bestow But means on me) to keep a sumptuous house. \_Scene changes to an apartment in the house of CounfYsioref one of the nobles of Milan. ^ Valore. Now am I idle ; I would I had been a scholar, that I might have studied now ! the punishment of meaner men is, they have too much to do ; our only misery is, that vrithout company we- know not what to do. I must take some of the common courses of our nobility, which is thus : if I can find no company that likes me, pluck off my hat-band, throw an old cloak over my face, and, as if I would not be known, walk hastily through the streets, till I be discovered ; then- " there goes Count Such-a-one," says one ; " There goes' 'Count Sneh-a-one" says another; "Look how fast he goes," says a third; "There's some great matters in hand questionless," says a fourth ; whea all-, my business is t& have them say so. This hath been used.. Or, if I can find any company, I'll after din-ner to ther 4 THB WOMAN-HATBB. stage to see a play ; where, when I £rst enter, you shall have a murmur in the house ; every one that does not know, cries, " What nobleman is that ?" all the gallants on the stage rise, vaU to me, kiss their hand, offer me their places: then I pick out some one, whom I please to grace among the rest, take his seat, use it, throw my cloak over my face, and laugh at him : the poor gentleman imagines himself most highly graced ; thinks all the auditors esteem him one of my bosom- friends, and in right special regard with me. But here comes a gentleman, that I hope will make me better sport than either street or stage fooleries. [^Retires to one aide of the staff e. Enter La.zabillo and Boy. This man loves to eat good meat ; always provided he do not pay for it himself. He goes by the name of the Hungry Courtier. Marry, because I think that name will not sufficiently disianguish him (for no doubt he hath more fellows there) his name is LazariUo ; he is none of these same ord'nary eaters, that will devour three breakfasts and as many dinners, without any prejudice to their bevers,' drinkings, or suppers ; but he hath a more courtly kind of hunger, and doth hunt more after novelty than plenty. I'll over-hear him. Lag. Oh, thou most itching kindly appetite. Which every creature in his stomach feels, Oh, leave, leave yet at last thus to torment me ! Three several salads have I sacrificed, Bedew'd with precious oil and vinegar. Already to appease thy greedy wrath. — Boy! Boy. Sir? Laz. Will the count speak with me ? Boy. One of his gentlemen is gone to inform him of your coming, sir. ' Bevert.! Prom ievere (Italian) to drink :— refreshments between meals ; eyidently so called from their having consisted, at least in the first instanqe, of Uquid rather than solid food j whick is the case with these that still retain the name at college. THE WOMAN-HATEE. O Laz, There is no way left for me to compass this fish-head, but by being presently made known to the duke. Boy. That will be hard, sir. Laz. When I hare tasted of this sacred dish, Then shall my bones rest in my father's tomb In peace; then shall I die most willingly, And as a dish be served to satisfy Death's hunger ; and I wiU be buried thus : My bier shall be a charger borne by four ;' The coffin where I lie, a powd'riag tub* Bestrew'd with lettuce and cool salad-herbs ; My winding-sheet, of tansies ; the black guard" Shall be my solemn mourners ; and, instead Of ceremonies, wholesome burial prayers ; A printed dirge in rhyme shall bury me ; Instead of tears let them pour capon-sauce Upon my hearse, and salt instead of dust ; Manehets* for stones ; for other glorious shields Give me a voider ;» and above my hearse, Por a haek'd sword, my naked knife stuck up ! ' [Valoee comes forward. Boy. Master, the count's here. Laz. "Where f — My lord, I do beseech you \Kneeling. Vol. Tou are very welcome, sir ; I pray you stand up; you shall dLue with me. Laz. I do beseech your lordship, by the love I stiU have borne to your honourable house Val. Sir, what need all this ? you shall dine with me. I pray rise. Laa. Perhaps your lordship takes me for one of these same fellows, that do, as it were, respect victuals, ' Chargers^ The great dish formerly so called. ' powdering tub."] Now called a salting tub. ' TAe Hack guard."] A nickname for those menials who, when goods were carried Ijom one house to another during visits (a common custom with the greatest in those days), had the charge of the pots, kettles, coal-skuttles, &c. * MancAeis.'] Brick loaves of the finest white bread. ' Voider.'] The tray into which the remnants of dinner were swept oif the table. 6 THE WOMAN-HATEE Fal. Oh, sir, by no means. Lag. Tour lordship has often promised, that whensoever I should affect greatness, your own hand should help to raise me. yal. And so much still assure yourself of. Laz. And though 1 must confess I have ever shunn'd popu- larity, by the example of others, yet I do now feel myself a little ambitious. Tour lordship is great, and, though yoting, yet a privy-counciUor. Fal. I pray you, sir, leap into the matter ; what would you have me do for you r Laz. I would entreat your lordship to make me known to the duke. Fal. "When, sir ? Laz. Suddenly, my lord : I would have you present me unto him this morning. Fal. It shall be done. But for what virtues would you have him take notice of you ? Lot. Taith, you may entreat him to take notice of me for anything ; for being an excellent farrier, for playing well at span-counter, or sticking knives in walls ; for being impudent, or for nothing ; why may I not be a favourite on the sudden ? I see nothing against it. Fal. Not so, sir ; I know you ' have not the face to be a favourite on" the sudden. Laz. Why then, you shall present me as a gentieman well qualified, or one extraordinary seen in divers strange mysteries. Fal. In what, sir ? as how ? Laz. Miarry as thus : you shall bring me in, and after a little other talk, taking me by the hand, you shall utter these words to the duke : " May it please your grace, to take note of a gentleman, well read, deeply learned, and thoroughly grounded in the hidden knowledge of all salads and pot-herbs whatsoever." Fal. 'TwiU bo rare ! THE ■WOMA.N-HATEE. 7 [POBXICAL MTSTIFTCATION.] Scene changes to the presence of the Buke, who is about to leave. Valore. Let me entreat your Grrace to stay a little. To know a gentleman, to whom yourself Is much beholding. He hath made the sport For your whole court these eight years, on my know- jD«Ae. His name P .[ledge, Val. Lazarillo. Duke. I heard of him this morning ; Which is he ? Val. (aside) LazariUo, pluck up thy spirits! Thy fortunes are now raising ; the duke calls for thee. Lag. How must I speak to him ? Val. 'Twas well thought of. Ton must not talk to him, As you do to an ordinary man, Honest plain sense, but you must wind about him. For example, — if he should ask you what o'clock it is. Ton must not say, " If it please your grace, 'tis nine ;" But thus, " Thrice three o'clock, so please ray sovereign;" Or thus, " Look how many Muses there doth dwell Upon the sweet banks of the learned well, And just so many strokes the clock hath struck ;" And so forth. And you must now and then Enter into a description. Laz. I hope I shall do it. Val. Cornel " May it please your grace to take note of a gentleman, well seen, deeply read, and throughly grounded in the hidden knowledge of all salads and pot-herbs whatsoever." Jhike. I shall desire to know him more inwardly. Las. I kiss the ox-hide of your grace's foot. Fal. (aside to him.) Tory well ! — Will your grace question him a little ? Duke. How old are you ? iots. Full eight-and-twenty several almanacks Have been compiled, all for several years, ■Since first I drew this breath ; four prenticeships Have I most truly served in this world; 8 THS trOUAJT-HATEB. And eight-and-twenty times hath Phoobua' car Bun out its yearly course, since Duke. I understand you, sir. Lucio. How like an ignorant poet he talks ! Duke. Tou are eight-and-twenty years old. "What time of the day do you hold it to be ? Zaz. About the time that mortals whet their knives On thresholds, on their shoe-soles, and on stairS' Now bread is grating, and the testy cook Hath much to do now : now the tables al l Duke. 'Tis almost dinner time P Laz. Tour grace doth apprehend me very rightly. COUBT SIGHTS AWD 'WELCOMES. Oriana. 'Faith, brother, I must needs go yonder. Valore. And i'faith, sister, what will you do yonder ? Ori. I know the lady Honoria will be glad to see me. Val. Glad to see you ? 'Faith, the lady Honoria cares for you as she doth for all other young ladies; she is glad to see you, and wUl shew you the garden, and tell you how many gowns the duchess had. Marry, if you have ever an old uncle, that would be a lord, or ever a kins- man that hath done a murder, or committed a robbery, and will give good store of money to procure his pardon, then the lady Honoria will be glad to see you. Ori. Ay, but they say one shall see fine sights at the court. Val. I'll tell you what you shall see. You shall see many faces of man's making, for you shall find very few as God left them. And you shall see many legs too Amongst the rest you shall behold one pair, the feet of which were in times past sockless, but are now, through the change of time (that alters all things,) very strangely become the legs of a knight sCai, courtier. Another pair you shall see, that were heir-apparent legs to a glover. These legs hope shortly to become honourable. When they pass by, they will bow ; and the mouth to these legs will seem to offer you some courtship. It wiU swear, but it wiU lie. Hear it not! FHILASTEB. SONa OB" A SAD HEAET. Come, sleep, and with thy sweet decehing Lock me in delight awhile ; Let some pleasing dreams begfuile All my fancies ; that from thence, I may feel an influence. All my powers of care bereaving ! Though but a shadow, but a sliding, Let me know some little joy ! "We that suffer long annoy. Are contented with a thought. Through an idle fancy wrought : Oh, let my joys have some abiding ! PHILASTEE : OK, LOYE LIES A-BLEEDIUa.- lOTE MADE BT A LADT. Jrethusa, the daughter of the reigning King cf Sicilg, makes hommrahU love to Philaster, the rightful heir to the crovm. Abethitba and One of her Ladies. Arethusa. Comes he not ? Lady. Madam ? Are. Will PhUaster come ? Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit me At first. Are. But didst thou tell me so ? 1 am forgetful, and my woman's strength ' Fhilaster is the story of an injured heir to the throne, whose rights are tnally adjusted by a marriage with the usurper's daughter, who loves and is beloved by him. Another lady, disguised ts apage, is also in love with him, and is made the cause of mistakes and jealousies, which produce great troubles. Philaster ; or. Love lies a-Bleeding.'] This pretty title, ia which a graceful name, a tender calamity, and the image of a beautiful flower are so happily mixed up, must have added to the popularity for which the play before us was celebrated. Seaumont and Fletcher are generally happy in the titles of their plays and the names of their cha- racters. Those before us, — PhiiiASTEB, Aeethcsa, Eupheasia, Bellabio, ore supremely elegant. 10 PHILASTEB. Is 80 o'ercharged with dangers like to grow About my marriage, that these under things Dare not abide in such a troubled sea. How look'd he, when he told thee he would come ? Lady, Why, welL Are. And not a little fearful ? Lady. Fear, madam \ sure, he knows not what it is. Are. Tou all are of his faction ; the whole court Ifl bold in praise of him : whilst I M^y live neglected, and do noble things, As fools in strife throw gold into the sea, Drown'd in the doing. But I know he fears. Lady. Methought his looks hid more of love than fear. Are. Of love ? to whom ? to you ? — Did you deliver those plain words I sent, , With such a winning gesture and quick look, That you have caught him p Lady. Maoam, I mean to you. Are. Of love to me ? alas ! thy ignorance Lets thee not see the crosses of our births. Nature, that loves not to be questioned Why she did this or that, but has her ends. Ana knows she does well, never gave the world Two things so opposite, so contrary. As he and I am. If a bowl of blood, Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison thee, A taught of his would cure thee. Of love to me? Lady. Madam, I think I hear him. Are. Bring him in. Te gods, that would not have your dooms withstood. Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is To make the passions of a feeble maid The way unto your justice, I obey. Enter Philastee. Lady, Here is my lord FhUaster. Are, Oh ! 'tis well. Withdraw yourself. Phi, Madam, your messenger Made me believe you wish'd, to speak with me. PHILASTEB. II Are. 'Tia true, Philaster ; but tte words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish tbem said, And yet am loth to speak them. Have you kflown. That I have aught detracted from your worth ? Have I in person wrong'd you ? Or have -set My baser instruments to throw disgrace Upon your virtues ? Phi. Never, madam, you. Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public place, Injure a princess, and a scandal lay Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great ; Calling a great part of my dowry in question ? Phi. Madam, this truth which. I shaU apeak, will be Foolish : but, for your fair and virtuous self, I could afford myself to have no right To anything you wish'd. Are. Philaster, know, I must enjoy these kingdoms. Fill Madam! Both? Are. Both, or I die. By fate, I die, Philaster, If I not calmly may enjoy them both. Phi I would do much to save that noble life ; Tet would be loth to have posterity Pind in our stories, that Philaster gave His right unto a sceptre and a crows. To save a lady's longing. Are. Nay then, hear ! I must and will have them, and more Phi. What more ? Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared To trouble this poor piece of earth withal. Phi. Madam, what more ? Are. Turn, then, away thy faee. Phi. No. Are. Do. Phi. I cannot endure it. Turn away my fece ? I never yet saw enemy that look'd So dreadfully, but that I thought rnyaeK 12 FHIIiA.STEB. As great a basilisk as he ; or spake So horrible, but that I thought my tongue Bore thunder underneath, as much as his; N«r beast that I could turn from. Shall I then Begin to fear sweet sounds P a lady's voice, Whom I do love ? Say, you would have my life ; Why, I will give it you ; for 'tis of me A thing so loath'd, and unto you that ask Of so poor use, that I shall make no price : If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear. Are. Tet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks. Phi. I do. Are. Then know, I must have them, and thee. Phi. And me? Are, Thy love ; without which all the land Discover'd yet, will serve me for no use, But to be buried in. Phi. Is't possible ? Are, With it, it were too little to bestow On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead, (Which, know, it may) I have unript my breast. Phi, Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts. To lay a train for this contemned life, Which you may have for asking. To suspect Were base, where I deserve no iU. Love you, By all my hopes, I do, above my life : But how this passion should proceed from you So violently, would amaze a man That would be jealous. Are. Another soul, into my body shot, Could not have fiU'd me with more strength and spirit, Thau this thy breath. But spend not hasty time. In seeking how I came thus. 'Tis the gods, The gods, that make me so ; and, sure, our lore Will be the nobler, and the better blest, In that the secret justice of the gods Is mingled with it. How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, On any new occasion, may agree I-HILASTEB. 13 What path is best to tread P Pht. I have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, If ot yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain's side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by himself. Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,> Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Delighted me : but ever when he tum'd His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep. As if he meant to make 'em grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story. He told me, that his parents gentle died. Leaving him to the mercy of the fields. Which gave him roots ; and of the crystal spiings, Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun. Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did shew What every flower, as countiy people hold. Did signify ; and how all, ordered thus, Express'd his grief : and, to my thoughts, dia read The prettiest lecture of his country art That co\ild be wish'd : so that, methought, I could Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him. Who was [as] glad to follow ; and have got The trustiest, loving' st, and the gentlest bc^, That ever master kept. Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.^ Are. 'Tis well. No more. {Re-enter Lady. ' Bred in the bay^ Of Messina ; in which, city and its neighbooThood the scenes of the play are laid. ' It has been thought that this long description of his page, especially by a lover who has just bad a declaration made to bJTn by a lady, is one of those instances of misplaced indulgence of the pen, with which our poets are sometimes'too justly chargeable. But I cannot help thinMng it an exquisite instance to the contrary, — an irrelevancy purposely dwelt upon by the lover, to enable the lady to recover her spirits, by giving to their sudden intercourse an air of perfect comfort and the verv privifees of habit J*» "«« 14 PHILA8TEE. LOTE LOTH TO PART WITH THE OBJECT OF ITS 'WOESHlT. Rtphraiia, teho for love of Philaster has duguiied herself as a boy, and been taken into his service under the name of Sellario, endeawurs to amid becoming page to the Princess Arethusa, Enter PHUiiSTEU and Bellabio. Phi. And thou shalt find her honourablef boy ; Pull of regard uato thy tender youth, For thine own modesty ; and for my aake, Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask ; Aye, or deserve. Bel. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing f And only yet am something, by being yours. You trusted me imknown ; and that which yoU' were apt To construe a simple innocence in me, Perhaps might have been craft ; the cunning of a boy Hardened in lies and theft : yet ventured you To part my miseries and me ; for which, I never can expect to ser\'e a lady That bears more honour iu her breast than you. Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee. Thou art yoimg.. And bear'st a childish overflowing love To them that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee fair: But when thy judgmeHt comes to rule those passiens, Thou wilt remember best those careful friends. That placed thee in the noblest way of life. She is a princess I prefer thee to. Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world, I never knew a man hasty to part With a servant he thought trusty. I remember^ My father would prefer the boys he kept To greater men than he ; but did it not Till they were grown too saucy for himself. Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behaviour. Bel. Sir, if I have made A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth : I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn ; Age and experience will adorn my mind With larger knowledge : and if I have done FEILASTEB. 15 A wil&l fatilt, think me not past all hope, For once. What master holds so stiiet a haiod Over his boy, that he will part with him "Without one warning ? Let me be- corrected, To break my stubbornness, if it be so, Kather than tur^ me off; and I shall mend. Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay, That, trust me, I could weep to part with the a. Alas ! I do not turn, thee off; thx)u know'st It is my business that doth call thee hence ; , And, 'when thou art with her, thou dweU'st witli me ; Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full. That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust. Laid on so weak a one, I will again With joy receive thee : as I live, I will. If ay, weep not, gentle boy ! 'Tis more than time Thou did'st attend the princess. Bel. I am gone. But since I am to part vrith you, my lord. And none knows whether I shall live to do More service for you, take this little prayer: — Heav'n bless your lov^s, your fights, all your designs : May sick men, if they have your vrish, be well. [Eseit. LOVE DE8CEIBED BT LOTB. Abhtuttba, Lady, and Bellabio. Are. Where's the boy ? Lady. Here, madam. Enter Bellabio-. Are. Sir, you are sad to. change your service ;. is't not so ? Bel. Madam, I have not changed ; 1 wait on you, To do him service. . Are. Thou disclaim'st in me;' Tell me thy name. Bel. Bellario. Are. Thou can'st sing, and play ? Bel. If grief will give me leave, madiam, I can. - Thau disclaim'st in me.'] A phrase of the time ; Eiesning, thou dis- daimest any inteiest in niyseif. 16 PHII.i.8TEB. Are. Alas ! what kind of grief can thy years know ? JJadst thou a curst master when thou went'st to school ? Thou art not capable of other grief ; Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be, When no breath troubles them. Believe me, boy. Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes, And builds himself caves, to abide in them. Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ? Bel. Love, madam P I know not what it is. Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love ? Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me, As if he wish'd me well ? Bel. If it be love To forget all respect of his own friends, In thinking of your face ; if it be love To sit cross-arm'd and sigh away the day, Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud And hastily as men i' the streets do fire ; If it be love to weep himself away. When he but hears of any lady dead. Or kUl'd, because it might have been your chance ; If, when he goes to rest (which will not be) 'Twixt every prayer he says, to name you once, As others cbop a bead, — ^be to be in love. Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. ire. Oh, you're a cunning boy, and taught to He, For your lord's credit : but thou know'st, a lie That bears this sound is welcomer to me Than any truth that says he loves me not. Lead the way, boy. — Do you attend me too. — 'Tia thy lord's business hastes me thus. Away. [Exeunf. A KHBEAT OF TENGEAITCX. Keep this fault, As you would keep your health, from the hot air Of the corrupted people, or, by heaven, I will not fall alone. What I have known SaaU be as public as a print ; all tongues Slvill speak it, as they do the language they PHIIiASTEB. 17 Are bom in ; as free and coinincrly ; I'll set ifc, Like a prodigious star, for all to gaze at ; So high and glowing, that kingdoms far and foreign Shall read it there ; nay, travel with't till they find No tongue to make it more, nor no more people ; And then behold the fall of your fair princess.' JIAIiOirsT. A lord of the court hamng out ofndataken zeal for the welfare qfPhilaster rendered him jealous of the Princess and Bellario, brings them all three into peril of their lives. Philastee left alone. Phi. Oh, that I had a sea Within my breast to quench the fire I feel ! It more afflicts me now, to know by whom This deed is done, than simply that 'tis-done. Oh that, like beasts, we could not grieve ourselves With that we see not ! Bucks and rams will fight. To keep their females, standing in their sight ; But take 'em from them, and you take at once Their spleens away ; and they will fall again Into their pastures, growing fresh and fat. And taste the waters of the springs as sweet As 'twas before, finding no start in sleep :' But miserable man — Enter BeIiIabio toitk a letter. See, see, you gods, He walks stiU ; and the face you let him wear When he was innocent, is still the same. Not blasted ! Is this justice ? Do you mean * This passage is one of those instauces of a magnificent idea spoiled by mislocation, whieh are too often found in Beanmont and Fletcher. And observe the consequent anti-climax. A bad woman is threatening a fiither vrith de&mation of his child ; and she raises a phenomenon in the heavens which of itself is truly grand and awfiol, a spectacle for a world, in order to represent what at the utmost could be nothing but a scandal confined to a particular country. A comet leads Mngdoms forth to travel by its light, in order to arrive at nothing greater than the fall of a princess, by a lie about a boy ! ^ ^nd taste the waters, ^c] One of the editors changed waters to icater, in order to suit the 'Twos; and probably it was first written BO : yet this confusion of singular and plural numbers was not un- 18 fiIIi;^\ETE3. To intrap mortality, that you allow Treason so smooth a brow ? I cannot now Think he is guilty. Bel. Health to you, my lord ! The princess doth commend her love, her life, And this, unto you. Phi. Oh, Bellario ! Now I perceive she loves me ; she does shew it In loving thee, my boy. She has made thee brave Bel. My lord, she has attired me past my wish, Past my desert ; more fit for her attendant, Though far unfit for me, who do attend. Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy.— Gh, let all women, That love black deeds, learn to dissemble here ; Here, by this paper ! She does write to me, As if her Heart were mines of adamant To jdl the world besides ; but, unto me, A maiden-snow that melted with my looks. — Tell me, my boy, how doth the princesB use thee ? For I shall guess her love to me by that. Bel. Scarce like her servant, but as if 1 were Something allied to her ; or had preeerv'd Her life three times by my fidelity. As mothers fond do use their only sous ; As I'd use one that's left unto my trust, For whom my life should pay if he met hatrm, So she does use me. Phi. Why, this is wond'rous well : But what kind language does she feed thee- with ? common with our old poets, not excepting the most leacned of them. Spenser allows himself the licence, for the sake of a rhyme : — And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing soumdea From under that deepe rock most horribly rebotendea. Faerie QUeene, Book iii. Canto 3. St. 9 So Shakspeare, in an instance still more direct to the pm'posc before us : — Hark, hark,, the lark at heaven's gate smgs, And Fhoobus 'gins arise His steeds to water at those tpringt. On chaliced flowers that lies. C^mhelme^vdL iii. St. S "Finding no start in sleep" is very pathetic- PHILASTBE. 1& Bet. Why, she does tell me, she will trust my youth With all her loving secrets ; and does- cadi me Her pretty servant ; bids me weep nc more Por leaving you ; she'll see my services Eegarded ; and such words of that soft strain, That I am nearer weeping when she ends, Than ere she spake. Phi. This is much better stilll Bel. Are you not HI, my lord ? FM. m? No, Bellario. Bel, Methinks, youp words Pall not from oflf your tongue so evenly. Nor is there in your looks that quietuesa> That I was- wont to see. Pki. Thou art deceived, boy. And she strokes thy head P Bel. Tes. PM. And she does clap thy cheeks ? Bel. She does, my lord. Phi. And she does kiss thee,, boy ? ha I Bel. How, my lord ? Phi. She kisses thee ? Bel. Not so, my lord. Phi. Come, come, I know she does; Bel. No, by my life. FaU rocks upon Hs head. That put this to you ! 'Tis some subtle traijo^ To bring that noble frame of yours to nought. Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. Comef, ThoU' shalt know all my drift ; — I hate her more- Than I love happiness, and plac'd thee there, To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. Bei. My l»rd, you did mistake the boy you sent. Had she a sin that way, I would not aid Her base desires ;. but what I came to know^ As servant to her, I would not reveal, To make my life last ages. Phi. Oh, my heart ! This is a salve worse than the irain difiease.- TeR me thy thoughts ; for I will know the-leas!fr 20 FHILASIXB. That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart To know it : I will see thy thoughts as plain As I do now thy face. Bel. Why, so you do. [Kneeu. She IS (for aught I know) by all the gods, As chaste as ice : but were she foul as hell, And I did know it thus, the breath of kings, The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass, Shoiild draw it fi:om me. Phi. Then it is no time To daUy with thee ; I will take thy life, For I do hate thee : I could curse thee now. Bel. If you do hate, you could not curse me worse : The gods have not a punishment in store Greater for me, than is your hate. Phi. Fie, fie, So young and so dissembling ! Bel. "When I lie To save my life, may I live long and loath'd. Hew me asunder, and, whilst I can think, I'll love those pieces you have cut away, Better than those that grow ; and kiss those limbs, Because you made 'em so. Phi. Fear'st thou not death p Can boys contemn that P Bel. Oh, what boy is he Can be content to live to be a man. That sees the best of men thus passionate, Thus without reason ? Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know What 'tis to die. Bel. Tes, I do know, my lord : 'Tis less than to be bom ; a lasting sleep ; A quiet resting from all jealousy ; A thing we all pursue. I know besides, It is but giving over of a game That must be lost. Phi. But there are pains, false boy, For perjured souls : think but on these, and then Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. , yHILASTEE. 21 Bel. May they fall upon me whilst I live, If I be peijured, or have ever thought Of that you charge me with ! If I be false, Selid me to suffer in those punishments Tou speak of; kill me. i%i. Oh, what should I do ? Why, who can but beUeve him ? He does swear So earnestly, that if it were not true. The gods would not endure him. Bise, Bellario ! Thy protestations are so deep, and thou Dost look so truly, when thou utter'st them, That though I know 'em false as were my hopes, I cannot urge thee further. But thou wert To blame to injure me, for I must love Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon Thy tender youth. A love from me to thee Is firm, whate'er thou dost. It troubles me That I have caU'd the blood out of thy cheeks. That did so well become thee. But, good boy. Let me not see thee more. Something is done, That will distract me, that will make me mad, If I behold thee. If thou tender'st me, Let me not see thee. Bel, I win fly as far As there is morning, ere I give distaste To that most honour'd mind. But through these tears. Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see A world of treason practis'd upon you. And her, and me. Farewell, for evermore ! If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead, And after find me loyal, let there be A tear shed from you in my memory, And I shall rest at peace. Fhi. Blessing be with thee, Whatever thou deserv'st !— Oh, where shall I Go bathe this body ? Nature, too unkind. That made no medicine for a troubled mind 1 [Exeunt, 32 PHUASTEE. Arethuta's Apartment in the Palace, Enter ABETHtrsi.. Are. I marvel my boy cornea not back again : _ But that I know my love will question him Over and over, how I slept, waked, talk'd — How I remembered him when his dear name Was last spoke — and how, when I sigh'd, wept, sung, And ten thousand such — I should be angry at his stay. Enter BInia. King. "What, at your meditations ? Who attends you ? Arc. None but my single self. I need no guard ; I do no wrong, nor fear none. King. Tell me, have you not a boy P Are. Yes, sir. King. What kind of boy ? Are. A page, a waiting-boy. King. A handsome boy ? Are. I think he be not ugly : Well qualified, and dutiful, I know him ; I took him not for beauty. King. He speaks, and sings, and playe ? Are. Yes, sir ! King. About eighteen ? Are. I never ask'd his age. King. Is he full of service ? Are. By your pardon, why do you ask P King. Put him away. Are. Sirl King. Put away that boy. Are. Let me have reason for it, sir, and then Your will is my command. King. Do not you blush to ask it ? Cast him off, Or I shall do the same to you. You're one Shame with me, and so near unto myself, That, by my Jife, I dare not tell myself, Wliat you, myself, have done. Are. What have I done, my lord ? King. 'Tis a new language, that all love to learn: PHIIASTEE. 23 The common people speak it well already : They need no grammar. Understand me well ; There be foul whispers stirring. Cast him off, And suddenly. Do it ! Farewell. [Exit KiNS. Are. Where may a maiden live securely free, Keeping her honour safe ? Not with ihe living ; They feed upon opinions, errors, dreams, And make 'em truths ; they draw a nourishment Out of defamings, grow upon disgraces ; And, when they see a virtue fortified Strongly above the battery of their tongues, Oh, how they cast to sink it ; and, defeated, (Soul-sick with poison) strike the monuments Where noble names lie sleeping ; till they sweat, And the cold marble melt. Enter PniiiASTEii. Phi. Peace to your fairest thoughts, my dearest mistress ! Are. Oh, dearest servant, I have a war within me. Fhi. He must be more than man, that makes these crystals Eun into rivers. Sweetest fair, the cause ? And, as I am your slave, tied to your goodness, Tour creature, made again from what I was, And newly-spirited, I'll right your honour. Are. Oh, my best love, that boy ! Fhi. Wliatboy? Are. The pretty boy you gave me Fhi. What of him f Are. Must be no more mine. Fhi. Why? Are. They are jealous of him. Fhi. Jealous! who? Are. The king. Fhi. Oh, my fortune ! Then 'tis no idle jealousy. [Aside."] — Let him go. Are. Oh, cruel ! Are you hard-hearted too ? who shall now tell you, How much I lov'd you ? who shall swear it to you? And weep the tears I send P who shall now bring you Letters, rings, bracelets ? lose his health in service ? 24: FHILASTEB. "Wake tedious nights in stories of your praise? Who shall now sing your crying elegies P And strike a sad soul into senseless pictures, _ And make them mourn ? who shall take up his lut^ And touch it, till he crown a silent sleep Upon my eye-lid, making me dream, and cry, " Oh, my dear, dear Philaster !" Phi. [aside.'] Oh, my heart ! Would he had broken thee, that made thee know This lady was not loyal. — Mistress, forget The boy : I'll get thee a far hetter. Are. Oh, never, never such a boy again. As my BeUario ! Phi. 'Tis but your fond aflfection. Are. With thee, my boy, farewell for ever All secrecy in servants ! Farewell faith ! And all desire to do well for itself ! Let all that shall succeed thee, for thy wrongs,, Sell and hetray chaste love \ Phi. And aU this passion for a boy ? Are. He was your boy ; you put him to me j and The loss of such must have a mourning for ['em.] Phi. Oh, thou forgetful woman ! Are. How, my lord ? Phi. Palse Arethusa ! Hast thou a medicine to restore my wits. When I have lost 'em ? If not, lea\re to talk, And [to] do thus. Are. Do what, sir ? Would you sleep ? • Phi. For ever, Arethusa. Oh, ye gods, Give me a worthy patience ! Have I stood Naked, alone, the shock of many fortunes ? Have I seen mischiefs numberless and mighty Grow like a sea upon me ? Have I taken Danger as stem as death into my bosom, And laugh'd upon it ? made it but a mirth, And flung it by ? Do I live now like him. Under this tyrant king, that languishing Hears his sad bell, and sees his mourners ? Do I Bear aU this hravely, and must sink at length, PHILASTEE. 23 Under a woman's falsehood ? Oh, that boy, That cursed boy ! Are. Nay, then I am betray'd : I feel the plot cast for my overthrow. Oh, I am wretchpd ! Thi. Now you may take that little right I have To this poor kingdom. Give it to your joy; For I have no joy in it. Some far place, Where never womankind durst set her foot, Por bursting with her poisons, must I seek, And live to curse you : There dig a cave, and preach to birds and beasts What woman is, and help to save them from you : How Heaven is in your eyes, but, in your hearts, More heU than heU has; how your tongues, like scorpions. Both heal and poison ; how your thoughts are woven With thousand changes in one subtle web, And worn so by you ; how that foolish man That reads the story of a woman's face, , And dies believing it, is lost for ever ; How all the good you have is bat a shadow, I' th' morning with you, and at night behind you, Past and forgotten ; how your vows are frosts. Past for a night, and with the next sun gone : How you are, being taken aU together, A mere confusioii, and so dead a chaos. That love cannot distinguish. These sad texts, Till my last hour, I am bound to utter of you. So, farewell all my woe, all my delight ! \_Exit PmiASTEB. Are. Be merciful, ye gods, and strike me dead ! What way have I deserv'd this ? Make my breast Transparent as pure crystal, that the world. Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought My heart holds. Where shall a woman turn her eyes. To find out constancy ? .Bwfer BEHA.EIO. Save me, how black 26 PHILASTEE. And guilty, methinks, that boy looks now 1 Oh, thou dissembler, that, before thou spak'st, "Wert in thy cradle false, sent to make lies, And betray innocents ! Thy lord and thou May glory in the ashes of a maid Fool'd by her passion ; but the conqu est is Nothing so great as wicked. Ply away ! Let my command force thee to that, which shame Would do without it. If thou understood'st The loathed office thou hast undergone, Why, thou wouldst hide thee under heaps of hills, Lest men should dig and find thee. Sel. Oh, what god, Angry with men, hath sent this strange disease Lito the noblest minds P Madam, this grief Tou add unto me is no more than drops To seas, for which they are not seen to swell : My lord has struck his anger through my heart, And let out aU the hope of future joys. Tou need not bid me fly ; I came to part, To take my latest leave. Farewell for ever ! I durst not run away, in honesty. From such a lady, like a boy that stole, Or made some grievous fault. The power of gods Assist you in your sufferings ! Hasty time Eeveal the truth of your abused lord And mine, that he may know your worth ; whilst I Go seek out some forgotten place to die ! [Exit Bellabio. Are, Peace guide thee ! Thou hast overthrown me once ; Tet if I had another Troy to lose, Thou, or another villain, with thy looks. Might talk me out of it, and send me naked. My hair dishevell'd, through the fiery streets. Enter a Lady. Lady. Madam, the king would hunt, and calls for you With earnestness. Are. I am in tune to hunt ! Diana, if thou canst rage with a maid PHII>ASTEE. 27 As with a man,' let me discover thee Eathing, and turn me to a fearful hind, That I may die pursued hy cruel hounds, And have my story written iu my wounds. \_Eseeuut. Scene, a ferest. Enter FhHiASXHB. Phi. Oh, that I had been nourish'd in these woods. With milk of goats, and aeoms, and not known The right of crowns, nor the, dissembliug traias Of women's looks ; but digg'd myself a cave, Where I, my fire, my cattle, and my bed, Might have been shut together in one shed ; And then had taken me some mountain girl. Beaten with winds, chaste as the harden'd rocks Whereon she dwells ; that might have strew'd my bed With leaves, and reeds, and with the skins of beasts. Our neighbours ; and have borne at her big breasts My large coarse issue! This had been a me Free from vexation. Enter Bellasio. Bel. Oh, wicked men ! An ionocent may walk safe among beasts ; Nothing assaults me here. See ! my griev'd lord Sits as his soul were searching out a way To leave his body. — Pardon me, that must Break thy last commandment ; for I must speak. — Ton, that are griev'd, can pity. — Hear, my lord ! Phi. Is there a creature yet so miserable, That I can pity ? Bel. Oh, my noble lord | View my strange fortune ; and bestow on me, According to your bounty (if my service Can merit nothing) so much as may serve To keep that little piece I hold of life Prom cold and hunger. Phi. Is it thou ? Begone ! Go, sell those misbeseeming clothes then wear'st, And feed thyself with them. ' A man.] Alluding to the stats of Actseon. 28 fHILASTI^B. Bel. Alas ! my lord, I can get nothing for them 1 The silly country people think 'tis treason To touch such gay things. Phi. Now, by my life, this is Unkindly done, to vex me with thy sight. Thou'rt fall'n again to thy dissembling trade : How should' st thou think to cozen me again ? Eemains there yet a plague untried for me ? Even so thou wept'at, and look'd'st, and spok'st, when I took thee up : [first Curse on the time ! If thy commanding tears Can work on any other, use thy art ; I'll not betray it. Which way wilt thou take. That I may shun thee ? For thine eyes are poison To mine ; and I am loth to grow in rage. This way, or that way ? Bel, Any will serve. But I wiU chuse to have That path in chase, that leads unto my grave. [^Exeunt Phila.8TEB and Bellabio severally. . Enter DioN and tTie Woodmen. Dion. This is the strangest sudden chance 1 You, woodman • 1 Wood. My lord Dion ! Dion. Saw you a lady come this way, on a sable horse studded with stars of white ? 2 Wood. "Was she not young and tall ? Dion. Yes. Bode she to the wood or to the pkun ? 2 Wood. 'Faith, my lord, we saw none ? [Exeunt Woodmen. Enter Clbeemoitt. Dion. What, is she found ? Cle. Nor will be, I think. There's abeady a thousand fatherless tales amongst us. Some say, her horse run away with her; some, a wolf pursued her; others, it was a plot to kill her, and that armed men were seen in the wood. But, questionless, she rode away willingly. PHILASTEB. 29 Enter King and ThbasiIiIKH. King. "Where is she ? Cle. Sir, I cannot tell. King. How is that ? Answer me so again ! Cle. Sir, shall I lie ? King. Tes, lie and damn, rather than tell me that, I say again, where is she ? Mutter not ! Sir, speak you ! where is she ? Dion. Sir, I do not know. King. Speak that again so boldly, and, by Heaven, It is thy last. — ^Tou, fellows, answer me ; "Where is she ? Mark me, all ; I am your king; I wish to see my daughter ; show her me ; I do command you all, as you are subjects. To show her me ! What ! am I not your king? If " ay," then am I not to be obey'd ? Dion. Tes, if you command things possible and honest. Ki7ig. Things possible and honest ! Hear me, thou. Thou traitor ! that dar'st confine thy king to things Possible and honest ; show her me, Or, let me perish, if I cover not All Sicily with blood ! Dion. Indeed I cannot, unless you teU me where she is. King. Ton have betray' d me ; you have let me lose The jewel of my life. Go, bring her me, And set her here before me. "Rs the king Will have it so ; whose breath can still the winds, TJncloud the sun, charm down the swelling sea. And stop the floods of heaven. Speak, can it not ? Dion. No. King. No ! cannot the breath of kings do this ? Dion. No ; nor smell sweet itself, if once the lungs Be but corrupted. King. Is it so ? Take heed ! Dion. Sir, take you heed, how you dare the powers That must be just. King. Alas ! what are we kings ? "Why do you, gods, place us above the rest. To be serv'd, flatter' d, and ador'd, till we 30 FEII.ASITES. Believe we hold within our hands your thunder , And, when we come to try the power we have, There's not a leaf shakes at our threatenings. I have sinn'd, 'tis true, and here stand to be punish' d ; Tet would not thus be punish'd. Let me chuse My way, and lay it on. Dion. He articles with the gods ! 'Would somebody would draw bonds, for the perform- Of covenants betwixt them ! [anoe [^ Aside. Enter Phabamond, GiOiATBA, and Mesea. Kinff. What, is she found ? Pha. No ; we have ta'en her horse : He gallop'd empty by. There is some treason. You, Galatea, rode with her into- the wood : Why left you her ? Gal. She did command me. King. Command ! You should not. Gal. 'Twould ill become my fortunes and my birth To disobey the daughter of my king. Kinff. You're all cunning to obey us for our hurt ; Eun all ; disperse yourselves ; the man that finds her. Or (if she be kill'd), the traitor, I'll make him great. [Exeunt aeveraily. Another part of the Forest. Enter AsETHrsA. Are. Where am I now ? Feet, find me- out a way, Without the counsel of my troubled head : I'll follow you, boldly, about these woods, O'er mountains, through brambles, pits, and floods. Heaven, I hope will ease me. I am sick. \_Sit8 down. Enter Bellaeio. Bel. Yonder's my kdy ! Heaven knows I want nothing, Because I d» not wish to live ; yet I Will try hep- chanty. — PHILA8TBE. 31 Oh, hear, you that have plenty, from that store, Drop some on dry ground. — See, the lively red Is gone to guide her heart ! I fear she faints. — Madam, look up ! — She breathes not. Ope once more Those rosy twins, and send unto my lord Tour latest farewell. Oh, she stirs. — How is it, Madam ? Speak comfort. Are. 'Tis not gently done. To put me in a miserable life, And hold me there. I pr'ythee, let me go ; I shall do best without thee ; I am weU. Enter Philasteb. Vhi. I am tO' blame to be so much in rage : I'll teU her coolly, when and where I heard This killing truth. I wiU be temperate In speaking, and as just in hearing. Oh, monstrous ! Tempt me not, ye gods ! good gods, Tempt not a frail man ! "What's he, that has a heart, But he must ease it here ' Bel. My lord, help the princess. Are. I am weU : forbear. Phi. Let me love lightning, let me be embraced And kiss'd by scorpions, or adore the eyes Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues Of heU-bred women ! Some good gods look down. And shrink these veins up ; stick me here a stone Lasting to- ages, in the memory Of this damn'd act ! Hear me, you wicked ones ! Tou have put hiUs of fire into this breast. Not to be ^uench'd with tears ; for which may guUi Sit on your bosoms ! at your- meals, and beds. Despair await you ! Nature make a curse, And throw it on you ! Are. Dear Philaster, leave To be enrag'd, and hear me. Phi. I have done ; Forgive my passion. Not the calmed sea. When Mollis locks up his windy brood, 82 FHIL^STEB. Is less disturb 'd than I : I'll make you know -t. Dear Arethusa, do but take this Btrord, ^ And search how temperate a heart I have ; Then you, and this your boy, may live and reifjn Without controul. Wilt thou, Bellario ? I pr'ythee kill me : thou art poor, and may'st Nourish ambitious thoughts, when I am dead : This way were freer. Am I raging now ? If I were mad, I should desire to live. Sirs, feel my pidse. [Say] whether have you known A man in a more equal tune to die P Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps madman's time ; So does your tongue. Phi. Tou will not kill me, then P Are. KiU you ? Bel. Not for a world. Fhi. I blame not theO; Bellario^ Thou hast done but that, which gods ■Would have transform'd themselves to do. Begone ; Leave me without reply ; this is the last Of all our meeting. — lExit Bellaeio.] Kill m'e witL this sword ; Be wise, or worse will follow. "We are two Earth cannot bear at once. Besolve to do, Or suffer. Are. If my fortune be so good to let me fall Upon thy hand, I shall have peace in death. ' Tet tell me this, wiU there be no slanders, No jealousy in the other world ; no ill there P Phi. No. Are. Shew me, then, the way. PM. Then guide my feeble hand, IDraws. Tou that have power to do it, for I must Perform a piece of justice ! — If your youth Have any way offended heaven, let prayers Short and effectual reconcile you to it. Are. I am prepar'd. Unter a Country Fellow. Coun. I'll see the king, if he be in the forest. I have hunted PHILASTEB. ^ 33 him these three hours. If I should come home and not see him, my sisters would laugh at me. I can see nothing but people better horsed than myself, that outride me ; I can hear nothing but shouting. These kings had need of good brains ; this whooping is able to put a mean man out of his wits. There's a courtier with his sword drawn ; by this hand, upon a woman, I think. Phi. Are you at peace.? Are. With heaven and earth. Phi. May they divide thy soul and body ! \Wmnds her. ' CoM». Hold, dastard. Strike a woman f Thou art a craven, I warrant thee. Thou would' st be loth to play half a dozen of venies at wasters with a good feUow for a broken head.' Phi. Leave us, good friend. Are. What iU-bred man art thou, to intrude thyself Upon our private sports, our recreations ? Coun. God 'uds me,' I understand you not ; but I know the rogue has hurt you. Phi. Pursue thy own affairs. It will be ill To multiply blood upon my head ; Which thou wilt force me to. Coun. I know not your rhetoric ; but I can lay it on, if you touch the woman. \They fight. Phi. Slave ! take what thou deservest. Are. Heavens guard my lord ! Coun. Oh, do you breathe ? Phi. I hear the tread of people. I am hurt : The gods take part against me. Could this boor Have held me thus else ? I must shift for life, Though I do loath it. I would find a course To lose it rather by my wUl, than force. [Exit Philastek. ' Venies at wasters.} Bouts at cudgels. Veney seems to have been the IFrench word veuez, anglicised; "as who should say," come on. Why cudgels \rere c^led wasters I cannot say ; though metajihorica! etymologies of the word might he obvious enough. ' God'Kdsme.1 Gtod judge me. Mr. Dyce tells us, that in one ol the old editions the word is printed so. 34 PUILAST£B. Ent»r Phaeamond, Dion, Cleeemont, THEASiLiifE, and Woodmen. Pha. What art thou ? Coun. Almost kill'd I am for a foolisn woman ; a knave has hurt her. Cha. The princess, gentlemen ! Where's the wound, madam ? Pre. He has not hurt me. Coun. I' faith she lies ; be has hiirt ber in the breast ; look else. rha. Oh, sacred spring of innocent blood ! Dion. 'OKs above wondei. Who should dare this ? Are. I felt it not. Pha. Speak, villain, who has hurt the priijLcess ? Coun. Is it the princess ? Dion. Ay. Coun. -Then I have seen something yet. Pha. But who has hurt her ? Coun. 1 told you, a rogue ; I ne'er saw him before, I. Pha. Madam, who did it ? Are. Some dishonest wretch ; Alas t I know him not, and do forgive him, Coun. He's hurt too ; he cannot go far j I made my father's old fpx' fly about his ears. Pha. How wiQ you have me kill him ? Are. Not at all ; 'Tis some distracted fellow. Pha. By this hand, I'll leave ne'er a piece of him biggi» than a nut, and bring him all in my hat. Are. Nay, good sir, If you do take him, bring him quick to me, And I will study for a punishment Great as his faolt. Pha. I will. Are. But swear. Pha. By all my love, I wiU.— Woodmen, conduct the -princess to the king, aad bear that wounded fellow to dressing. — Come, gentlemen, well follow the chase close. [Exeunt. ' Fox.'\ A popular term for a swociL PHILABTEB. 35 Scene IV. — Another part of the same, Enter BelIiABIO, and lies down on a hank of flowers. Bel. A heaviness near death sits on my brow, And I must sleep- Bear me, thou gentle bank, For ever, if thou wilt, Tou sweet ones all, Let me unworthy press you : I could wish, I rather were a eorse strew'd o'er with you , Than quick' above you. Dulness shuts mine eyes,, And I am giddy. Oh, that I could take- So Boimd s sleep, that I might never wake. {Falls asleep. Enter Philastee. Phi. I have done iU ^ my conscience calls me false. To strike at her, that would not strike at me. When I did fight, methought I heard her pray The gods to guard me. She may be abus'd,, And I a loathed villain. If she be. She will conceal who huBt her. He has womids'. And cannot foUow ; neither knows hie me.. "Who's this ? Bellari© sleeping ? If thou be'^stt Guilty^ there is no justice that thy sleep Should be so sound; and mine, whom thou hast wrong' d, [Cry within. So broken. — Hstrk ! I am pursued. Te gods, I'll take this ofier'd means of my escape r They have no mark to know me but my woundsj. If she be true ; if false, let mischief light • On all the world at once ! Sword, print my wounds Upon this sleeping boy ! I have none, I think. Are mertal, nor would I lay greater on thee. [^Wounds Bellaiio.' ' Quiei."] Alive. ' Wounds Bellario^ These pinkings of the poor princess and' her page by Phflaster are justly objected to by Diyden. " When Philaster (he says) wounds Arethusa and the boy, and Perigot his misttess in the ^Jaithful Shepherdess^ both these are contrary to tie charities of man- hood." Prfaee to Troilus and Cressida. Works — ^Vol. VI. p,. 255; ■Walter Scott's edition. — It is as if the jealous but naturally gentle loTer wished to do st little bit of murder without aetually committing. iW 36 PHttASTEK. Bel. Oh ! Death, I hope, is come ! Blest be that hand ! It meant me well. Again, for pity's sake ! Phi. I hare caught myself : [^Falls. The loss of blood hath stay'd my flight. Here, here, Is he that struck thee. Take thy full revenge ; Use me, as I did mean thee, worse than death : I'll teach thee to revenge. This luckless hand "Wounded the princess ; tell my followers. Thou didst receive the hurts in staying me, And I will second thee. Get a reward. Bel, Tlj, fly, my lord, and save yourself. Phi. How's this? Wouldst thou I should be safe? Bel, Else were it vain For me to live. These little wounds I have. Have not bled much ; reach me that noble hand I'll help to cover you. Phi. Art thou true to me f 'Bel. Or let me perish loath'd; Come, my good lord. Creep in amongst those buslies : who does know But that the gods may save your much-loved breath? Phi. Then I shall die for grief, if not for this. That I have wounded thee. What wilt thou do ? Bel. Shift for myself well. Peace ! I hear 'em come. [Philasteb creeps into a bvsh. Within. PoUow, follow, follow! that way they went. Bel. With my own wounds I'll bloody my own sword. I need not counterfeit to fall ; Heaven knows That I can stand no longer. Enter Phaeamokd, Dion, Clebemont, and Theasiltnb. Pha. To this place we have track'd him by his blood. Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away. Dion. Stay, sir ! what are you ? Bel. A wretched creature wounded in these woods By beasts. Eelieve me, if your names be men, Or I shall perish. Dion. This is he, my lord. Upon my soul, that hurt her. 'Tis the boy. That wicked boy, that served her. PHII.ASTEB. <>• Pha. Oh, thou damn'd In thy creation ! What cause could'st thoii shape To hurt the princess ? Bel. Then I am betray'd. Dion. Betrayed ! no, apprehended. Bel I confess, _ - Urge it no more, that, big with evil thoughts, I set upon her, and did take my aim, Her death. Por charity, let fell at once, The punishment you mean, and do not load This weary flesh with tortures. Pha. IwiQknow Who hired thee to this deed. Bel. Mine own revenge. Pha. Eeveuge ! for what ? Bel. It pleased her to receive Me as her page, and, when my fortunes ehb'd, That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower Her welcome graces on me, and did swell My fortunes, tUl they overflow' d their banks, Threat'ning the men that crost 'em ; when as swift As storms arise at sea, she turn'd her eyes To burning suns upon me, and did dry The streams she had bestow'd ; leaving me worse And more contemn' d, than other little brooks. Because I had been great. In short, I knew I could not live, and therefore did desire To die revenged. Pha. If tortures can be found, Long as thy natural hfe, resolve to feel The utmost rigour. [Phllastbii creeps out of a hush. Cle. Help to lead him hence. Phi. Turn back, you ravishers of innocence Know ye the price of that you bear away So rudely ? Pha. Who's that ? Dion. 'Tis the lord Philaster. Phi. 'Tis not the treasure of all kings in one, The wealth of Tagus, nor the rocks of pearl That pave' the court of Neptune, can weigh down 38 FHILASTEB. That virtue ! It was I that hurt the prineesa. Place me, same god, upon a piramis'. Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence I may discourse to all the under-world The worth that dwells in him ! Pha. How's this P liel. My lord, some man TVeary of life, that would be glad to die. Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bellario. Bel. Alas, he's mad ! Come, will you lead me on f Phi. By all the oaths that men ought most to keep. And gods do punish most when men do break, He touch' d her not. — Take heed, Bellario, Hov thou dost drown the virtues thou hast shown, With perjury. — By all that's good, 'twas I ! You know, she stood betwixt me and my right. Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge. Cle. It was Philaster. Dion. Is't not a brave boy ? "Well, sirs, I fear me, we were all deeeiv'd. Phi. Have I no friend here ? Dion. Yes. Phi, Then shew it. Some good body lend a hand to oraw us nearer. Would you have tears shed for you when you die? Then lay me gently on his neck, that there I may weep floods, and [so] breathe forth my spirit. 'Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold Lock'd in the heart of earth, can buy away This arm-full from me. This had been a ransom To have redeemed the great Augustus CiEsar, Had he been taken. Tou hard-hearted men, More stony than these mountains, can you see Such clear blue blood drop, and not cut your flesh To stop his life, to bind whose bitter wounds Queens ought to tear their hair, and vsith their tears Bathe 'em ? — Forgive me, thou that art the wealth Of poor Philaster ! ' Ptroms.] A yjTsnoA PHILASTEB. 3U Enter King, Abethfsa, and a Guard. King. Is the villain ta'en ? Pha. Sir, here be two confess the deed ; but say It was Philaster ? Phi. Question it no more ; it was. King. The fellow that did fight with him, will tell us that. Are. Ah me ! I know he wiU. King. Did not you know him ? Are. Sir, if it was he. He was disguised. Phi. I was so. — Oh, my stars ! That I should live still. King. Thou ambitious fool ! Thou, that hast laid a train for thy own life .' — Now I do mean to do, I'll leave to talk. Bear him to prison. Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence This harmless life ; should it pass unrevenged, I should to earth go weeping : grant me, then, By all the love a father bears his child, Their custodies, and that I may appoint Their tortures and their death. King. 'Tis' granted ; take 'em to you with a guard.-;— Come, princely Pharamond, this business past, "We may with more security go on To your intended watch. [people. Cle. I pray that this action lose not Philaster the hearts of the Dion. Fear it not : their over-wise heads will thinlc it but a trick. \Exeunt. LOTE rORGIVBK BT LOVE. Jrethusa and Bellario (whose sex is stiU unsuspecled) forgive Philaster the suspicions that have subjected himself to sentence of death, and them to the resolutwK of sharing it. Are. Nay, dear Philaster, grieve not ; we are well. Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear ; we are wondrous well. Phi. Oh, Arethusa ! oh, Bellario ! leave to be kind : I shall be shot from Heaven, as now from earth, If you continue so. I am a man, False to a pair of the most trusty ones no PHtLASTEB. That ever earth hore. Can it bear us all ? Porgive and leave me. But the king hath sent To call me to my death. Oh, shew it me, And then forget me. And for thee, my boy, I shall deliver -words will mollify The hearts of beasts, to spare thy innocence. Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing Worthy your noble thoughts. 'Tis not a life ; 'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away.' Should I out-live you, I should then outlive Virtue and honour ; and when that day comes. If ever I shall close these eyes but once, May I live spotted for my pequry, And waste my limbs to nothing ! Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever was, Forc'd with my hands to bring my lord to death) Do by the honour of a virgin swear, To tell no hours beyond it. Phi. Make me not hated so. Jre, Come from this prison, all joyful, to our deaths I Phi. People will tear me, when they find je true To auch a wretch as I ! 1 shall die loath'd. Enjoy your kiagdoms peaceably, whilst I Por ever sleep forgotten with my faults ! Every just servant, every maid in love, "Will have a piece of me, if ye be true. Are. My dear lord, say not so. Bel. A piece of yim ? He was not bom of woman that can cut It and look on. Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you, For my heart will break with shame and sorrow. Are. Why, 'tis well. Bel. Lament no more. Phi. What would you have done If you had wrong'd me basely, and had found Tour life no price, compared to mine ? For love, sirs, Deal with me truly. > Childhood throvm awaif.'] Eazlitt exclaims, M this pass&ge, " What exquisite beaut; and delicate !" FHILASTEB. -11 Bel. 'Twas mistaken, sir. Phi. "Why, if it were? Bel. Then, sir, we would have ask'd you pardon. Phi. And have hope to enjoy it ? Are. Enjoy it ? ay. Phi. "Woidd you, indeed ! Be plain. Bel. "We would, my lord. Phi. Forgive me, then. Are. So, so. Bel. 'Tis as it should be now. Phi. Lead to my death. Alf IlfTINDATIOS'. Dion warna the King against putting Philaiter to death. King, you may be deceived yet : The head you aim at, cost more setting on, Than to be lost so lightly. K it must off. Like a wild overflow, that swoops before him A golden stack, and with it shakes down bridges. Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose cable roots Held out a thousand storms, a thousand thunders, And, so made mightier, takes whole villages Upon his back, and, in that heat of pride. Charges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces, And lays thdm desolate ; so shall thy head, [Apostrophising his.absent friend. Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands, That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice, In thy red ruins. JL SISCLOSirBI!. Philaster and the court', on the restitution of his right to the crown, being again threatened with loss of happiness by a renewal of his suspicions respecting the princess and the supposed Bellario, arejmallg delivered from them hy Euphrasia^ s disclosure of her sex. Enter King, AaETHtrsA, Gi-AiATEA, Meq-ba, Diow, Clebe- MOUT, Theasijdine, Bellabio, and attendants. Eing. Is it appeas'd ?' ' Is it appeas'd!^ A revolt which had taken pkce in order to righi Phila3ter. 42 PHILA3TEE. Dion. Sir, all is quiet as the dead of night, As peaceable as sleep. My lord Philaster Brings on the prince himself. Kinff. Kind gentleman ! ' I will not break the least word I have given. In promise to him. I have heap'd a world Of grief upon his head, which yet I hope To wash away. Enter Philasteb and Phaeamond. Cleremont. My lord is come. Sing. My son !' Blest be the time, that I have leave to call Such virtue mine ! Now thou art in my arms, Methinks I have a salve unto my breast, Por all the stings that dwell there. Streams of grief That I have wrong' d thee, and as much of joy That I repent it, issue from mine eyes : Let them appease thee. Take thy right ; take her ; She is thy right too ; and forget to urge My vex^d soul with that I did before. Phi. Sir, it is blotted from my memory. Past and forgotten. — Por you, prince of Spain, Whom I have thus redeem'd, you have full leave To make an honourable voyage home : And if you would go furnish'd to your realm "With fair provision, I do see a lady, [^Looking at Megra, who has been the Prince of" Spain's mistress.l Methinks, would gladly bear you company. Megra. Can shame remain perpetually in me. And not in others ? or, have princes salves To cure ill names, that meaner people want ? Phi. What mean you ? Meg. Tou must get another ship. To bear the princess and her boy together. Dion. How now ! Meg. Others took me, and I took her and him.' ' My »o«.] The king calls Philaster his son, because he has become hie son-in-law in consequence of his betrothal to the prinsess. ' Her and Um^ Meaning, that she bad seen the Princess and Bellano embracing. PHIIASTEH. 43 Ship us all four, my lord ; \re can endure Weather and wind alike. [father. King (to Arethnsd). Clear thou thyself, or know not me for Are. This earth, how fidse it is ! What means is left for me To clear myself? It lies in your belief. My lords, believe me ; and let all things else Struggle together to dishonour me. Bel. Oh, stop your ears, great king, that I may speak As fieedom would ; then I will call this lady As base as are her actions ! Hear me, sir : Believe your heated blood when it rebels Against your reason, sooner than this lady. Meg. By this good light, he bears it handsomely. Phi. This lady ? I will sooner trust the wind With feathers, or the troubled sea with pearl, Than her with any thing. Believe her not ! Why, think you, if I did believe her words, I would outlive 'em ? Honour cannot take Eevenge on you ; then, what were to be known But death ? King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit Between us. But I must request of you One favour, and wiH sadly be denied.' Phi. Command, whate'er it be. King. Swear to be true To what you promise. Phi. By the powers abpve. Let it not be the death of her or him, And it is granted. King. Bear away that boy To torture." I wUl have her clear'd or buried. Phi. Oh, let me call my words back, worthy sir ! Ask somBthing else ! Bury my life and right In one poor grave ; but do not take away My life and fame at once. ' Will sadly ie denied.'] Shall be sOrry to be denied. * Bear maaythat hoy To torture.'] For the purpose of forcing him to a disclosure of the truth. 44 PHILASTZB. Kitig. Away with him . It stands irrevocable. PM. Turn all your eyes on me. Here stands a man, The falsest and the basest of this world. Set swords against this breast, some honest man, For I have lived till I am pitied ! My former deeds were hateful, but this last Is pitiful ; for I, unwillingly. Have given the dear preserver of my life Unto his torture ! Is it in the power Of flesh and blood to carry this, and live P lowers to kill himself. Are. Dear sir, be patient yet ! Oh, stay that hand. King. Sirs, strip that boy. Dion. Come, sir, your tender flesh "Will try your constancy. Bel. Oh, kill me, gentlemen ! Dion. No ! — H elp, sirs. Bel. (to Dion.) will you torture me ? Kinff. Haste there ! Why stay you ? Bel. Then I shall not break my vow, Tou know, just gods, though I discover all. Kitiff. How's that ? will he confess ? Dion. Sir, so he says. Kinff. Speak, then. Bel, Gtreat king, if you command This lord to tali with me alonS, my tongue, Urged by my heart, shall utter all the thoughts My youth hath known ; and stranger things than thesa Yoji hear not often. King. Walk aside with him. — iThey walk aside. Dion. Why speak'st thou not ? Bel. Know you this face, my lord ? Dion. No. Bel. Have you not seen it, nor the like ? Dion. Yes, I have seen the Hke, but readily I know not where. Bel. I have been often told In court of one Euphrasia, a lady. And daughter to you ; betwixt whom and me PHIIASTEB. 45 They, that would flatter my bad face, would awear There was such strange resemblance, that we two Could not be known asunder, dress'd alike. Dion. By heaven, and so there is. Bel. Por her fair sake, Who now doth spend the spring-time of her life In holy pilgrimage, move to the king. That I may 'scape this torture. Dion. But thou speak'st As Like Euphrasia, as thou dost look. How came it to thy knowledge that she lives In pOgrimage ? Bel. I know it not, my lord ; But I have heard it ; and do scarce believe it. Dion. Oh, my shame ! Is it possible ? Draw near, That I may gaae upon thee. Art thou she, Or else her murderer ? Where wert thou bom ? Bel. In Siracusa. Dion. What's thy name ? Bel. Euphrasia. Dion. Oh, 'tis just, 'tis she . Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou faadst died, And I had never seen thee nor my shame ! JBLow shall I own thee ? shall this tongue of mine E'er call thee daughter more ? Bel. 'Would I had died indeed ; I wish it too : And so I must have done by vow, ere publish'd What I have told, but that there was no means To hide it longer. Tet I joy in this, The princess is all clear. King. What have you done ? Dion. AU is discover'd. Phi. Why then hold you me ? [He offers to itab kiimelf. All is discover'd 1 Pray you, let me go. King. Stay him. Are. What is discover'd ? Dion. Why, my shame ! It is a woman. Let her speak the rest. Phi. How ? that again. Dion. It is a woman. 46 PHILASTEE. Phi. Bless'd be you powers that favour innocence ! King. Lay hold upon that lady. [Megka i» seieed. Phi. It is a woman, sir ! Hark, gentlemen ! It is a woman ! Arethusa, take My soul into thy breast, that would be gone With joy. It is a woman ! Thou art fair, And virtuous still to ages, in despite Of malice. King. Speak you, where lies bis shame ? Bel. I am his daughter. Phi. The gods are just. Dion. I dare accuse none ; but, before you two, The virtue' of our age, I bend my knee For mercy.' Phi. Take it freely ; for, I know. Though what thou didst were indiscreetly done, 'Twas meant well. Are. And for me, I have a power to pardon sins, as oft As any man has power to wrong me. Bel. Noble and worthy ! Phi. But, Bellario, (For I must call thee still so) tell me why Thou didst conceal thy sex ? It was a fault ; A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds Of truth outweigh'd it. All these jealousies Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover'd "What now we know. Bel. My father oft would speak Tour worth and virtue ; and, as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so prais'd ; but yet all this "Was but a maiden longing, to be lost As soon as found ; till sitting in my window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thought, (but it was you.) enter our gates. My blood flew out, and baek again as fast, ' For mercg.'] Sion, out of a wrong notion of doing Pbilaster ■ cerrice, bad borne- false tritness to the cbarge against the Fi^ceeg. PHHASTEB. 47 Afl I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in, Like breath. Then was I call'd away in haste. To entertain you. Never was a man, Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, rais'd So high in thoughts as I. Tou left a kiss Upon these lips then, yrhich I mean to keep Prom you for ever. I did hear you talk, Far above singing ! After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd "What stirr'd it so. Alas ! I found it love ; Tet far from lust ; for could I but have liv'd In presence of you, I had had my end. 'For this I did delude my noble father With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress' d myself In habit of a boy ; and, for I knew My birth no match for you, I was past hope Of having you : and understanding well, That when I made discovery of my sex, I could not stay with you, I made a vow. By all the most religious things a maid Could call together, never to be known. Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes, Tor other than I seem'd, that I might ever Abide with you. Then sat I by the fount, Where first you took me up. King. Search out a match Within our kingdom, where and when thou wHt, And I wiU pay thy dowry ; and thyself WUt well deserve him. Bel. Never, sir, will I Marry ; it is a thing within my vow. Phi. I grieve such virtues should be laid in earth Without an heir. Hear me, my royal father : Wrong not the freedom of our souls so much. To think to take revenge of that base woman ; Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free As she was born, saving from shame and sin. Kinff. Set her at liberty ; but leave the court ; This is no place for such ! Tou, Pharamond, Shall have free passage, and a conduct home 48 FHILABTEB. "Wortlij- SO great a prince. — ^When you como there, Bemember, 'twas your faults that lost you hei', And not my purposed will. Pha. I do confess, Henowned sir. Kitiff. Last, join your hands in one. Enjoy, Philaster, This kingdom, which is yours, and after me Whatever I call mine. My blessing on you ! All happy hours be at your marriage-joys, That you may grow yourselves over all lands, And five to see your plenteous branches spring Wherever there is sun ! Let pirinces learn By this, to rule the passions of their blood, Pop what Heaven wills can never be withstood.' [Exeunt omnea, 1 « Th' occasion should as naturally fall, Ai when Bellario confesses all. Shepiield's Esiag'on Poetry. " The character of Bellario mnst have heen extremely popular in its day. For many years after the dat« of Fhilaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found ['A remark,' says Mr. Dyce, ' thrown out somewhat at random'] without one of these women pages in it, following in the train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his mistress) whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving rise to many pretty equivoques by the way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the audience. Our ancestors seem to have been wonderfully delighted with these transformations of sex. Women's parts were then acted by young men. What an odd double confusion it must have made, to see a boy play a woman playing a man ! one cannot disentangle the perplexity without some violence to the imagination." — Laub. "Bellario is suggested by Tiola [in Shakspeare's Twelfth i%A<]. There is more picturesqueness, more dramatic importance, not, perhaps, more beauty and sweetness of affection, but a more elegant develope- ment of it, in Fletcher ; on the oth^ hand, there is still moi-e of that improbability which attends a successful concealment of sex by mere . di^uise of clothes, though no artifice has been more common an the stage." — TTtT.T.A-w, THE HAID'S TEASEDT. -tS TBI! MAID'S TRAGEDY.' LOVH FOBLOEN. Atmidor, a tioilcman. of the court of Rhodes, formkes Aspatia ly tlce Kinf^i command, to marry Evadne. The grief of the forsaken one described. This lady "Walks discontented, with her watery eyes Bent on the earth. The unfrequented woods Are her delight ; and when she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell Her servants what a pretty place it were '2o bury lovers in ; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. She carries with her an infectious grief, That strikes all her beholders ; she will sing The mournful' st things that ever ear hath heard, And sigh, and sing again ; and when the rest Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood, leU mirthful tales in course, that fiU the room With laughter, she will, with so sad a look, Bring forth a story of the silent death Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end, She'll send them weeping, one by one, away. PASSAGES FEOM A MASQUE PEEFOEMED ON THE WEDDHfG NIGHT OE AMISTOE AND ETADlfE. NlGtHT, rimBy in mist», addresses Cynthia {the Moon). Our reign is come, for in the raging sea The sun is drown' d, and with him fell the Day. Bright Cynthia, hear my voice. I am the Night, Por whom thou bear'st about thy borrow' d light. Appear ! no longer thy pale visage shroud. But strike thy sUver horns quite through a cloud. ' A Hng persuades a Tiohleman of his court to forsake one lady and marry another, the latter having been seducediythejang himself, and being secretly his mistress. The bad woman, stimulated by her brother to regret and revenge, murders the king in his bed ; the forsaken one, disguised as a page, contrives to be killed by her deserter ; and the deserter kills Mmself from remorse. 50 THE uaid's teaoedt. CtSTBU./oriidt any mndt to appear but gentle onf We must have none here But vernal blasts and gentle winds appear, Such as blow flowers, and through the glad boughs fing Manj Bofb welcomes to the lusty spring. An invocation to Night,. b^Sore mueie. Back Night,. Strike a Ml silence : do a thorough right To this- great chorus ; that our mueie may Touch high as heaven^ and make the east break daj At mi^ght. Aspatia's wishes fir Amintor and Evadne, on their leedeUng-dai/. Eyadife, ABPA.TIA, DiTLA, and other Ladies. Bvad'. (to Dulay 'Would thou- could'at instil Some of thy mirth into Aspatia. Aspi It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek : It were a fitter hour for me to lau|;h When at the altar the religious pnest Were pacifying the offended powers. With sacrifice, than now. Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam- Aap. Would I could ! Then should I leave the eaus&. [Me ainffs, Lay a> garland on my hearse, Of the- dismal jew. Evad. That's one of your sad songs, madam. Asp. Believe me, 'tis^ » very pretty one. ^SAe sings again. Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew ; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say I died true : My love was false, but I was firm Prom my hour of birth. Cpon my buried body lie Ijghtly, gentle earth ! MadiaiBr good night.— May no discontent Grow 'twist your love and you. But, if there isty Inquire of me,^ and I wUl guide your moa% Teaeh. you an. artificial: way to> grieve. THE KAIU'S TSAGEDT. 31 To keep your sorrow waking. Love youn lord No worse than I : but if you love so well, Alas, you may displease him ; so did I. This is the last time you shall look on me. — Ladies, feirewell. As soon as I am dead. Come all, arid watch one night about my hearse ; Bring each a mournful story, and a tear, To offer at it when I go to earth. "With flatt'ring ivy clasp my coffin round } "Write on my brow my fortune ; let my bier Be borne by virgins- that shall sing, by course, The truth of maids, and perjuries of men. Evad. Alas, I pity thee. Elder Amistob. Asp. {to Amimtof) Go, and be happy in your lady's love. May all the wrongs, that you have done to me, Be utterly forgotten in my death ! I'll trouble you no more ; yet I will take A parting kiss, and wiU not be denied. You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep "When I am laid in earth, thpugh you yourself Can know no pity. Thus I wind myself Lito this willow garland, and am prouder That I was once your love, though now refiis'd. Than to have had another true to me. SELF-PITY DEMAirorifG STMPATHT. " Aspatia leill Aa»e her maidens be aorroiffful, heeatae sae it so'' AsPATiA, AiTTiPHiLi, and Oltmpias. Be sure Tou credit anything the light gives light to. Before a man. Bather believe the sea "Weeps for the ruin'd merchant, when he roars ; Bather, the wind courts but the pregnant sails, "When the strong cordage cracks ; rather, the sua. Comes but to kiss the fruit in wealthy autumn, "When aU falls blasted. If you needs must love, ("Forced by iU. fate) take to your maiden bosoms Two dead-cold aspicks, and of them makelovras: 52 THE maid's ieagedt. They cannot flatter, nor forswear ; one kiss Makes a long peace for all. But man, Oh, that beast man ! Come, let's be sad, my girls! That down-cast of thine eye, Olympias, Shows a fine sorrow. Mark, Antiphila ; Just auch another was the nymph CEkione, "When Paris brought home Helen. Now, a tear ; And then thou art a piece expressing fully The Carthage queen, when, from a cold sea-rock. Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes To the fair Trojan ships ; and, having lost them, Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear. Antiphila, What would this wench do, if she were Aspatia ? Here she would stand, till some more pitying god Tum'd her to marble ! 'Tis enough, my wench ! Shew me the piece of needlework you wrought. Anf. Of Ariadne, madam P Asp. Tes, that piece. — {Looking at it.') This should be Theseus ; he has a cozening face : Tou meant him for a man ? Ant. He was so, madam. Asp. "Why, then, 'tis well enough. Never look back : Tou have a full wind, and a false heart, Theseus ! Does not the story say, his keel was split. Or his masts spent, or some kind rock or other Met with his vessel P . Ant. Not as I remember. Asp. It should have been so. Could the gods know this, And not, of all their number, raise a storm P But they are all as ill ! This false smile "Was well express' d ; just such another caught me. — Tou shall not go so. — Antiphila, in this place work a quicksand, And over it a shallow smiling water, And his ship ploughing it ; and then a Fear : Do that Fear to the life, wench. Ant. 'Twill wrong the story. A^. 'Twill make the story, vrrong'd by wanton poets, Live long, and be believed. But where's the lady ? Ant. There, madam. THE maid's tbagedt. 58 Asp. Fie ! you have miss'd it here, AjitipWla ; Tou are much mistaken, wench : These colours are not dull and pale enough To shew a soul so full of misery As this sad lady's was. Do it by me ; Do it again, by me, the lost Aspatia, ^ And you shall find sdl true but the wild island. Suppose I stand upon the searbeach no-w. Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind, WUd as that desart ; and let all about me Be teachers of my story. Do my face (If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow) Thus, thus, Antiphila. Strive to make me look Like Sorrow's monument ! And the trees about me Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks Groan with continual surges j and, behind me, Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches ; A miserable life of this poor picture ! Olym. Dear madam ! Asp. I have done. Sit down ; and let us Upon that point fix all our eyes ; that point there Make a dull silence, tiU you feel a sadness Give us new souls.' A WIFE PENITENT AND rOS&lTEN. Evadne implores forgiveness of Amintor, ^for marrying Mm while she wot the King's mistress. > Evad. Oh, where have I been all this time ? how 'friended, That I should loso myself thus desperately. And none for pity shew me how 1 wander' d ! There is not in the cOmpass of the light . A more unhappy creature. — Oh, my lord ! " The plaintive im^e of the forsaken Aspatia has an indescribably sweet spirit and romantic expression. Her fancy takes part with her heart, and gives sorrow a visionary graoefuluess. — The resemblance of tliis poetic^ picture to ' Guide's Bacchus and Ariadne' has been noticed by Sfr. Seward, in the preface to his edition of Beaumont and iletcher. In both representations, the extended arms of the mourner, her hair blown by the wind, the barren roughness of the rocks around her, and the broken trunks of leafless trees, make her figure appear like sorrow's monument." — Campbell. 64 THE maid's TBAeSDT. Enter AMnriOB. Aniint. How now? Evad. {kneeling) My much-abused lord ! Amin. This cannot Del Evad. I do not kneel to live; I dare not hope it; The wrongs I did are greater. Look upon me. Though 1 appear with all my faults. Amitt. Stand up. This is a new way to beget more sorrow. Seaven knows I have too many ! Do not mock me ; Though I am tame, and bred up with my wrongs, "Which are my foster-brothers, I may leap. Like a hand-wolf,' into my natural wildness. And do an outrage. Pr'ythee, do not mock me. Evad. My whole life is so leprous, it infects All my repentance. I would buy your pardon. Though at the highest set ;' even with my life, That slight contrition, that's no sacrifice For what I have committed. Amm. Sure I dazzle :' There cannot be a faith in that foul woman, That knows no god more mighty than her mischiefs. Thou dost still worse, still number on thy faults, To press my poor heart thus. Can I believe There's any seed of virtue in that woman Left to shoot up, that dares go on in sin. Known, and so Known as thine is ? Oh, Evadne! 'Would there were any safety in thy sex. That I might put a thousand sorrows off, And credit thy repentance ! But I must not : Thou hast brought me to that dull calamity. To that strange misbelief of all the world, And all things that are in it, that I fear I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave, Only remembering that I grieve. ' Like a hand-wolf ."^ A wolf brought up bj hand ; domesticated from its birth. — This passage, from its perfect nature, analogy, and spirit, might have been written by Shakspeare. 2 At the highefl let.^ Bitted at the highest price. " Sure I dagzle.'] Am confused in my eyesight ; do not see properly. THE maid's I'BAOEDT. 55 Emd. My lord, Give me your griefs. Tou are an innocent, A soul as white as heaven ; let not my sins Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here To shadow,' by dissembling vrith my tears, (As, all say, women can), or to make less, What my hot will hath done, which Heaven and you Know to be tougher than the hand of time Can cut from man's remembrance. No, I do not. I do appear the same, the same Evadne, Drest in the shames I lived in : the same monster ! But these are names of honour; to what I am : I do present myself the foulest creature, Most poisonous, dangerous, and despis'd of men, Lerna e'er bred, or Nilus !' I am hall, Till you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me. The beams of your forgiveness. I am soul-sick. And wither with the fear of one condemn' d, Tm I have got your pardon. dmim. Eise, Evadne. Those heavenly powers that put this good into theei, Grant a continuance of it ! I forgive thee ! Make thyself worthy of it ; and take heed. Take heed, Evadne, this be serious. Mock not the powers above, that can and dare Give thee a great example of their justice To all ensuing ages, if thou playest With thy repentance, the best sacrifice. Evad. I .have done nothing good to win belief. My life hath been so faithless. Ail the creatures. Made for heaven' s honours, have their ends, aad good ones, AM but the cozening crocodiles, false women ! They reign bere like those plagues, those killing sores, Men pray against ; and when they die, like tales 111 told and unbelieved, they pass away. And go to dust forgotten ! But, my lord. Those short days I shall number to my rest ' I do not fall here To shadow^ I do not prostrate myself to make my iault appea: xitherwise than it is. 56 TUG maid's tbagest. (As many must not see me) shall, though too him, Though in my evening, yet perceive I will (Since I can do no good, because a woman) _ Beach constontly at something that is near it : I will redeem one minute of my age, Or, like another Niobe, I'll weep Till I am water. Jmin. I am now dissolved : My frozen soul melts. May each sin thou hast Pind a new mercy ! Eise ; I am at peace. Hadst thou been thus, thus excellently good. Before that devil king tempted thy frailty, Sure thou hadst made a star ! Give me thy hand. From this time I will know thee ; and, as far As honour gives me leave, be thy Amintor: When we meet next, I vrill salute thee fairly, And pray the gods to give thee happy days : My cnarity shall go along with thee. Though my embraces must be far from thee.' DEATH soraHT BT TWO despaihuts women, one tiolbitt AND THE OTHBB GENTLE. Scene — Anteehamber to Evadne's apartments in the Palace. Enter ASFATIA, in man's apparel, and tcilh artificial scars on her fact. Asp. This is my fatal hour. Heaven may forgive My rash attempt, that causelessly hath laid Griefs on me that wiU never let me rest. Enter Servant. God save you, sir ! Ser. And you, sir. What's your business ? Asp. With you, sir, now ; to do me the fair office To help me to your lord. Ser. What, would you serve him ? ' " The difficulty of giving at once truth, strength, and delicaOT to female repentance for the loss of honour is finely accomplished in Evadne. The stage perhaps has few scenes more affecting than that in which she obtains forgiveness of Amintor, on terms which interest ua in bis compassion without compromising his hcmoor." — Caxpbell. THE maxd's TEAOEDT. 57 Asp. I'll do him any service ; but toi haste, Por my affairs are earnest, I desire To apeak with him, Ser. Sir, because you're in such haste, I would be loth Delay you any longer : you cannot. Asp. It shall become you, though, to tell your lord. Ser. Sir, he will speak with nobody ; but, in particular, I have in charge, about no weighty matters. Asp. This is most strange. Art thou gold-proof? There's for thee ; help me to him. Ser. Pray be not angry, sir. I'll do my best. [Exit Asp. How stubbornly this fellow answered me ! There is a vile dishonest trick in man. More than in woman. All the men I meet Appear thus to me ; are all harsh and rude ; Aid have a subtilty in everything, Which love could never know. But we fond women Harbour the easiest and the smoothest thoughts. And think, all shall go so ! It is unjust That men and women should be match'd together,' Enter Amintoe a«c? to Man, Amin. Where is he P Ser. There, my lord, Amin. What would you, sir? Asp. Please it your lordship to command your man Out of the room, I shall deliver things Worthy your hearing. Amin. Leave us. \_Exit Servant. Asp. Oh, that that shape Should bury falsehood in it ! Amin. Now your wUl, sir. Asp. WKen you know me, my lord, you needs must guess My business ;• and I am not hard to know ; Por tin the chance of war mark'd this smooth face With these few blemishes, people would call me My sister's picture, and her mine. In short, I am the brother to the wrong'd Aspatia. Amin. The wrong'd Aspatia ! 'Would thou wert so too Unto the wrong'd Amintor ! Let nie kiss 6Q THE maid's tbasebt. » That hand of thine, in honour that I bear Unto the wrong'd Aapatia. Here I stand, That did it. 'Would he could not ! Gentle youth. Leave me ; for there is something in thy looks. That calls my sins, in a most hideous form. Into my mind ; and I have grjef enough Without thy help. Asp. I would I could with credit. Since I was twelve years old, I had not seen My sister till this hour ; I now arriv'd : She sent for me to see her marriage ; A woful onel But they, that are above. Have ends in everything. She used few words But yet enough to make me understand The baseness of the injuries you did her. That little training I have had, is war : I may behave myself rudely in peace ; I would not, though. I shall not need to tell you, I am but young, and would be loth to lose Honour, that is not easily gain'd again. Fairly I mean to deal. The age is strict For single combats ; and we shall be stopp'd. If it be publish'd. If you like your sword, Use it ; if mine appear a better to you. Change : for the ground is this, and this the time, To end our difference. Amin. Charitable youth, (If thou be'st such) think not I will maintain So strange a wrong : and, for thy sister's sake. Know, that I could not think that desperate thing I durst not do ; yet, to enjoy this world, I would not see her ; for, beholding thee, I am I know not what. If I have aught. That may content thee, take it, and b^one ; For death is not so terrible as thou. Thine eyes shoot guile into me. Asp. Thus, she swore, Thou wouldst behave thyself; and give me words That would fetch tears into mine eyes ; and so Thou dost indeed. But yet she bade me watch, THE maid's TEAGEDT. 55 Lest I were cozen'd ; and be sxire to fight, Ere I return'd. Jmin, That must not be vrith me. For her I'll die directly ; but against her WUl never hazard it. ^sp. Tou must be urged. I do not deal uncivilly with those That dare to fight ^ but such a one as you Must be used thus. [She strikes Mm. Amin. I pr'ythee, youth, take heed. Thy sister is to me a thing so much • A.bove mine honour, that I can enduf e All this. Good gods ! a blow I can endure ! But stay not, lest thou draw a timeless death Upon thyself. Asp. Thou art some prating fellow ; One, that hath studied out a trick to talk. And move soft-hearted people ; to be kick'd \_She kicks him. Thus, to be kick'd ! — "Why should he be so slow In giving me my death ? [Aside. Amm. A man can bear No more, and keep his fiesh. ^Forgive me, then ! I would endure yet, if I coidd. Now show [Draws. The spirit thou pretend' st, and understand. Thou hast no hour to live. [They fight; A.s^2i\Aa, is wounded. What dost thou mean ? Thou canst not fight : the blows thou mak'st at me Are quite besides ; and those I offer at thee, Thou spread'st thine arm», and tak'st upon thy breast, Alas, defenceless ! Asp. I have got enough. And my desire. There is no place so fiit For me to die as here. Enter Evadse, her hands bloody, with a knife. Bvad. Amintor, I am loaden with events. That fly to make thee happy. I have joys, That in a moment can call back ^hy wrongs, 60 the" maid'b teagedy. And settle thee in thy free state again. It is Evadne still that follows thee, But not her mischiefs. Amin. Thou canst not fool me to believe again ; But thou hast looks and things so fuU of news, That I am stay'd. Evad. Noble Amintor, put off thy amaze, Let thine eyes loose, and speak. Am I not fair ? Looks not Evadne beauteous, with these rites now ? "Were those hours half so lovely in thine eyes, When our hands met before the holy man ? I was too foul within to look fair then : Since I knew ill, I was not free till now. Amin. There is presage of some important thing About thee, which it seems thy tongue hath lost. Thy hands are bloody, and thou haat a knife ! JEvad. In this consists thy happiness and mine. Joy to Amintor ! for the king is dead. dmin. Those have most power to hurt us, that we love ; We lay oiu* sleeping lives within their arms ! Whv, thou hast raised up Mischief to his height. And found out one, to out-name thy other faults. Thou hast no intermission of thy sins, , But all thy life is a continued ill. Black is thy colour now, disease thy nature. " Joy to Amintor !" Thou hast touch' d a life, The very name of which had power to chain Up aU my rage, and calm my wildest wrongs. Evad. 'Tis done ; and since I could not find a way To meet thy love so clear as through his life, I cannot now repent it.. Amin. Couldst thou procure the gods to speak to me, To bid me love this woman, and forgive, I think I should fall out with them. Behold, Here lies a youth whose wounds bleed in my breast. Sent by a violent fate, to fetch his death From my slow hand : and, to augment my woe, Tou are now present, stain'd with a king's blood, Violently shed. This keeps night here. And throws an unknown wilderness about me. THE maid's TEAGEDT. 61 Asp. Oh, oh, oil ! Amin. No more ; pursue me not Evad. Porgive me, then, And take me to thy bed. We may not part. [Kneels. Amin. Forbear ! Be wise, and let my rage go this way. Bvad. 'Tis you that I would stay, not it. Amin. Take heed ; It will return with me. Eoad. If it must be, I shall not fear to meet it : take me home. Amin. Thou monster of cruelty, forbear ! Evad. For heaven's sake, look more calm : thine eyes are sharper Than thou canst make thy sword. Amin. Away, away^ ' ~-- Thy knees are more to me than violence. I am worse than sick to see knees follow me, For that I must not grant. For Heaven's sake, stand. Evad. Eeeeive\me, then. \Amin. I dare not stay thy language : \ In midst pi all my anger and my grief, V, Thou dost awake something that troubles me. And says, " I lov'd thee once." I dare not stay. [Leaves her. Eiad. Amintor, thou shalt love me now again : Go ; I am calm. Farewell, and peace for ever ! Evadne, whom thou hat'st, will die for thee. [Kills herslf. Amin. I have a little human nature yet. That's left for thee, that bids me stay thy hand. [Returns. Evad. Thy hand was welcome, but it came too late. [She dies. Asp. Oh, oh, oh ! Amin. This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel A stark affrighted motion in my blood : My soul grows weary of her house, and I All over am a trouble to myself. There is some hidden power in these dead thingn, That calls my flesh unto. 'em : I am cold ! 62 THE aiaid's teaoedt. Be resolute, and bear 'em company. There's something, yet, which I am loth to leave. There's man enough in me to meet the fears That death can bring ; and yet, 'would it were done I I can find nothing in the whole discourse Of death I durst not meet the boldest way ; Tet still, betwixt the reason and the act, The wrong I to Aspatia did, stands up : I have not such another favdt to answer. Though she may justly arm herself with scorn And hate of me, my soul will part less troubled, When I have paid to her in tears my sorrow. I win not leave this act unsatisfied. If aU that's left in me can answer it. Asp. "Was it a dream ? There stands Amintor stiU ; Or I dream still. Amin. How dost thou ? Speak ! receive my love and help. Thy blood climbs up to his old place again : There's hope of thy recovery. Asp. Did you not name Aspatia P Amin. I did. Asp. And talk'd of tears and sorrow unto her ? Amin. 'Tis true ; and till these happy signs in thee Did stay my course, 'twas thither I was going. Asp. Thou art there already, and these wounds are hers : Those threats I brought with me sought not revenge ; But came to fetch this blessing from thy hand. I am Aspatia yet. Amin. Dare my soul ever look abroad again ? Asp. I shall surely live, Amintor ; I am weU : A kind of healthful joy waraders within me. Amin. The worM wants lives to excuse thy loss ! Come, let me bear thee to some place of help. Asp. Amintor, thou must stay ; I must rest here ; My strength begins to disobey my will. How dost thou, my best soul P I would fain live Now, if I could. "Wouldst thou have loved me then ? Amin. Alas! All that I am's not worth a hair from thee. Asp. Give me thy hand ; my hands grope up and down, THE maid's teagedt. 63 And caunot find thee. I am wondrous sick : Have I thy hand Amintor ? Amm. Thou greatest blessing of the ■world, thou hast. Asp. I do belieye thee better than my sense. Oh ! I must go. Farewell ! Sfiies. Amin. She swoons ! Aspatia ! — Help I for Heaven's sake, water \ Such as may chain life ever to this frame. — Aspatia, ^eak ! — ^What, no help yet ? I fool ! I'll chafe her temples. Tet there's nothing stirs : Some hidden power tell her, Amintor calls, And let her answer me ! — ^Aspatia, speak ! — I have heard, if there be any life, but bow The body thus, and it will show itself. Oh, she is gone I I will not leave her yet. Since out of justice we must challenge nothing. . I'll caU it mercy, if you'll pity me, Te heavenly powers ! and lend, for some few years, The blessed soul to this fair seat again. No comfort comes ; the gods deny me too ! I'll bow the body once agaia. — Aspatia X — The soul is fled for ever ; and I wrong Myself, so long to lose her company. Must I talk now ? Here's to be with thee, love ! \Stahs himself. Enter Servant. Serv. This is a great grace to my lord, to have the new king come to him : I must teU him he is entering. — Oh, God! Help, help! Enter Lxsippirg, MEiAKTiTis (Evadne's brother,) Caiianax (Aspatia's father), CiiEON, DiPHrLus, and Steato. Ajys. Where's Amintor ? Serv. Oh, there, there. Cys. How strange is this ! Cal. What should we do here ? Mel. These deaths are such acquainted things with me, That yet my heart dissolves not. May I stand Stiff here for ever ! Byes, call up your tears ! This is Amintor.. Heart ! he was my friend ; 64 THE MAID S TBAQEDT. Melt ; now it flows. — Amintor, give u word To call me to thee. Amin. Oh ! Mel. M'elantius calls hia friend Amintor. Oh ! Thy arms are kinder to me than thy tongue. S])eak, speak ! Amin. What ? Mel. That little word was worth all the sounds That ever I shall hear again. Dij)h. Oh, brother ! He 're lies your sister slain ; you lose yourself In sorrow there. Mel. "Why, Dipbilus, it is A thing to laugh at, in respect of this : He.ie was my sister, father, brother, son ; All that I had ! — Speak once again : what youth Lies slain there by thee ? Amin. ''.Ks Aspatia. My last is said. Let me give up my soul Lil;j thy bosom. [Die*. Cal. What's that? what's that? Aspatia! Mel. I iiever did Eepent the greatness of my heart till a6w ; It v.ill not burst at need. Cal. My daughter dead here too ! And you have all fine new tricks to grieve ; but I ne'er knew any but direct crying. Mel. I am a prattler ; but no more. {^Ofers to kill himself. Diph. Hold, brother. Lys. Stop him. Diph. Fie ! how unmanly was this offer in you ; Does this become our strain ? Cal. I know Dot what the matter is, but I am grown very kind, and am friends with you. Tou have given me that among you will kill me quickly ; but I'U go home, and live as long as I can. . Me . His spirit is but poor, that can be kept Prom death for want of weapons. Is not my hand a weapon sharp enough To stop my breath ? or, if you tie down those, I vow, Amintor, I will never eat, THE maid's teagedt. 65 Or drink, or sleep, or have to do with that That may preserve life ! This I swear to keep Lys. Look to him though, and bear those bodies in. May this a fair example be to me, To rule with temper : for, on lustful kings, TJnlook'd-for, sudden deaths from heaven are sent ; But curst is he that is their iostrument. [_E!i!eunt. [One characteristic of the excellent old poets is their being able to bestow grace upon subjects which naturally do not seem susc^tible of any. I will mention two instances : Zelmane in the Arcadia oi Sidney, and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be more unpromising at first sight than the idea of a young man dis- guising Mmself in woman's attire, and passing himself off as a woman among women? and that too for a long space of time? Yet Sir Philip has preseired such a matchless decorum, that neither does Fyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane, nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly constituted mind of Sir Philip Sidney it seems as if no ugly thought nor unhandsome meditation could find a harbour. He turned all that he touched into images of honour and virtue. Helena, in Shakspeare, is a young woman seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary laws of courtship are reversed. Yet with such exquisite address is this dangerous subject handled, that Helena's forwardness loses her no honour ; delicacy dispenses with her laws in her favour, and ISTature in her single case seems content to suffer a sweet violation. " Aspatia, in this tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena of being managed with grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused by a man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully contrived that while we pity her, we respect her, and she descends without de- gradation. So much true poetry and passion can do to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem capable of it. But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with Helena ; she does not so absolutely pre- dominate over her situation, but she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the female character, which Helena never does : her character has many degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy, but it has weakness which if we do not despise we are sorrv for. After all, Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares and Sidneys." — ^Laub. " The Maid's Tragedy, unfqrtunately, beantiiiil and essentially moral as it is, cannot be called a tragedy for maids, and indeed should hardlv be read by any respectable woman. It abounds with that studiously protracted indecency which distinguished Fletcher beyond all our early dramatists, and is so much incorporated with his plays, that very few ol them can be so altered as to become tolerable et present on the stage." Hallam.J 66 A KTNGr AlTD NO EBrQ. A KING AND KO KING.' TH£ FHILOBOPHT Of KICKS ADD BEATUrQS. Betnu, a teaten poltroon, appliea to a couple of prqfeaiional iullieir a/m poliroona, to tit in judgment on hit date, end tettify to hi» oiaracterfor valour. Theg actompany Mm to the houte of Bamriur tO' do to, and bring an unexpected ceriijitate on the whole partg. ScEUB — A Boom m the Bouse- of Besaua. Enter SsssirB^ Two Swordsmes^ amd a Eoy. Bee. You're very welcome, both I Some stools tdiere, boy ; And reach a table. G-entlemen o' tl/ sword^ Pray sit, without more complunent, Begpne, child I I have been curious in the searching of you,. Because I understand you wise and Taliaot. let Sw. We uudeirstand ourselvesr sir. Besma. IXay, gentlemen^ and dear friends of th& swovd, !N'0 compliment, I pray ; but to the cause I hang upon, which, in few, is my honour. 2nd Sire. Tou cannot hang too much, sir, for your- honour — But to your cause-. Be wise, aani speak the truith. Bes. My first doubt is; my beati'ng by my prince-. 1st Sw. Stay there a little, sir. Bo you doiibt a beating ? Or, have you had a beating, by your prince ? Bes. Ghentlemen o' th' sword, my prince has beaten me. 2nd Sw, {to 1st). Brother, what thlcik you of this case ? 1«^ Sw. If he has beaten Imn, the case is diear. 2nd Sw. If he have beaten him, I grant the case : But how P We cannot be too subtle iu' this business ; I say, but how E Bes. Even -with his royal hand. 1st Sw. Was it a blow of love or indignation- ? Bes. 'Twas twenty blows of indignation, geatlemen: Besides two Mows o' th' face. 2ndSw. Those blOws o' th' face have made a new cause on't;. The rest were bui an honouirable rudeHessv > Story of a brave uut pompons and bragging eoveieign, -who turns- out to have no right to lua throne.. The only scenes in the play worth preaerring are the admirable ones here estiracted concerning Bessus, -who may be styled tiie f rince- of Poltroons; A KIlfG AND NO ETNO. 67 Isl Sw. Two blows o' th' face, aud given by a worse man, I must confess, as the swordsmen say, had turn'd The business ; mark me, brother, by a worse man ; But, being by his prince, had they been ten. And those ten drawn ten teeth, besides- the hazaord Of his nose for ever, all this had been but favour. This is my flat opinion, which I'll die in- 2nd Suf. The king may db much, Ciaptain, believe it ; Por had he crack' d your skull through, like a bottle^ Or broke a rib or two, with tossing of you,. Yet you had' lost no honour. This is strange, You may imagiioe ^ but this is truth now, Captain.- Bes. I wiS be gbd to' embrace it, gentlemen;. But hww me may he strike me ? 1st Sw. There's another ;• A new cause rising from the time and distancej, In whiefa I will deliver my opinion. "We may strike, beat, or cause to be beatem (For tfese are natural' te- man)^ Your prince, I say, may beat you so far fartEs As his dominion reaehes ; that's for the distance';^ The time, ten miles a day, I take it, 2nd Sw. Brother, yoa err ; 'tis fifteen mfes' a d&j j His stage is ten, his beatings are fifteen. Bes. 'Tis of the longest, but we subjects must — 1st Sw. (interrupfinffy. 'Be subject to it. You are wise and virtuous. Bes. Obedience ever makes that noble use on't. To which I dedicate my beaten body. [sword. I must trouble you a little farther, gentlemen o' th' 2nd Sw. No trouble at all to us, sir, if we may Profit your understanding. "We are bound, By virtue of our calling, to utter our opinion Shortly and discreetly. Bes. My sorest business is, I have been kick'd, 2nd Sw. How far, sir ? Bes. Not to flatter myself in it, all over. My sword lost, but not forced ; for discreetljp' I render'd it, to save that imputation, 1st Sw. It show'd discretion, the best part ef valaar. 68 A sura akd no king. 2nd Sw. Brother, this is a pretty cause : pray, think on'tr Our friend here has been kick'd. 1st Sio. He has so, brother. '2nd Sw. Sorely, he says. Now had he sat down hero Upon the mere kick, 't had been cowardly. 1«; Sw. I think it had^been cowardly, indeed. 2nd Sw. But our friend has redeem'd it, in delivering His sword without compulsion ; and that man That took it of him, I pronounce a weak one, And his kicks nullities. He should have kick'd him after the delivering, Which is the confirmation of a coward. 1st Sw. Brother, I take it, you mistake the question : For say, that I were kick'd. 2nd Sw. I must not say so : Nor I must not hear it spoke by th' tongue o' man. Tou kick'd, dear brother! You are merry lit Sw. But put the case, I were kick'd. 2nd Sw. Let them put it. That are things weary of their lives, and know Not honour ! Put the case, you were kick'd ! Isf Sw. I do not say I was kick'd. 2nhim of neglecting hie buaineit and fighting everyiody, that he challengei the judge for giving caiaet agairfit him. Scene — A Street. Enter Sampsos' (a foolish Advocate') and Three Clients. Samp. I know monsieur La Writ. 1 Client. 'Would he knew himself sir ! Samp. He was a pretty lawyer, a kind of pretty lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. 1 Client. He 's blown up, sir. 2 Client. Bun mad, and quarrels with the dog he meets : He is no lawyer of this world now. THE LITTLE FEEITCH LAWTEB. 95 Samp. Tour reason ? Is he defunct ? is he dead ? 2 Client. No, he's not dead yet, sir ; [hours : But I would he loth to take a lease on 's life for two Alas, he is possess' d, sir, with the spirit of Agisting, And quarrels with aU people ; but how he came to it- Samp. If he fight well, and like a gentleman, The man may fight ; for 'tis a lawful calling. Look you, my friends, I am a civil gentleman, And my lord my uncle loves me. 3 Client. We all know it, sir. [ness. Samp. I think he does, sir ; I have business too, much busi- Tum you some forty or fifty causes in a week : Tet, when I get an hour of vacancy, I can fight too, my friends ; a little does well ; 1 would be loth to learn to fight.' 1 Client. But, an't please you, sir. His fighting has neglected aU our business ; "We are undone, our causes cast away, sir ; His not-appearance Samp. There he fought too long ; [friends r A little, and fight well :, he fought too long, indeed^ But, ne'ertheless, things must be as they may, And there be ways 1 Client. We know, sir, if you please Samp. Something I'U do. Go, rally up your causes. Enter La. Weit, in the habit of a gallant, and a Gfentleman at the door. 2 Client. Now you may behold, sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. La Writ. I'U meet you at the ordinary, sweet gentlemen, No handling any duels before I come ; We'U have no going less ; I hate a cowmd ! Gent. There shall be nothing done. La Writ. Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight ; There's no sport else. • To learn tojigU-l That is to say, — ia be still under the neoeseif.v oJ learning. 96 THE LITTLE FEENCH LAWTDB. Gent. We'll see what may be done, sir. 1 Client. Ha ! monsieur La "Writ ! La Writ. Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, judgment against us ! Why, there it goes. 2 Client. What shall we do the whilst, sir ? La Writ. Breed new dissensions ; go hang yourselves ! 'lis all one to me ; I have a new trade of living. 1 Client. Do you hear what he says, sir.? Samp. The gentleman speaks finely. La Writ. WiU any of you fight ? Fighting's my occupation If you find yourselves aggrieved Samp. A complete gentleman ! La Writ. Avaunt, thou buckram budget of petitions ! [Throwt away his bag of papers. Thou spital' of lame causes ! — I lament for thee ; And, till revenge be taken Samp. 'Tis most excellent. La Writ. There, every man choose his paper, and his place ; I'll answer ye all ; I will neglect no man's business. But he shall have satisfaction like a gentleman. The judge may do and not do ; he's but a monsieur.' Samp. You have nothing of mine in your bag, sir. La Writ. I know not, sir ; But you may put anything in, any fighting thing. Samp. It is sufficient ! you may hear hereafter. La Writ. I rest your servant, sir ! Samp. No more words, gentlemen, But follow me ! no more words, as you love me, The gentleman's a noble gentleman ! I shsdl do what I can, and then Clients. We thank you, sir. Samp. Not a word to disturb him ; he's a gentleman. lExeunt Sampson and Clients. Za Writ. No cause go o' my side ? the judge cast all ? And, because I was honoifrably employ'd in action, ' Spital.'] Hospital. , ' Sut a moniieur.'\ I bow not what this means, unless it be that the judge is not of a rank above an advocate's challenging. It wiU be seen that he addresses him as " Monsieur Tertaigne." THE LITTLE FBENOH lA^VnTBE. 99 And not appear' d, pronounce ? 'Tis rery well, 'Tis well, faith ! 'tis well, judge ! Enter Cleeemoitt. Cler. Who have we here ? My little furious lawyer ! La Writ. I say, 'tis well ! But mark the end ! Cler. How he is metamorphosed ! Nothing of lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No soliciting face now ! This is no simple conver- Tour servant, sir, and friend ! [sion. La Writ. Tou come in time, sir. Cler. The happier man, to be at your command then. Z/ffi Writ. Tou may wonder to see me thus ; but that's all Time shall declare. 'Tis true, I was a lawyer, [one ; But I have mew'd' that coat ; I hate a lawyer ; I talk'd much in the court ; now I hate talking. I did you the office of a man ? Cler. I must confess it. La Writ. And budged not; no, I budged not. Cler. No, you did not. La Writ. There's it then ; one good turn requires another. Cler. Most wiUing, sir ; I am ready at your service. La Writ {gives him a paper). There, read, and undeiv stand, and then deliver it. Cler. This is a challenge, sir. La Writ. 'Tis very like, sir ; I seldom now write sonnets. Cler. O, admirantis P " To Monsieur Vertaigne, the president." La Writ. I choose no fool, sir. Cler. Why, he's no swordsman, sir. La Writ. Let him learn, let him learn ; Time, that trains chickens up, will teach him quickly. Cler. Why, he's a judge, an old. man ! ' Meiifd.'\ Cast ; as a bird does its feathers. A term in falconry. * 0, admirantis r\ 0, of admiring. This, unless pact of a passage in some Latin psahn or hymn, is probably the beginning of something in a Latin grammar, relative to the use of the inteijectlon or vocative O. Sd THE LITTLE FEElfCH LAWTEB. La Writ. Never too old To be a gentleman ; and he that is a judge, Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. [Points to the scattered papert. There are my griefs ; he has cast away my causes, In which he has bow'd my reputation : And therefore, judge or no judge Cler. Pray be ruled, sir ! This is the maddest thing— ^ — La Writ. You will not carry it ? Cler. I do not tell you so ; but, if you may be persuaded La Writ. Tou know how you used me when I. would not fight? Cler. The devil's in him. [Aside. La Writ. I see it in your eyes, that you dare do it ; Tou have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. Cler. The least is banishment. La Writ. Be banish' d then ; 'Tis a friend's part. We'll meet in Africa, Or any comer of the earth. Cler. Say, he will not fight P La Writ. I know then what to say ; take you no care, sir. Cler. Well, I will carry it and deliver it, And to-morrow morning meet you in the Louvre ; Till when, my service. [Exit, La Writ. A judge, or no judge ? no judge.i • No judge.'] La Writ, in this ludicrouB BUimning up, puts it, as it were, to a jury, whether his judge is to be considered a judge at all ; and pronounces the verdict against him. A more fortunate hemistich for the termination of a scene conld not be desired by a master of comic delivery. One fancies Gtarriok going off the stage with it in his mouth, and exalting his voice iu a tone of triumphant finality — " Judge or no judge ? — Ifo judge." BOITDIIOA. 99 BONDUCA. BOASTIWa EEBtlKED. The Britom having defeated the Romans in a pitched battle, Bonduea, their queen, indulges in a strain of contempiuoits triumph, for which she is rebuked by her kinsman and general, Caratach.^ , Scene, the British Camp. — Enter BoNDircA, Daughters, Hewgo, NBHiriTrs, and Soldiers. Bond. The " hardy Eomana ?" Oh, ye gods of Britain, The rust of arms, the blushing shame of soldiers ! Enter Cabataoh. Aie these the men that conquer Iby inheritance ? The fortune-makers P these the Julians, That with the sun measure the end of nature. Making the world but one Eome, and one Csesar ? Shame, how they flee ! Caesar's soft soul dwells in 'em. Their bodies sweat with sweet oils, love's allurements. Not lusty arms. Dare they send these to seek us, These Eoman girls ? Is Britain grown so wanton ? Twice have we beat 'em, Nennius, scatter'd 'em : And through their big-boned Germans, on whose pikes The honour of their actions sits in triumph. Made themes for songs to shame 'em. And a woman, A woman beat 'em, Nennius ; a weak woman ; A woman beat these Bomans ! Car, So it seems ; A mam would shame to talk so. Bond. Who's that? Car. I. Bond. Couffin, do you grieve my fortunes ? Car. No, Bonduea ; If I grieve, 'tis the bearing of your fortunes : Tou put too much wind to your sail ; discretion And hardy valour are the twins of honour, And, nurs'd together, make a conqueror ; ' Caratach.'\ Caradoc (the same, it is Baid, aB the mod«nii {^doe£),« the famous British ehieftain, best known to English. leadeis under bii Latinised name, Caractacus. 100 BONDUOA. Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a trath, That Eome haa fled before us twice, and routed : A truth .we ought to crown the gods for, lady, And not our tongues ; a truth is none of ours, Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing ; Por then it leaves to be a virtue, lady. And we, that have been victors, beat ourselves, "When we insult upon our honour's subject. Bond. My valiant cousia, is it foul to say What liberty and honour bid us do, And what the gods allow us ? Car. No, Bonduca ; So what we say exceed not what we do. You call the !Bomans fearful, fleeing Somans, And Boman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures : Does this become a doer ? are they such ? Bond. They are no more. Car. Where is your conquest then ? Why are your altars crown'd with wreaths of flowers ? The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire ? The holy Druides composing songs ' Of everlasting life to victory ? Why are these triumphs, lady ? for a May-game ? For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans ? Is it no more ? Shut up your temples, Britons, And let the husbandman redeem his heifers ; Put out your holy fires ; no timbrel ring ; Let's home and sleep ; for such great overthrows A candle bums too bright a sacrifice, A glow-worm's tail too fuU of flame. — Oh, Nennius, Thou hadst a noble uncle knew a Boman, And how to speak him, how to give him weight In both his fortunes. Bond. By the gods, I think You dote upon these Bomans, Caratach ! Car. Witness these wounds, I do ; they were fairly given. And are not all these Bomaa ? Ten struck battles I sucked these honour'd scars from, and all Boman ; Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches (When many a firozen storm sung through my cuirass, BOlTDTrOA. • 101 AaA made it doubtful whether that or I Were the more stubborn metal) have I wrought through, And aU to try these Eomans. Ten times a-night I have swam the rivers, when the stars of Some Shot at me as I floated, and the billows Tumbled their wat'ry ruins on my shoulders, Charging my batter' d sides with troops of agues ; And still to try these Bomans, whom I found (And, if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward, And be you witness,, gods, and all my dangers) lAs ready, and as full of that I brought ((Which was not fear, nor flight), as valiant, As vigilant, as wise, to do and sufier. Ever advanced as forward, as the Britons ; Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours, ,Aye, and as subtle, lady. 'Tis dishonour, And, foUow'd, will be impudence, Bonduca, And grow to no belief, to taint these Bomans. Have not I seen the Britons Bond. What? Car. Dishearten' d. Bun, run, Bonduca ! Not a flight drawn home, A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish. E'er made that haste that they have. By the gods, I have seen these Britons, that you magnify. Bun as they would have out-run time, and roaring, Basely for mercy roaring ; the Kght shadows. That in a thought scur' o'er the fields of com, Halted on crutches to 'em. Bond. Oh, ye powers. What scandals do I suffer ! Car. Tes, Bonduca, I have seen thee run too ; and thee, Nennius ; Tea, run apace, both ; then, when Penius (The Boman girl !) cut through your armed carts, And drove 'em headlong on ye, down the hill : Then did I see These valiant and approved men of Britain, Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy. And hoot their fears to one another nightly. • Scur,'] Scour. 102 BOHDirCA. Nen. And what did you then, Caratach ? Car. I fled too, But not 80 fast ; your jewel had been lost then, Young Hengo there ; he trasht me,' Nennius : For, when your fears out-run him, then stept I, And in the head of all the Eoman fury Took him, and, with my tough belt, to my back I buckled him ; behind him my sure shield ; And then I follow' d. If I say I fought Eive times in bringing ofiFthis bud of Britain, I lie not, Nennius. Neither had you heard Me speak this, or ever seen the child more. But that the sun of virtue, Peniua, Seeing me steer through aU. these storms of danger. My helm still in my hand (my sword), my prow Turn'd to my foe (my face),' he cried out nobly, " Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely ; Thy manly sword has ransom'd thee ; grow strong, And let me meet thee once again in arms ; Then, if thou stand'st, thou'rt mine." I took his offer, And here I am to honour him. Bond. Oh, cousin, Prom what a flight of honour hast thou check'd me I What wouldst thou make me, Caratach ? Car. See, lady. The noble use of others in our losses. Does this afflict you ? Had the Bomans cried this. And, as we have done theirs, simg out these fortunes, Eail'd on our base condition, hooted at us, Made marks as far as th' earth was ours, to show us Nothing but sea could stop our flights, despis'd us. And held it equal whether banqueting ' Trasht me."] Restrained ; retarded. " The French, trasher, irasaer, is to trace ; to put in trace, to confine or restrain in traces. A traeh, — anything trashed or confined in traces, that it ma; not pvirsue too fast, rashly ; like an untrained dog." — Biceabiison's Dictionary. ' We are to suppose here that the atage-performer of Caratach, while speaking the words "feoe" and "sword," is " suiting the action to the word ;" that is to say, putting his hand to his sword, in order_to show that he means his "helm" by it, and'pointedly facing somebody, to show that his face means his "prow."' BONDUCA. 103 Or beating of the Britons were more busineas, It would have gall'd you. Bond. Let me think we conquer' d. Car. Do ; but so think as we [too] may be conquer'd ; And where we have found virtue, though ia those That came to make us slaves, let's cherish it. There's not a blow we gave since Julius landed, That was of strength and worth, but, like records, They file to after-ages. Our registers The Eomans are, for noble deeds of honour ; And shall we burn their mentions with upbraidings ? Bond. No more ; I see myself. Thou hast made me, cousin. More than my fortunes durst, for they abus'd me, And wound me up so high, I sweU'd with glory : Thy temperance has cured that tympany, And given me health again, — ^nay, more, discretion. Shall we have peace ? for now I love these Somans. Car. Thy love and hate are both unwise ones, lady. Bond. Tour reason ? Nen. Is not peace the end of arms ? Car. Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle. Or with our neighbours, lady, for our land-marks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against commotions. After a day of blood, peace might be argued ; But where we grapple for the ground we live on. The liberty we hold as dear as life, The gods we worship, and, next those, our honours, And with those swords that know no end of battle. Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,' Those minds, that where the day is, claim inheritance, And where the sun makes ripe the fiiiits, their harvest. And where they march, but measure out more ground To add to Eome, and here i' th' bowels on us, , It must not be. No ; as they are our foes. And those that must be so until we tire 'em, ' I%03e mm, beside themselves, allow no neighiotir.] That is to say, — Those men, w/io, besides themselves, allow no neighbour. The eUipsis ia oommoa in the old poets, but in this instance is very harsh. 104 BOlfDUCA. Let's lise the peace of honour,' that's fair dealing, But in our hands our swords. That hardy Sioman That hopes to graft himself into my stock, Must first begin his kindred under-ground, And be allied in ashes. Bond. Caratach, As thou hast nobly spoken, shall be done ; And Hengo to thy charge I here deliyer : The Eomans shall have worthy wars. Car. They shall: And, little sir, when your young bones grow stiffer. And when I see you able in a morning To beat a dozen boys, and then to breakfast, I'll tie you to a sword. Hengo. And what then, uncle ? Car, Then you must kill, sir, the next Taliant Eoman That calls you knave. Hengo. And must I kill but one ? Car. An hundred, boy, I hope. Hengo. I hope five hundred. Car, That is a noble boy ! — Come, worthy lady, Let's to our several charges, and henceforth Allow an enemy both weight and worth. TALOTTE PEHMITTING ITSELP TO BE MADE OTEE-CATTTIorS BT PIQTTB. Feniva, one of the Soman captains, despairing of the tuccea of a remnant of hie countrymen against a countless host of Btitons, is confirmed in his determination not to bring up his regiment 4o the fight, bg a message from the general which piques his digmt^. Scene— T%e Roman Camp, with the Tent of PEirius. Enter Penitts, EEauLUS, Mageb, and Deusius. Pen. I must come ? Macer. So the general commands, sir. Pen, 1-miist bring up my regiment ? ' Lei's use the peace of honour."] The passage is obsora-ely worded, but meone,^— Let us so far, and so far onl;', be peaceful as becomes out honour ; that is to say, let us give them the benefit of fiur dealing, but iiothing more ; since the only ends which can satisfy nations whose ia* depaudfince is threatened, must be secured by the sword. BOlTDTrCA. 105 Maeer. Believe, sir, I bring no lie. Pen. But dad he say, I must come ? Maeer. So deliver' d. Pen. How long ia't, Eegulus, siaee I commanded In Britain here ? ^g. About five years, great Penius. Pen. The general some five months. Are all my actions So poor and lost, my services so barren. That I'm remember'd ia no nobler language But must come up ? Maeer. I do beseech you, sir, "Weigh but the time's estate. Pen. Yea, good lieutenant, I do, and his that sways it. Must come up ? Am I tum'd bare centurion ? Must, and shall. Fit embassies to court my honour ? Maeer. Sir — Pen. Set me to lead a handful of my men Agaiast an hundred thousand barbarous slaves, [doers P That have march'd name by name with Bome's best Serve 'em up some other meat. I'll bring no food To stop the jaws of all those hungry wolves ; My regiment's mine own. I must, my language ? Enter CTTEirs. Cur. Penius, where lies the host ? Pen. Where Pate may find 'em. Cur. Are they ingirt r Pen. The battle's lost. Cur. So soon ? Pen. No ; but 'tis lost, because it must be won ; The Britons must be victors. Whoe'er saw A troop of bloody vultures hovering About a few corrupted carcases. Let him behold the sUly Boman host. Girded with millions of fierce Britain swains, With deaths as many as they have had hopes ; And then go thither, he that loves his shame I I Bcom my life, yet dare not lose my name. 106 BOITDUCA. Cur. Do not you hold it a most famous end, Wien both our names and lives are sacrificed For Some's increase ? Pen. Tes, Curins ; but mark this too : What glory is .there, or what lasting fame Can be to Some or us, what full example, When one is smother'd with a multitude. And crowded in amongst a nameless press p Honour, got out of flint, and on their heads Whose virtues, like the sun, exhaled aU valours, Must not be lost in mists and fogs of people, Noteless and not of name, but rude and naked : !Nor can Borne task us with impossibilities. Or bid us fight against a flood. We serve her. That she may proudly say she has good soldiers. Not slaves to choke all hazards. Who but fools, That make no difierence betwixt certain dying. And dying well, would fling their fames and for- tunes Into this Britain gulf, this quicksand ruin. That, sinking, swallows us P what noble hand Can find a subject fit for blood there ? or what sword Boom for his execution ? what air to cool us, But poison'd with their blasting breaths and curses, Where we lie buried quick above the ground. And are with labouring sweat, and breathless pain, KUl'd like to slaves, and cannot kiU again ? Brus. Penius, mark ancient wars, and know that then A captain weigh' d an hundred thousand men. Fen. Drusius, mark ancient wisdom, and you'll find then. He gave the overthrow that saved his men. I must not go. Reff. The soldiers are desirous. Their eagles all drawn out, sir. Pen. Who drew up, Begulus ? [this ? Ha, speak! did you? whose bold will durst attempt Drawn out? why, who commands, sir? on whose warrant Durst they advance ? Reff. I keep mine own obedience. BOITDUCA. 107 Drug. 'Tis like,' the general cause, their love of honour, !Believing of their wants Pen. Without my knowledge ? Am I no more ? my place but at their pleasures ? Come, who did this ? Drui. By Heaven, sir, I am ignorant. [Drum softly within, then enter Soldiers with drum and colours. Pen. What ! am I grown a shadow ? — Hark ! they march. I'll know, and will be myself. — Stand ! Disobedience ? He that adyances one foot higher, dies for't. Eun through the regiment, upon your duties. And charge 'em on command, beat back again; By Heaven, I'll tithe 'em all else P Ueg. We'll do our best. [lExeunt DKUSirrs and EEGUlitrB. Pen. Back ! cease your bawling drums there, I'll beat the tubs about your brains else. Back ! Do I speak with less fear than thunder to ye ? Must I stand to beseech ye ? Home, home ! — Ha ! Do ye stare upon me ? Are those minds I moulded. Those honest valiant tempers I was proud To be a fellow to, those great discretions [fires ? Made your names fear'd and honour' d, tum'd to wild- Oh ! gods, to disobedience ? Command, fareweU. ! And be ye witness with me, all things sacred, I have no share iu these men's shames! March, soldiers, And seek your own sad ruins ; y6ur old Penius Dares not behold your murders. 1 Sold. Captain ! 2 Sold. Captaiu ! 3 Sold. Dear, honour'd captain ! Pen. Too, too dear-loved soldiers N (Which made ye weary of me, and Heaven yet knows, Though in your mutinies I dare not hate you). Take your own wills. 'Tis fit your long experience Should now know how to rule yourselves ; I wrong ye In wishing ye to save your Uvea and credits ; To keep your necks whole from the axe hangs o'er ye : ^ 'Ttfs like.'i 'Tis likdy; probable. ' Kthe 'em all else.'] Decimate them ; kill every tenth man. 108 Boiri>i70A. Alas ! I mucli dishonour 'd ye ; go, seek the Britons, And say ye come to glut their sacrifices ; But do not say I sent ye. What ye have been. How excellent in all parts, good and govern' d, Is only left of my command, for story ; What now ye are, for pity. Tare ye well ! [Going. Enter DEtrsrus and Eeguhts. Drus. Oh, turn again, great Fenius ! see the soldier In all points apt for duty. Reg. See his sorrow For his disobedience, which he says waa haste. And haste, he thought, to please you with. See, captain, The toughness of his courage turn'd to water ; See how his manly heart melts. Pen. Go ; beat homeward ; There learn to eat your little with obedience ; And henceforth strive to do as I direct ye. [Exeunt Soldiers. Maeer. My answer, sir. Pen. Tell the great general. My companies are no faggots to fill breaches : Myself no man that must or shall can carry : Bid him be wise, and where he is, he's safe then ; And when he finds out possibilities, He may command me. Commend me to the captains. Macer. All this I shall deliver. Pen. Farewell, Macer ! [Escit. Cur. Pray gods this breed no mischief! Reg. It must needs. If stout Suetonius win ; for then his anger. Besides the soldiers' loss of due and honour, Will break together on him. Drus. He's a brave fellow ; And but a little hide his haughtiness (Which is but sometimes neither, on some causes),' He shows the worthiest Boman this day living.^ ' Which it tut lometimet neither, on tome caiueil\ Aiid even that but occasional, and for special reasons p BOKDtrOA. 109 Tou may, good Curius, to the general Make all things seem the best Cur. I shall endeavour. Pray for our fortunes, gentlemen ; if we fell. This one farewell serves for a funeral. The gods make shaxp our swords, and steel our hearts ! Eeg. We dare, alas f but cannot fight our parts. [Exeunt. BOM ATT TAXOTTB AND QLOET. Suetonius, the Roman General, harangues his officers iefore iattle. StTETOifnjs, PETiiiLirs, Junius, Ctjbius, Decius, Dembtbius, and Maoeb. Suet. Draw out apace ; the enemy waits for us. Are ye all ready P Junius. All our troops attend, sir. Suet. Gentlemen, To bid you fight is needless ; ye are Homans ; The name will fight itself: — ^to tell ye who Tou go to fight against, his power and nature, But loss of time ; ye know it, know it poor, And oft have made it so. To tell ye further. His body shows more dreadful than it has done, To him, that fears, less possible to deal with. Is but to stick more honour on your actions. Load ye with virtuous names, and to your memories Tie never-dying Time and Fortune constant, Gro on in full assurance ! draw your swords As daring and as confident as justice ; The gods of B fimR fiprht. fm- yo ; loud Pame calls ye, PitcF d on the topless Apennine, and blows To aU the imder-world, all nations, [dwells ; The seas and unfrequented deserts, where the snow Wakens the ruin'd monuments ; and there, Where nothing but eternal death and sleep is, Informs again the dead bones with your virtues.' The gods of Some, ^c] Mr. Seward, in the preface to his edition of Beaumont and Pletcher, quotes this passage as a sample of noble imagery. Lord Eames, in his Elements of Criticism, in which he refers but twice to Beaumont and Fletcher, and both times in condemnation (30 entirely did his lordship confine his eulogies to writers in fashion), 110 BOlTDirCA. Go on, I say. Valiant and wise rule Heaven, And all the great aspects attend 'em, Do but blow Upon this enemy, who, but that we want foes, Cannot deserve that name ; and like a mist, A lazy fog, before your burning valours Tou'U find him fly to nothing. This is all, "We have swords, and are the sons of ancient Eomans, Heirs to their endless valours ; fi.ght and conquer ! Dec. Bern. "lis done. Pet. That man that loves not this day, And hugs not in his arms the noble danger, May he die fameless and forgot ! Suef. SufiScient! TJp to your troops, and let your drums beat thunder ; Miirch close and sudden, like a tempest : all executious \_March. Done without sparkling of the body; keep your phalanx Sure lined, and piec'd togjether, your pikes forward. And so march like a moving fort. Ere this day run "We shall have ground to add to Eome, well won. [Exeunt. ABCBNDAlfCT MUST NOT DESPAIB. Peniia has the mortification of seeing Ms melancholy presentimetits refuted. Scene — Near the Field of Battle. In the background the Tent ofPeniiis, with a platform. Enter DETJSirs and PiNms above. Drus. Here you may see them aU, sir ; from this hill The country shows oflF level. Pen. Gods defend me, "What multitudes they are, what infinites ! The Boman power shows like a little star Hedged with a double halo. — Now the kneU rings : [Loud shouts. Hark, how they shout to the battle ! how the air quotes it as an instance of the false snblime. I confess it appears to me to possess the right imaginative warrant of enthusiasm, and to express a true sense of the world-wijie greatness and victoriousness of Bomo. B0NDT70A. Ill Totters and reels, and rends a-pieces, Drusius, ■With the huge-vollied clamours ! Drug. Now they charge (Oh, gods i) of ail sides fearfully. Pen. Little Eomc, Stand hut this growing Hydra one short hour. And thou hast out-done Hercules ! Drus. The dust hides 'em ; We cannot see what follows. Pen. They are gone, Gone, swallow'd, Drusius ; this eternal sun Shall never see 'em march more. Dnts. Oh, tarn this way, And see a model of the field ! some forty. Against four hundred ! Pen. Well fought, bravely followed ! Oh, nobly charged again, charged home too ! Drusius, They seem to carry it. Now they charge all ; [Loud shouts. Close, close, I say ! they foUow it. Te gods, Can there be more in men ? more dariag spirits ? Still they make good their fortunes. Now they are gone too, !For ever gone ! see, Drusius, at their backs A fearful ambush rises. Tarewefl, valoBrs, Excellent valours ! oh, Eome, whwe's thy wisdom ? Drus. They are gone indeed, sir. Pen. Look out toward the army ; I am heavy with these slaughters. Brus. 'Tis the same still, Cover'd with dust and fuiy. [The Scene is diverted, for a few minutes, to some other persons ; during which time Perdus stands lost in thought, while Drusius continues looking out on the battle. At length the latter exclaims — ] fwake, sir ; — yet the Eoman body 'a whole : see 'em clear again. Pen. WTiole ? 'tis not possible ; Drusius, they must be lost. Brus. By Heaven, they are whole, sir. 1 12 BOSDVCX, And in brave doing ; see, they wheel about So gain more ground. Pen. But see there, Drusius, see. See that huge battle luoving &om the mountains ! Their gilt coats shine Uke Wagons' scales, their march Like a rough tumbling storm ; see 'em, and Tiew 'em, And then see Eome no more. Say they fail, look. Look where the armed carts stand ; a new army ! Look how they hang like falling rocks, as murdering ! Death rides in triumph, Drusius, fell Destruction Lashes his fiery horse, and round about him His many thousand ways to let out souls.' Move me again when they charge, when the mountain Melts under their hot wheels, and from their ax' trees Huge claps of thunder plough the ground before 'em ! Till then, I'U dream what £ome was. Miter SiTETOifins, Petilliits, Demetbitts, Maceb, and Soldiers. Suet. Oh, bravely fought ! Honour till now ne'er show'd her golden face I' the field. Like Uons, gentlemen, you have held Tour heads up this day. "Wbere's yoxmg Junius Curius, and Decius ? Pet. Gone to heaven, I think, sir. Suet. Their worths go with 'em ! Breathe a while. How do ye ? Pet. WeU; some few scmrry wounds ; my heart 's whole yet. Dem. 'Would they would give us more ground ! Suet, Give ? we'll have it. Pet. Have it ? and hold it too, despite the devil. Enter Juimis, Decius, and CiTErns. Jun. Lead up to th' head, and line sure ! The queen's battle Begins to charge like wildfire. Where's the general f Suet. Oh, they are Uving yet. — Come, my brave soldiers, ' His many thotaand ways to let out iouls.2 Must we read haaioxhis? or does the poet mean, that Death lashes •forward, not only his horse, but bis man; thousand modes, or instruments, of slaughter P In either case, a fine thought is ill-worded ; in the one tamely, in the other ui»' wurantably. BONDTTCA. 113 Come, let me pour Eome's blessing on ye. lirve. Live, and lead armies all ! Ye bleed hard. Juui Best ; We shall appear the sterner to the foe. Dec. More woimds, more honour. Fet. Lose no time. Suet, Away then ; And stand this shock, ye have stood the world. Enter BoirDrcA, Caeatach, Daughters, Neunius, and Soldiers. Car. Charge 'em i' th' flanks ! Oh, you have play'd the fool, The fool extremely, the mad fool ! Bond. Why, cousin ? Car. The woman fool ! Why did you give the word Unto the carts to charge down, and our people In gross before the enemy ? We pay for 't ; Our ovm swords cut our throats ! Why do you offer to command ? The devO, The devU, and his dam too ! who bid you Meddle in men's affairs ? Bond. I'U help aU. [Exeunt all but Cabatach. Car. Home, Home and spin, woman, spin, go spin ! you trifle. Open before there, or all 's ruia'd ! — How ? [Shouts within. Now comes the tempest on ourselves, by Heaven ! Within. Victoria! Car. Oh, woman, scurvy woman, beastly woman ! [Exit. Brus. Victoria, victoria'! Pen. How's that, Drusius ? i Bras. They win, they win, they win! Oh, look, look, look, sir, Per Heaven's sake, look ! The Britons fly, the Britons fly ! Victoria ! Enter SuETONiiTfl, Soldiers, and Captadns. Suet. Soft, soft, pursue it soft, excellent soldiers I Cloge, my brave fellows, honourable Eomans ! Oh, cool thy mettle, Junius ; they are ours, I 114 SOKDirCA. The world cannot redeem 'em : stem Petillius, Govern the conquest nobly. Soft, good uoldiers I [JSxeunt. Enter Bondtjoa, Daughters, and Britons y^yfmy. Bond. Shame ! whither fly ye, ye unlucky Britons ! Hares, fearful hares, doves in your angers ! leave me ? Leave your queen desolate ? Enter Cabataoh and 'Kesbo. Car. Fly, ye buzzards ! Te have wings enough, ye fear ! Get thee gone, woman, [Loud shout within. Shame tread upon thy heels! All's lost, all's lost! Hark how the Bomans ring our knells ! [Hark, [Exeunt Bondtica, Daughters, ^c. Hengo. Good uncle. Let me go too. Car, No, boy ; thy fortune 's mine ; I must not leave thee. Get behind me ; shake not ; I'll scourge you, if you do, boy. Enter Petillifs, Jxrernrs, and Deoiits. Come, brave B/omans ! All is not lost yet. Jun. Now I'll thank thee, Caratach. [Fight. Drums. Car. Thou art a soldier ; strike home, home ! Have at you 1 Pen. His blows fall like huge sledges on au anvU. Dec. I am weary. Pet. So am I. Car. Send more swords to me. [Exeunt Britons unpursued. Jun. "Let 's sit and rest. [They sit down. Drus. What think you now ? Pen. Oh, Drusius, I have lost mine honour, lost my name. Lost all that was my light. These are true Bomans, And I a Briton coward, a base coward ! Guide me where nothing is but desolation, That I may never more behold the face Of man, or mankind. know me I Oh, blind Fortane, Hast thou abus'd me thus ? BOBDTTCA. 115 Drus. Good sir, be comforted ; It was your wisdom rul'd you. Pray you go home ; Tour day is yet to come, when, this great fortune Shall be but foil unto it. [Retreat. Pen. Pool, fool, coward ! [Exeunt Penitjs, and DKTJsnJS into the Tent. Enter Suetoititts, Demetbits, Soldiers, drum and colours. Suet. Draw in, draw in ! — "Well have you fought, and worthy Eome's noble recompense. Look to your wounds ; The ground is cold and hurtful. The proud queen Has got a fort, and there she and her daughters Defy us once again. To-morrow morning "We'll seek her out, and make her know, our fortunes Stop at no stubborn walls. — Come, sons of Honour, True Yirtue's heirs, thus hatch'd' with Britain blood Let's march to rest, and set in gules like suns. Beat a soft march, and each one ease his neighbours !' [Exeunt. nSWOOElfCE OF AJif HTFAITT ±EBO. The child Eengo, while carried away cm hit imcWa iaci, talks with him of Caratach. How does my boy ? H-engo. I would do well : my head 'a well : I do not fear. ,Car. My good boy! Hen. I know, uncle, "We must aE die : my little brother died, I saw him die ; and he died smiling. Sure, There's lio great pain in 't, uncle. But pray tell me, "Whither must we go, when we are dead ? Car. (aside). Strange questions ! "Why, to the blessed'st place, boy ! ever sweetness And happiness dwells there.' Hen. "Will you come to me ? Car. Tes, my sweet boy. ' Hatch! d with Britain Hood.'] Adorned ; coloured liie the henaldic shield called aa atcMevement, oi hatchment. The image is finely kept up in the ensuing line — "set in ffules like sims." ' Hose his neighbours.] March loosely p at easy distaaee &om one another ? 116 BOHDUCA. , Hen. Mine aunt too, and my coiums F Car. All, my good child. Hen. No Eomans, uncle ? Car. No, boy. Hen. I ghould be loath to meet them there. Car. No ill men That live by violence and strong oppression Come thither. 'Tia for those the gods love ; good ones. Hen. Why then I care not vrhen I go, for surely I am persuaded they love me. I never Blasphem'd 'em, uncle, nor transgress'd my parents ; I always said my prayers. Car. Thou shalt go then ; Indeed thou shalt. Hen. When they please. Car. That 's my good boy. Art thou not weary, Hengo ? Hen. Weary, imcle ? I've heard you say you've march'd all day in armour. Car. I have, boy. Hen. Am I not your kinsman ? Car. Tes. Hen. And am I not as fully allied to yoa In those rare things as blood P Car. Thou art too tender. Hen. To go upon my legs ? they were made to bear me. I can play twenty nule a day : I see ne reasoB But, to preserve my country and myself I should march forty. Car. What would' st thou be, living To wear a man's strength?' Hen. Why, a Caratach, A Eoman-hater, a scourge sent from Heaven [Hark ! To whip these proud thieves from our kingdom. — Hark, uncle, hark! I hear a drum. Enter Judas {a Boman Corporal), with other Soldiers, and remains at the side of the sta^e. Judas. Beat softly. Softly, I say. They 're here. Who dare charge ? BONDUCA. 117 1st Soldier. He [near him That darea be knock'd o' the head. I'll not come Jud. Eetire again, and watch then. Hojsr he stares ! H' has eyes would kill a dragon. Mark the boy well ; If we could take or kill him — ^A [plague] on you, How fierce you look ! See, how he broods the boy ! The devil dwells in 's scabbard, Back, I say. Apace, apace! h' has found us. [Exit with Soldiers. Car. Do ye hunt us ? Hen. Uncle, good uncle, see ! the thin starv'd rascal. The eating Eoman ; see where he thrids the thickets ! KiU him, dear uncle, kill him. Car. Do ye make us foxes ? — Here, hold my charging-staff, and keep the placife, boy : I am at bay, and like a bull I'll bear me. Stand, stand, ye rogues, ye squirrels ! [Exit. Hen. Now he pays 'em : Oh, that I had a man's strength ! Re-enter Judas. Jud. Here's the boy ; Mine own, I thank my fortune. Hen. {calling out for CaratacK). Uncle, uncle! Famine is faU'n upon me, uncle.' Jud. Come, sir ; Yield willingly : your uncle 's out of hearing. Hen. Thou mock-made man of mat ! Ghaige home, sirrah ! Hang thee, base slave ; thou shak'st ! Jud. Upon my conscience. The boy wiU beat me ! Yield, or I cut thy head off. Hen. Thou dar'st not cut my finger. Here 'tis. Touch it Jud. The boy speaks sword and buckler. — Pr'ythee yield,boy. Come ; here 's an apple. Yield. Hen. By Heaven, he fears me ! I'U give you sharper language. — ^When, you coward. When come you up ? !ud. If he should* beat me Een. When, sir ? I long to kill thee. Come ; thou canst not 'scape me : ' Tamine,§rc^ The little hero jests upon the starred look of his eneiry. 118 BOITDTJCA. I've twenty ways to cHarge thee. Twenty deaths Attend ray bloody staff'. Jud. Sure, 'tis the devil ; A dwarf-devil in a doublet ! Hen. I have killed a captain, sirrah, a brave captain, And when I have done, I have kiek'd him j — thus ; — look See how I charge this staff'. [here ; JuA. Most certain, This boy will cut my throat yet. Re-enter Two Soldiers running, \st Soldier. Flee, flee ! he kills us ! 2nd Soldier. He comes ! he comes ! Jud. The devil take the hindmost. [Exeunt Judas and Soldiers. Hen. !Bun, run, ye rogues, ye precious rogues, ye rank rogues ! A'fiomes, a' comes, a'comes, a' comes! That's he, boys What a brave cry they make ! Car. How does my chicken ? Hen. Faith, uncle, grown a soldier, a great soldier : For by the virtue of your charging-staff', And a strange fighting face I put upon 't, I've out-brav'd Hunger ! Car. That 'b my boy, my sweet boy ! Here ; here 's a Eoman's head for thee. Hen. Good provision. -^ Before I starve, my sweet-faced gentleman, I'll try your favour. i Car. A right complete soldier ! Come, chicken ; let's go seek some place of strength (The country 's full of scouts) to rest awhile in ; Thou wilt not else be able to endure The journey to my country. Fruits and water Must be your food awhile, boy. Hen. Anything; I can eat moss ; nay, I can live on anger, To vex these Eomans. Let's be wary, uncle. Car. I warrant thee. Come cheerfully. Hen. And boldly. [Eveunt. BONDTJCA. 119 lOST HONOrrB DESPAIErif&. Tsn'mt cannot endure the mortifying consequences of his refusal to join ScEiJE — The Tent of Penixts. Enter Penius, DErsius, and Eegxtltis. Reg. The soldier shall not grieve you. Pen. Pray ye, forsake me ; Look not upon me, as ye love your honours I I am so cold a coward, my infection Will choke your virtues like a damp else. Drus. Dear captain ! Reg. Most honoured sir ! Pen. Most hated, most ahhorr'd ! Say so, and then ye know me ; nay, ye please me. Oh, my dear credit, my dear credit ! Reg. Sure His mind is dangerous. Brus. The good gods cure it ! [breaches. Pen. My honour, got through fire, through stubborn Through battles that have been as hard to win as heaven, Through Death himself, in all his horrid trims. Is gone for ever, ever, ever, gentlemen ! And now I am left to scornful tales and laughters, To hootdngs at, pointing with fingers, " That's he. That's the brave gentleman, forsook the battle. The most wise Penius, the -disputing coward. ' Oh, my good sword, break from my side, and kill me ; Cut out the coward from my heart ! Reg. You are none. Pen. He lies that says so ; by Heaven, he lies, lies basely, Baser than I have done ! Come, soldiers, seek me ; I have robb'd ye of your virtues ! Justice seek me ; I have broke my fair obedience 1 lost ! Shame take me. Take me, and swallow me, make ballads of me. Shame, endless shame ! and pray do you forsake me ! Drus. What shall we do ? Pen. Good gentlemen, forsake me ; [do it, Tou were not wont to brt commanded. Friends, pray 120 BONDUCA. And do not fear ; for, as I am a coward, I will not hurt myaelf (when that mind takes me, I'll call to you, and ask your help), I dare not. [_Throwa himself upon the ff round. Enter, 'Ps'TiLLivti. Pet. Good-morrow, gentlemen ! "Where's the tribune ? Reff. There. Drus. Whence come you, good FetUlius ? Pet. From the general. Drus. With what, for Heaven's sake ? Pet. With good counsel, Drusius, And love, to comfort him. Drus. Gl-ood Begulus, Step to the soldier and allay his anger ; Por he is wild as winter. lExeunt Dbttsius and Eeoultjs. Pet. Oh, are you there ? have at you ! — Sure he's dead, [Half aside. It cannot be he dare outlive this fortune ; He must die ; 'tis most necessary ; men expect it, And thought of life in him goes beyond coward. Porsake the field so basely? Py upon't ! So poorly to betray his worth ? So coldly To cut all credit from the soldier ? Sure If this man mean to live (as I should think it Beyond belief), he must retire where never The name of Eome, the voice of arms, or honour. Was known or heard of yet. He's certain dead. Or strongly means it ; he's no soldier else, ISo Soman in him ; all he has done but outside, Fought either drunk or desperate. Now he rises. — How does lord Penius ? Pen. As you see. Pet. I am glad on't ! Continue so stUl. The lord general. The valiant general, great Suetonius Pen. No more of me is spoken ; my name's perish'd. Pet. He that commanded fortune and the day. By his owa valour and discretion BONDTIOA. 121 (Wten, as some say, Penius refus'd to come. But I believe 'em not), sent me to see you. Pen. Ye are welcome ; and pray see me, see me well ; You shall not see me long. Pet. I hope so, Fenlus. — [Aside. The gods defend, sir ! Pen. See me and understand me. This is he. Left to fill up your triumph ; he that basely Whistled his honour off to th' wind ; that coldly Shrunk in his politic head, when £ome, like reapers. Sweat blood and spirit for a glorious harvest. And bound it up, and brought it off; that fool, That having gold and copper offered him, Refused the wealth, and took the waste ; that soldier. That being courted by loud Fame and Fortune, Labour in one hand that propounds us gods, And in the other Glory that creates us, Yet durst doubt and be dB,mn'd ! Pet. It was an error. Pen. A foul one, and a black one. Pet. Yet the blackest May be washed white again. 'Pen. Never. Pet. Your leave, sir ; And I beseech you note me, for I love you. And bring along all comfort. Are we gods. Allied to no infirmities ? are our natures More than men's natures ? "When we slip a little Out of the way of virtue, are we lost ? Is there no medicine called sweet mercy ? Pen. None, PetUlius ; There is no mercy in mankind can reach me. Nor is it fit it should ; I have sinned beyond it. Pet. Forgiveness meets with all faults. Pen. 'Tis aE faults, AH sins I can comfmit, to be forgiven ; 'Tis loss of whole man in me, my discretioa. To be so stupid to arrive at pardon ! Pet. Oh, but the general Pen. He is a brave gentleman^ 122 BONDTTCA. A valiaat, and a loving ; and I dare saj He would, as far as honour durst direct hiai. Make even with my fault ; but 'tis not honest, Nor in his power. Examples that may nourish Neglect and disobedience in whole bodies. And totter the estates and faiths of armies, Must not be play'd withal ; nor out of pity Make [such] a general forget his duty ; Nor dare I hope more from him than is worthy. Fet. What would you do ? Pen, Die. Fei. So would sullen children, "Women that want their wills, slaves disobedient, That fear the law. Die ? Fy, great captain ! you A man to rule men, to have thousand lives Under your regiment, and let your passion Betray your reason ? I bring you aU forgiveness. Pen. Pr'ythee no more ; 'tis foolish. Didst not thou (By Heaven, thou didst ; I overheard thee, there, There where thou stand' st now) deliver me for rascal, Poor, dead, cold, cowar , miserable, wretched. If I out-lived this ruin ? Pet. I ? Pen. And thou didst it nobly. Like a true man, a soldier ; and I thank thee, I thank thee, good Petillius, thus I thank thee ! Pet. Since you are so justly made up, let me tell you, *Tis fit you die indeed. Pen. Oh, how thou lovest me ! Pet. Por say he had forgiven you, say the people's whispers Were tame again, the time run out for wonder. What must your own command think,from whose swords Ton have taken off the edges, from whose valours > The due and recompense of arms ; nay, made it doubtful Whether they knew obedience P must not these kiU you? Say they are won to pardon you, by mere miracle Brought to forgive you, what old valiant soldier. What man that loves to fight, and fight for £ome. Will ever foUow you more P Dare you know these If so, I bring you comfort; dare you take itp [ventures? BOITDUCA. 123 Pen. No, no, Petillius, no. Pet. If your mind serve you, You may lire still ; but how? — yet pardon me : Tou may out-wear all too ; — but when ? — and certain There is a mercy for each fault, if tamely A man will tak't upon conditions. Pen. No, by no means : I am only thinking now, sir (FoT I am resolved to go), of a most base death, Pitting the baseness of my fault. I'll hang. Pet, Tou shall not ; you're a gentleman I honour, I would else flatter you, and force you live. Which is far baser. Hanging ! 'tis a dog's death, An end for slaves. Pen. The fitter for my baseness. Pet. Besides, the man that's hang'd preaches his end, And sits a sign for all the world to gape at. Pen. That's true ; I'll take a fitter ; poison. Pet. No; 'Tis equal ill ; the death of rats and women, Lovers, and lazy boys, that fear correction ; Die like a man. ■ Pen. Why, my sword, then. Pet. Ay, if your sword be sharp, sir. There's nothing under Heaven that's like your sword ; Tour sword's a death indeed ! Pen. It shall be sharp, sir. Pet. Why, Mithridates was an arrant ass To die by poison,' if all Bosphorus Could lend him swords. Tour sword must do the deed 'Tis shame to die chok'd, fame to die and bleed. , Pen. Thou hast confirm'd me ; and, my good Petillius, Tell me no more I may live. ' Mithridates was an arrant ass To die by poison, ^c] Some commentators have charged this passage with inadvertency ; since Mithridates did not actually die by poison, though he had studied that mode of death, and preferred it. But the passage does not of necessity imply that Mithridates died by poison. Facts are every day assumed hypothetically, in common discourse. Mithridates contemplated dying by poison. " Well," says a converser on the subject, " he was a fool to die by poison, when ha had so many swords to recur to." ' 124 BONDUCA. Pet. 'Twas my commission ; But now I see you in a nobler way, A way to make all even. Pen. Farewell, captain ! Be a good man, and fight well; be obedient; Command thyself, and then thy men. Why shab'st Pet. I do not, sir. [thou ? Pen. I would thou hadst, PetiUius ! I would find somethrag to forsake the world with. Worthy the man that dies ; a kind of earthquake Through aU stem valours but mine own. Pet. I feel now A kind of trembling in me. Pen. Keep it stiU ; As thou lov'st virtue, keep it. Pet. Aad, brave captain, The great and honour' d Penius ! Pen. That again ! Oh, how it heightens me ! again, Petillius I Pet. Most excellent commander Pen. Those were mine I Miue, only mine ! Pet. They are still. Pen. Then, to keep 'em For ever falling more, have at ye ! — Heavens, Te everlasting powers, I am yours : The work is done, \_FaUs upon his sword. That neither fire, nor age, nor melting envy, Shall ever conquer. Carry my last words To the great general : kiss his hands, and say, My soul I give to Heaven, my fault to justice. Which I have done upon myself; my virtue, If ever there was any in poor Penius, Made more, and happier, light on him !— I faint — And where there is a foe, I wish him fortune. I die : lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earth ! \J)ies. Pet. And on my sin. !' Farewell, great Penius !-;— ' My lin."] PetiUius had at one time felt the same doubts of victory as Penius. Or did he mean, hj sin, his having doubted the latter'g eoorage F BOKDTTOA. 125 The soldier ia in fiiry ; now I am glad [Noise vnthin. 'Tis done before he comes. This way for me, The way of toil ; — ^for thee, the way of honour ! [Esdt. Dbtjsitts, EEdOTiTTS, and Soldiers are heard without. Sold. Kill him, kill him, kill him 1 Lrus. What wtU ye do ? Reg. Good soldiers, honest soldiers — — ■ 'Sold. Kill him, kill him, kill him ! Bros. Kill lis first : we command .too. Reg. Valiant soldiers. Consider llut whose life ye seek. — Oh, Drusius, Bid him Be gone ; he dies else. — [Dbtjshts enters, — ShaU. Home say, Te most approved soldiers, her dear children Devour'd the fathers of the fights ? shall rage And stubborn fury guide those swords to slaughter, To slaughter of their own, to civil ruin P Drus. Oh, let 'em in ; all's done, all's ended, Eegulus ; Penius has found his last eclipse. Come, soldiers, Come and behold your miseries ; come bravely, PuU of your mutinous and bloody angers. And here bestow your darts. — Oh, only Sioman, Oh, father of the wars ! Enter EEauirs and Soldiers. Reg. Why stand ye stupid ? Where be your killing furies ? whose sword now ShaU be first sheathed in Penius f Do ye weep ? Howl out, ye wretches ; ye have cause ; howl ever ! Who shall now lead ye fortunate ? whose valour Preserve ye to the glory of your country ? Who shaU. march out before ye, coyed and courted By all the mistresses of war, care, counsel. Quick-eyed experience, and victory twined to him ? Who shall beget ye deeds beyond inheritance To speak your names, and keep your honours living, When children fail, and Time, that takes aU with him, Builds houses for ye to oblivion ? Drug. Oh, ye poor desperate fools, no more now soldiers, 126 BoirsircA. Go home, and hang your arms up ; let rust rot 'em ; And humble your stem valours to soft prayers ! For ye have sunk the frame of all your virtues ; The sun that warmed your bloods is set for ever. — I'll kiss thy honour'd cheek. Farewell, great Penius ; Thou thunderbolt, fareweU I — Take up the body : To-morrow morning to the camp convey it, There to receive due ceremonies. That eye. That blinds himself with weeping, gets most glory. [Exeunt, bearing out the body. A dead march, A LITTLE TICTIM OP WAE ; AND HOMAOE TO A GEEAT ONE. Bmgo, entrafped and slain hy the soldier Judas, dies in the arms of hit uncle Caratach, who is taken captive and honoured by the Somaiis, Enter Cabatach and Hengo on a rock. Car. Courage, my boy ! I have found meat ; look, Hengo ; Look where some blessed Briton, to preserve thee, Has hung a little food and drink. Cheer up, boy : Do not forsake me now. Hengo. Oh uncle, uncle, I feel I cannot stay long ! yet I'U fetch it. To keep your noble life. ITncle, I'm heart-whole, And would live. Car. Thou shalt ; long, I hope. Hengo. But my head, uncle. Methinks the rock goes round. Car, Oh my poor chicken ! Hengo. Fie, faint-hearted uncle ! Come, tie me in your belt, and let me down. Car. I'll go myself, boy. Hengo, No, as you love me, imcle ! I wiU not eat it if I do not fetch it.. Pray tie me. Car. I vml ; and all my care hang o'er thee. Come, child, my valiant child. Hengo. Let me down apace, uncle. And you shall see how like a daw I'U whip it From all their policies ; for 'tis, most certain, A Eoman train ; and you must hold me sure too : BoifDxroA. 127 You'll spoil all else. When I have brought it, uncle, "We'll be as merry ! Car. Go, in the name of Heaven, boy. [Lets Heh&o down by hug belt. Hen. Quick, quick, uncle ; I have it [Jr^DAS shoots HEirao with an arrow. Oh! Car. What ails't thou ? Hen. Oh my best imcle, I am slaia I Car. (to Judas). I see you. And Heaven direct my hand ! destruction G-o with thy coward soul ! [Kills Judas with a stone, and then draws up HjENQCk How dost thou, boy ? Oh, villain, [abject] villain ! Hen. Oh uncle, uncle. Oh, how it pricks me ! am I preserv'd for this ? Extremely pricks me ! Car. Coward, rascal coward I Dogs eat thy flesh. Hen. Oh, I bleed hard ! I faint too I out ution% How sick I am ! — The lean rogue, uncle. Car. Look, boy. I have laid him, sure enough. Hen. Have you knock' d hi& brains out ? Car. I warrant thee for stirring more : cheer up, child. Hen. Hold my sides hard ; — stop, stop ; — oh, wretched fortune, Must we part thus ? Still I grow sicker, uncle. Car. Heav'n look upon this noble child. Hen. I hoped I should have liv'd to have met these bloody iBomans At my sword's point ; to have reveng'd my father ; To have beaten them ; oh, hold me-hard ; — but uncle- Car. Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I draw it ? [Meanirtff the arrow. Hen. Tou draw away my soul then ; — I would live' A little longer (spare me. Heavens 1), but only To thank you for your tender love ! Good unde. Good noble uncle weea not ! 12S BODSVOA. (Jar. Oh, my chicken. My dear boy, what shall I lose P Hen. Why, a child. That must have died however ; had this 'soaped me, Fever or famia o I was bom to die, sir. Car. But thus unblown, my boy ? Hen. I go the straaghter My journey to the gods. Sure I shall know you When you come, uncle ? Car. Tea, boy. Hen. And I hope We shall enjoy together that great blessedness Ton told me of. Car. Most certain, chUd. Hm. I grow cold ; Mine eyes are going. Car. Lift 'em up ! Hen. Pray for me ; And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes. Think of your little nephew! Mercy '■ Car. Mercy! You blessed angels, take him ! Hen. Kiss me ! so. Farewell, farewell ! \I>ies. Car. Farewell the hopes of Britain ! Thou royal graft, farewell for ever ! — ^Time and Death, . Te have done your worst. Fortune, now see, now proudly Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph : look. Look what thou hast brought this land to. — Oh, fair How lovely yet thy ruins show, how sweetly [flower. Even death embraces thee ! The peace of Heaven, The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee ! Enter Petillius and Jttnitjs, on the rod. Ha ! Dare ye, Bomans ? ^e shall win me bravely. Thou'rt mine ! £Fiffht. Jun. Not yet, sir. Car. Breathe ye, ye poor Bomans, BOKDUCA. 129 And come up all, with all your ancient valours ; Lilce a rough wind I'll shake your souls, and send 'em — Enter Siietonitjs, and all the Soman Captains. Suet. Yield thee, bold Caratach ! By all the gods. As I am a soldier, as I envy thee, I'll use thee like thyself, the valiant Briton. Pet. Brave soldier, yield, thou stock of arms and honour, Thou filler of the world with fame and glory ! . Jun. Most worthy man, we'll woo thee, be thy prisoners. Suet. Excellent Briton, do me but that honour, That more to me than conquests, that true happiness, To be my friend! Car. Oh, Bomans, see what here is ! Had this boy liv'd Suet. For fame's sake, for thy sword's sake, As thou desir'st to buUd thy virtues greater, By all that's excellent in man, and honest — — Car. I do believe. Te have had me a brave foe ; Make me a noble friend, and from your goodnesa Give this boy honourable eai^ih to ue in ! Suet. He shall have fitting funeral. Car. I yield then, ' Not to your blows, but your brave courtesies. Pet. Thus we conduct then to the arms of peace The wonder of the world ! Suet. Thus I embrace thee ; \_Flowrish. And let it bo no flattery that I tell thee. Thou art the only soldier ! Car. How to thank ye, I must hereafter find upon vour usage. I am for Borne ? Suet. Tou must. Car. Then Eome shall know The man that makes her spring of giory grow. Suet. March on, and through the camp, in every tongue. The virtues of great Caratach be sung ! [Eweunt ["With all the faults of the tragedy of ' Bonduoa,' its British subject and its native heroes attach our hearts. We follow Caractacus to battle and captivity with a proud satisfaction in his virtue. The stubbornness S. 130 THE KNIGHT OP MAITA. of the old soldier is finely tempered by his wise, just, and candid respect for his enemies the Bomans, and by ms tender affection for his princely ward. He never gives way to sorrow till he looks on the dead body of his nephew Hengo. The character must be well supported which yields a sensation of triumph in the act of surrendering to victorious enemies. Caractacos does not tell us that when a brave man has done his duty he cannot be humbled by fortune, but he makes us feel it in his behaviour. The few and simple sentences which he utters in sub- mitting to the Bomans, together with their respectful behaviour to him, give a sublime composure to his appearance in the closing scene." — Campbeu..] THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. SENSUAL PASSION NO LOVE, Mountferrat, one i)f He Knightt of Malta, being ryected in hit unworthg suit to Oriana, titter oj the Grand Master, determines to revenge Mi disappointment. A Room in Moxtntfebbat's House. Enter Moitntfebeat. Mount/. Dares she despise me tbus P me, that with spoil And hazardous exploits, full sixteen years Have led (as hand-maids) Fortune, victory, Whom the Maltezzi call my servitors ? Tempests I have subdued, and fought them calm, Out-ligbten'd lightning in my chivalry^ Eid (tame as patience) billows that kick'd Heaven, Whistled enraged Boreas tUl his gusts Were grown so gentle that he seem'd to sigh Because he could not show the air my keel ; And yet I cannot conquer her bright eyes, Which, though they blaze, both comfort and invite ; Neither by force, nor fraud, pass through her ear, Whose guard is only blushing innocence, To take the least possession of her heart. Did I attempt her with a thread-bare name, TJn-napf with meritorious actions, She might with colour disallow my suit : But, by the honour of this Christian cross (In blood of infidels so often dyed, THE KiraBHT OF MALTA, 131 Wliich mine own soul and sword hath fixed here, And neither favour nor birth's privQege), Oiiana shall confess (although she be Valetta's sister, our grand-master here) The wages of scorn' d love is baneful hate, And, if I rule not her, I'U rule her fate Enter Eooca. Rocca, my trusty servant, welcome ! Roeea. Sir, I wish my news deserv'd it ! Hapless I, That being loVd and trusted, fail to bring The loving answer that you do expect. [forth Mount/. "Why speak' st thou from me? thy pleas'd eyes send • Beams brighter than the star that ushers day j Thy smiles restore sick expectation. Rocca. I bring you, sir, her smiles, not mine. Momitf. Her smiles ? "Why, they are presents for kings' eldest sons : Great Solyman is not so rich as I In this one smile, from Oriana sent. Roeca. Sir, fare you well ! Mount/. Oh, Eocca ! thou art wise, And wouldst not have the torrent of my joy Euin me headlong ! Aptly thou conceiv'st. If one reviving smile can raise me thus, "What trances will the sweet words which thou bring'st Cast me into. I felt, my dearest fiiend (No more my servant), when I employ'd thee, That knew'st to love and speak as lovers should, And carry faithfully thy master's sighs. That it must work some heat in her cold heart ; And all my labours now come fraughted home "With ten-fold prize. Rocca. Win you yet hear me ? Mount/. Tes: But take heed, gentle Eocca, that thou dost Tenderly by degrees assault mine ears "With her consent, now to embrace my lore ; 132 THE KiriaHi' ot malta. 'For thou well know'st I've befin so plung'd, so torn, With her resolv'd rejection and neglect, That to report her soft acceptance now Win stupify sense in me, if not kill. — Why show^st thou this distemper ? Bocca. Draw your sword, And when I with my breath have blasted you. Kill me with it : I bring you smiles of pity, not affection, For such she sent. Mount/. Oh ! can she pity me ? Of all the paths lead to a woman's lore, Pity's the straightest. Bocca. Waken, sir, and know That her contempt (if you can name it so) Continues still j she bids you throw your pearl Into strong streams, and hope to turn them so, Ere her to foul dishonour ; write your plaints In rocks of coral grown above the sea ; Them hope to soften to compassion, Or change their modest blush to love-sick pale, Ere work her to your impious requests. AH your loose thoughts she chides you home again, Eut with such calm behaviour and mUd looks. She gentUer denies than others grant ; For just as others love, so doth she hate. She says, that by your order you are bound From marrying ever, and much marvels then Tou would thus violate her and your own faith ; That being the virgin you should now protect, Hitherto, she professes, she has conceal' d Tour lustful batteries ; but the next, she vows (In open hall, before the honour'd cross, And her great brother) she will quite disclode, Calling for justice, to your utter shame. Mount/. Hence ! find the Blackamoor that waits upon her, Bring her unto me ; she doth love me yet, And I must her now ; at least seem to do. — Cupid, thy brands that glow thus in my veins, I will with blood extinguish ! — Art not gone ? THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 133 rOTEKG SELF-SACEIFICE. Mountferrat-f iy the help of Oriant^s servatitt Zanihia, having succeeded in fixing on her a charge of endeavouring to betray the island into the hands of the Basha of Tripoli (who had solicited her to that end with a promise ofmarriagej, Miranda^ an Italian gentleman, who is in love with ker^ contrives, on pretence of believing her guilty, to save her life ; though, in doing so, he knowingly risks her marriage with another ; which accord- ingly takes place. MiEAHDA and Mottntebebat. Mir. (aside.) Alone, And troubled too, I take it. How lie starts ! All is not handsome in thy heart, Mountferrat. — (aloud.') God speed you, sir. I have been seeking of They say you are to fight to-day. [you ; Mount/. What then ? Mir. Nay, nothing, but good fortune to your sword, sir ! Tou have a cause requires it ; the island's safety, The order's, and your honour's. Mount/. And do you make a question I will not fight it nobly ? Mir, You dare fight ; Tou have ; and with as great a confidence as justice, I have seen you strike as home, and hit as deadly. Mount/. "Why are these questions then ? Mir. I'll tell you quickly. Tou have a lady in your cause, a fair one ; A gentler never trod on ground, a nobler Mount/, (aside.) Do you come on so fast ? I have it for Mir. The sun ne'er saw a sweeter. [you. Mount/. These I grant you ; Nor dare I against beauty heave my hand up ; It were unmanly, sir, too much unmanly. But when these excellencies turn to ruin, To rain of themselves, and those protect, 'em' Mir. Do you think 'tis so ? Mount/. Too sure. Mr. And can it be ? Can it be thought, Mountferrat, so much sweetness, So great a magazine of all things precious, A mind so heavenly made — Pr'ythee observe me. 134 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. Mount/. I thought so too. Now, by my holy order, He that had told me (till experience found it, Too bold a proof) this lady Gad been vicious — I wear no dull sword, sir, nor hate I virtue. Mir. Against her brother ? to the man has bred Iier ? Her blood and honour ? Mount/. Chastity, cold Duty, Like fashions old forgot, she flings behind her. And puts on blood and mischief, death and ruin. To raise her new-built hopes, new faith to fasten her : Ma/oy, she is as foul as Heaven is beauteous ! Mir. Thou liest, thou Uest, Mountferrat, thou liest basely ; Stare not, nor swell not with thy piide ! thou liest ; And this (laying his hand on his word) shall make it Mount/. Out with your heat first ! [good. Tou shall be fought withal. Mir. By Heaven, that lady, The virtue of that vroman, were all the good deeds Of all thy families bound in one faggot. Prom Adam to this hour, but with one sparkle "Would fire that whisp, and turn it to light ashes. Mount/. Oh, pitiful young man, struck blind with beauty ! Shot with a woman's smile ! Poor, poor Miranda ! Thou hopeful young man once, but now thou lost man, Thou naked man of all that we call noble. How art thou cozen'd ! Didst thou Ijnow what I do. And how far thy dear honour (mark me, fool !), Which like a father I have kept from blasting. Thy tender honour, is abused — But fight ^rst, And then, too late, thou shalt know ^, Mir. Thou liest still ! [thee : Mount/ Stay! now I'll show thee all, and then lU kill I love thee so dear, time shall not disgrace thee. Bead that ! [Gives him a letter. Mir. It is her hand, it is most certain. Good angels keep me ! that I should be her agent To betray Malta, and bring her to the basha ! That on my tender love lay all her project ! Eyes never see again, melt out for sorrow I Did the devU do this p THE KNIGHT or MAIiTA. 135 Mountf. No, but his dam did it, The virtuous 'lady that you love so dearly. Come, will you fight again ? Mir. No ; pr'ythee k3l me, Por Heaven's sake, and for goodness' sake, despatch me ! For the disgrace' sake that I gave thee, kiU me ! Mountf. Why, are you guilty ? Mir. I have liv'd, Mountf errat. To see dishonour swallow up all virtue, And now would die. By Heaven's eternal brightness, I am as clear as innocence! Mmmtf. I knew it. And therefore kept this letter from all knowledge, And this sword from [all] anger ; you had died else — (aside.) And yet I lie, and basely lie. Mir. O Virtue, Unspotted Virtue, whither art thoii vanish'd ? What hast thou left us to abuse our frailties, In shape of goodness ? Mountf. Come, take courage, man ! I have forgiven and forgot your rashness. And hold you fair as light in all your actions ; And by my troth I griev'd your love. Take comfort ! There be more women. Mir. And more mischief in 'em ! Mountf. The justice I shall do, to right these villainies, Shall make you man again : I'll strike it sure, sir. Come, look up bravely ; put this puling passion Out of your mind. One knock for thee", Miranda, And for the ioy' the grave Gomera gave thee. When she accepted thee her champion. And in thy absence, like a valiant gentleman ; I yet remember it : " He is too young. Too boyish, and too tender, -to adventure :" I'll give him one sound rap for that : I love thee ; Thou art a brave young spark. Mir. Boy did he call me ? Gomera call me boy ? ' The boff.'} That is, the appellation of boy. 136 THE iQ Carrack.'^ A large ship of burthen. 202 THE ELBEB BBOTBEB. Sons o' th' buttery and kitchen ! though his learned stomach Cannot be appeas'd, he'll seldom trouble you ; His knowing stomach contemns your black-jacks,butler, And your flagons ; and, cook, thy boil'd, thy roast, thy Cook. How liveth he P [baked ! And. Not as other men do ; 'Few princes fare like him. He breaks his fast With Aristotle, dines with Tully, takes His watering with the Muses,i sups with Livy, Then walks a turn or two in Via Lactea,^ And, after six hours' conference with the stars, Sleeps with old Erra Pater.^ PHEJ0D1CE8 rOE AND AGArifST BOOKS. MiBAMOiTT and Bbisao. Mir. Nay, brother, brother ! ' Wateting with the Muaes.'\ Watering, in the Bense of a refreshment between dinner and supper, would answer well (sometimes too well) to the modem tea ; but in Beaimiont and Fletcher's time, when tea was unknown, it seems to have meant takins; any drink during that interval, ' J^Zacfea.] The Milky Way. ' JS-roPaier.] "Erra Pater" (Father Erra), the "Francis Moore Fhysician" of ancient almanacks, is said to have been some old astro- loger, now forgotten, " In mathematicks he was greater Thau Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater." — Hudilrai. The appellation sometimes meant the almanack itself. Perhaps it was a name for astrology in general (from errare, to wander), typified under the aspect of a bearded sage, — old Father Wanderer ; i. e. the Companion of the Planets ; such being the meaning of the word planet. His face appears to hare been a frontispiece to almanacks. In the Scornful Lady (Act IV. Scene I.), an elderly waiting-woman is accused by a dis- appointed lover of having " A face as old as Erra Pater ; Such a prognosticating nose." This passage in the Mder Brother is supposed by the commentators, with great probability, to have been in the recollection of Congreve when he wrote the beginning of Love for Love, where Valentine eulogises reading, and speaks of a page in Epictetus as " a feast for an emperor." It is probable also, as others think, that the character of Valentine was further indebted to the Elder Brother. It may be observed that the title of Oongreve's play is to be foimd in the closing speech of Charles, as given in ttie present volume. THE ELDER BEOTHEE. 203 Bri. Pray, sir, be not mov'd ; I meddle with no business but mine own ; And, in mine own, 'tis reason I should govern. Mir. But know to govern then, and understand, sir, And be as wise as you're hasty. Though you be My brother, and from one blood sprung, I must tell you, Heartily and home too £ri. What, sir ? Mir. What I grieve to find ; You are a fool, and an old fool, and that's two. Bi-i. We'll part 'em, if you please. .Mir. No, they're entail' d to you. Seek to deprive an honest noble spirit, Tour eldest son, sir, and your very image (But he's so like you, that he fares the worse for't), Because he loves his book, and dotes on that, And only studies how to know things excellent, Above the reach of such coajse brains as yours. Such muddy fancies, that never wUl know farther Than when to cut your vines, and cozen merchants, Andchoke your hide-bound tenants withmusty harvests ! Bri. You go too fast. JUir. I'm not come to my pace yet. Because he has made his study all his pleasure, And is retired into his contemplation, Not meddling with the dirt and chaff of nature. That makes the spirit of the mind mud too, Therefore must he be flung from his inheritance ? Must he be dispossessed, and Monsieur Gingleboy, His younger brother Bri. You forget yourself. Mir. Because he has been at court, and leam'd new tongues, And how to speak a tedious piece of nothing, To vary his face as seamen do their compass, To worship images of gold and silver, And fall before the she-calves of the season, Therefore must he jump into his brother's land ? Bri. Have you done yet, and have you spake enough In praise of learning, sir ? Mir. Never enough. 20'i THE ELDEE BBOTHEB. Sri. But, brother, do you know what learning ia P Mir. 'Tis not to be a justice of peace, as you are, And palter out your time i' th' penal statutes ; To hear the curious tenets controverted Between a Protestant constable and Jesuit cobbler ; Not 'tis not the main moral of blind justice (Which is deep learning), when your worship's tenants Bring a light cause and heavy bene before you, Both fat and feasible, a goose or pig ; And then you sit, liie Equity, with both hands "Weighing indifferently the state o' th' question. These are your quodlibets,' but no learning, brother. Bri, Tou are so parlously in love with learning. That I'd be glad to know what you understand, brother : I'm sure you have read all Aristotle. Mir. 'Faith, no : But I beUeve ; I have a learned faith, sir ; And that's it makes a gentleman of my sort. Though I can speak no Ghreek, I love the sound on't -. It goes so thundering as it conjured devUs : Charles speaks it loftily, and, if thou wert a man, Or hadst but ever heard of Homer's Iliads, Hesiod, and the Q-reek poets, thou wouldst run mad. And hang thyself for joy thou hadst such a gentleman To he thy son. Oh, he has read such things to me ! £ri. And you do understand 'em, brother ? Mir. I teU thee, no ; that's not material ; the sound's Sufficient to confirm an honest man. Good brother Brisac, does your young courtier, That wears the fine clothes, and is the excellent geatle- The traveller, the soldier, as you think too, [man. Understand any other power than his tailor ? Or know what motion is, more than an horse-race ? What the moon means, but to light him home from taverns ? [clothes in ? Or the comfort of the sun is, but to wear slash'd And must this piece of ignorance be popp'd up, ' Quodlibets.'] " Quillet or quidlilet, what yon please ;"— anything ftSirmed or denied, as any one pleases. — Bichabdson's Dictionari/. THU £LD£B BUOTHISB 205 Because 't can kiss the hand, and cry, " Sweet lady ?" Say, it had been at Kome, and seen the relics. Drunk your Yerdea wine,' and rid at Naples : Must this thing therefore Bri. Tes, sir, this thing must ! I will not trust my land to one so sotted, So grown Kke a disease unto his study. He that will fling off aU occasions And cares, to make him understand what state is, And how to govern it, must, by that reason, Be flung himself aside from managing : My younger boy is a fine gentleman. Mir. He is an ass, a piece of gingerbread, GrUt over to please foolish girls [and] puppets. Bri. You are my elder brother. Mir. So I had need. And have an elder wit ; thou'dst shame us all else. Go to ! I say Charles shall inherit. Bri. I say no, Unless Charles had a soul to understand it. Can he manage six thousand crowns a-year Out of the metaphysics ? or can aU His learn' d astronomy look to my vineyards ? Can the drunken old poets make up my vines P (I know, they can drink 'em) or your excellent human- SeU 'em the merchants for my best advantage ? [ists Can history cut my hay, or get my corn in ? And can geometry vent it in the market ? Shall I have my sheep kept with a Jacob's staff, now ? I wonder you will magnify this madman ; Tou. that are old and should understand. Mir. Should, say'st thou. Thou monstrous piece of ignorance in office ! Thou that hast no more knowledge thanthy clerk infiises, Thy dapper clerk, larded with ends of Latin, And he no more than custom of his office ; Thouunreprievable dunce! (that thy formal band-strings. Thy ring, nor pomander,' cannot expiate for) ' Verdea mne,'] A celebrated Tuscan white mae, called verdea &om its having a tint inclining to green. 206 TEX EIiSXB BBOTHEB. Dost thou tell me I should P I'll poze thy worohip lu thine own library, an almanack ; Which thou art daily poring on, to pick out Days of iniquity to cozen fools in, And full moons to cut cattle ! Dost thou taint me, That have run over story, poetry, Humanity ? Bri. As a cold nipping shadow- Does over ears of corn, and leave 'em blasted. Put up jova anger ; what I'll do, I'll do. Mir, Thou shalt not do. Bri. I will. Mir. Thou art an ass, then, A duU old tedious ass ; thou art ten times worse, And of less credit, than dunce HoUingshed,' The Englishman, that writes of shows and sheriffs. KNOWIiBDGE A BETTEE LOTB-MAKEB THAN IGNOEAlfCI!. The Elder Brother, who wot about to give up hit birthright to the Tounger out of contempt qf everything but He bookt, is diverted from hit purpose ig love. SoENE — A Room in the House o/ Angelina's Father, Enter the Father, the Lady, Eustace (the Tounger brother), the TJncle, Priest, Notary, and others. Notary. Come, let him bring his son's hand, and all s done. Is yours ready ? Priest, Tes, I'll despatch ye presently. Immediately ; for in truth I'm a-hungry. Eustace. Do ; speak apace, for we believe exactly. — Do we not stay long, mistress ? Angelina. I find no fault : — Better things well done, than want time to do them. — Uncle, why are you sad ? ' Pomander.'] Prom the SWich, pomme d^ambre. an apple of amber. A ball of perfumes. — ^Eiohasdson'b Dictionary. ^ Jhmce Hollingshed.'] I know not what antiquaries think of this summary estimate of one of their favourite historians. Probably he offended our poets for the same reason (whaterer it was) that got him into trouble with the censorship under Queen Elizabeth. THE EliDEE BEOTHEB. 2U7 Mirabel. Sweet-smelling blossom ! "Would I were thine uncle to thine own content : I'd make thy husband's state a thousand better, A yearly thousand. Thou hast miss'd a man (But that he is addicted to his study, And knows no other mistress than his mind) Would weigh down bundles of these empty kezes.' Anff. Can he speak, sir ? Mir. 'Faith, yes ; but not to women : His language is to Heaven and heavenly wonder. To nature, and her dark and secret causes. Jnff. And does he speak well there ? Mir. Oh; admirably ! But he's too bashful to behold a woman ; There's none that sees him, nor he troubles nonai Anff. He is a man. Mir. 'Faith, yes, and a clear sweet spirit. Anff. Then conversation, methinks Mir. So think I ; But 'tis his rugged fate, and so I leave you. Anff. I like thy nobleness. Emt. See, my mad imcle Is courting my fair mistress. Lew. Let him alone ; There's nothing that allays an angry mind So soon as a sweet beauty.^ He'U come to us. Enter BsiSAC and Chaeles. Eust. My father's here, my brother too ! that's a wonder ; Broke like a spirit from his cell. Bri. Come hither, Come nearer, Charles ; 'twas your desire to see My noble daughter, and the company. Aid give your brother joy, and then to seal, boy- • Tou do like a good brother. ' Eexes.'] Hollow, withered stems. ' A nweet beauty^ " So easy 'tis to appease the stormy wind Of malice, in the calm of pleasant womankind." SpeiUfT. SOb THE SLSEB BBOTHEK. Lew. Marry, does he. And he shall have my love for ever for'fc. Put to your hand now. Not. Here's the deed, sir, ready. Char. No, you must pardon me awhile. I tell you, I am in contemplation ; do not trouble me. Bri. Come, leave thy study, Charles. Char. rU leave my life first : I study now to be a man ; I've found it. [Looking at ANQELllfA. Before, what man was, was but my argument. Mir, I Like this best of all ; he has taken fire : His dull mist flies away. Eiist. "Win you write, brother P Char. No, brother, no ; I have no time for poor things ; I'm taking the height of that bright constellation. Bri. I say you trifle time, son. Char. I will not seal, sir : I am your eldest, and I'U keep my birthright ; For, Heaven forbid I should become example. Had you only show'd me land, I had deliver' d it, And been a proud man to have parted with it ; 'Tis dirt, and labour. — Do I speak right, uncle ? Mir. Bravely, my boy ; and bless thy tongue ! Char. rU forward. But you have open'd to me such a treasure, — [tune !) {Aside. I flid my miud free ; Heaven direct my for- Mir. Can lie speak now P Is this a son to sacrifice P Char. Such an inimitable piece of beauty. That I have studied long, and now found only, That I'U part sooner with my soul of reason. And be a plant, a beast, a fish, a fly. And only make the number of things up. Than yield one foot of land, if she be tied to 't I Len. He speaks unhappily. Ang. And, methinks, bravely. This the mere scholar? Bust. You but vex yourself, brother, And vex yoiir study too. Char. Go you and study : THE ELDEB BEOTHEB. 209 For 'tis time, young Eustace. Tou want man and manners ; I have studied both, although I made no show on't. Go, turn the volumes over I have read. Eat and digest them, that they may grow in thee : "Wear out the tedious night with thy dim lamp, And sooner lose the day than leave a doubt : DistU the sweetness from the poet's spring. And learn to love ; thou know'st not what feir is : Traverse the stories of the great heroes ;' The wise and civil lives of good men walk through : Thou hast seen nothing but the face of countries. And brought home nothing but their empty words ! Why shouldst thou wear a jewel of this worth, That hast no worth within thee to preserve her ? {He addresses Angelina.) Beauty clear and fail', Where the air Bather like a perfume dwells ; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins in blush disclose. And come to honour nothing else ;" Where to live near. And planted there. Is to live, and stUl live new ; Where to gain a favour is More than light, perpetual bliss, — Make me Uve by serving you. Dear, again back recall' To this light, A stranger to himself and all. Both the wonder and the story . Shall be yours, and eke the glory ! I am your servant, and your thrall. ' Heroes.^ The Latin tiisyUsble plural, not then discontinued in English. ^ Come to honour nothing else."] This is obscure. Perhaps it means that they come to honour nothing less meritorious than what such modest beauty can approve. ' Again hack recall.'] This monstrous tautology (to say nothing of the ameness of the verse) could hardly have been in the original manu- 210 THE ELDEB BEOTHEE. Mir. Speak such another ode, and take all yet- 1 "What say you to the scholar now ? Ang. I wonder ! — Is he your brother, sir P Enst. Tes. — "Would he were buried ! I fear he'll make au ass of me ; a younker. Ang. Speak not so softly, sir ; 'tis very likely. llri. Come, leave your finical talk, and let's dispatch, Charles. Char. Dispateh what ? Bri. "Why, the land. Char. You are deceiv'd, sir : Now I perceive what 'tis that wooes a woman, And what maintains her when she's woo'd. I'll stop here; A wilful poverty ne'er made a beauty, Nor want of means maintaia'd it virtuously. Though land and monies be no happiness, Tet they are counted good additions. That use I'll make ; he that neglects a blessing, Though he want present knowledge how to use it, Neglects himself. — May be, I have done you wrong, lady, Whose love and hope went hand in hand together ; May be, my brother, that has long expected The happy hour, and bless' d my ignorance — Pray give me leave, sir, — I shall clear all doubts — "Why did they show me you ? Pray tell me that. Mir. He'll talk thee into a pension' for thy knavery. Char. You, happy you ! why did you break unto me ? The rosy-finger'd morn ne'er broke so sweetly. I am a man, and have desires within me, Afiections too, though they were drown'd awhile, script. The want of rhyme^ aluo to the word light, and the difference in that respect &om the other stanza^, with the still further aggravation of a rhyme twice repeated, show dearly that there mu3t be some mistake here, either of printer or copyist. Might not the words hare been dear, re-unite ? or dear, again unite ? Or dear angel, re-unite ? The first lines of the two p^ceding stanzas are not of equal; length ; so that the metre of any one of these substitutes would not have been incon- sistent. ' Talk thee into a fensien.'] Make a scholar of thee against thy will by his eloquence ? An allusion to an order of students so called at Cambridge? — Or does it mean, that he will talk the Younger Brother into the petty allowance of money, common to such juniors p THE EIDEE BEOTHEH. 211 And lay dead, till the spring of beauty rais'd them : TiU I saw those eyes, I was but a lump, A chaos of confusedness dwelt in me ; Then from those eyes shot Love, and he distinguiah'd And into form he drew my faculties ; And now I know my land, and now I love too. Bri. "We had best remove the maid. Char. It is too late, sir ; I have her figure here. Nay, frown not, Eustace, There are less worthy souls for younger brothers : This is no form of silfc, but sanctity. Which wild lascivious hearts can never dignify. Eemove her where you wHl, I walk along still, Por, like the light, we make no separation. Tou may sooner part the billows of the seai. And put a bar betwixt their fellowshipSj Than blot out my remembrance ; sooner shut Old Time into a den, and stay his motion ; Wash off the swift hours from his downy wings. Or steal eternity to stop his glass. Than shut the sweet idea I have in me. Boom for an Elder Brother ! Pray give plkee, sir ! Mir. He has studied duel too-: take heed, be'U beat thee ! He has frighted the old justice into a fever ! I hope, he'H disinherit him too for an ass ; For, though he be grave with years, he's a great baby. Char. Do not you thmk me- mad ? Ang. No, certain, sir : I have heard nothing from you but things excellent. Char. Tou look upon my clothes, and laugh at me ; My scurvy clothes ! Ang. They have rich linings, sir. I would your brother Char. Bja are gold, and gaudy. Ang. But touch 'em inwardly, they smell of copper. Char. Can you love me ? I am an heir, sweet lady, However I appear a poor dependant. Love you with honour ? I shall love so eveF, Is your eye ambitious ? I may be a grea* man. Is 't wealth or lands you covet ? my fother must die. 212 THE ELBEB BEOTHEE. Mir. That was well put in ; I hope he'll take it deeply. Char, Old men are not immortal, as I take it. Is it you look for youth and handsomeness P I do confess my brother 's a handsome gentleman ; But he shall give me leave to lead the way, lady. Can you love for love, and make that the reward? The old man shall not love his heaps of gold With a more doting superstition. Than I'll love you ; the young man, his delights ; The merchant, when he ploughs the angry sea up, And sees the mountain-biUows falling on him, As if all elements, and all their angers. Were turn'd into one vow'd destruction. Shall not with greater joy embrace his safety. We'U live together like two wanton vines. Circling our souls and loves in one another ; We'U spring together, and we'll bear one fiiiit ; One joy sh^ make us smile, and one grief mourn. One age go with us, and one hour of death Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. Ang. And one hand seal the match. I am yours for ever ! [" The Elder Brother has been generally reckoned among the best of Fletcher's comedies. It displays in a new form an idea not very new in fiction, — the power of love, on the first sight of woman, to vivify a sonl utterly ignorant of the passion. Charles, the Elder Brother, much unhte the CymoD of Sryden, is absorbed in study ; s mere scholar without a thought beyond his boots. His indifference, perhaps, and ignorance of the world are rather exaggerated, and border on stupidity ; but it was the custom of the dramatists in that age to produce effect in repre- sentation by very sudden developments, if not changes, of character. Xhe other persons are not iH conceived ; the honest testy Miramont, who admires learning, without much more of it than enables him to sign his name, the two selfish worldly fathers of Charles and Angelina, believing themselves shrewd, yet the easy dupes of coxcomb manners from the court, the spoiled but not worthless Eustace, show Fletcher's great talent in dramatic invention. In none of his mere comedies has he sustained so uniformly elegant and pleasing a style of poetry ; the language of Charles is naturally that of a fine scholar ; but now ana then, perhaps, we find old Miramont talk above himself." — HaliiAU.] THE SPANISH CTJEATE. 213 THE SPAJSriSH CTJEATE. HOW TO 00]IJTEET POOE MEMOBIES INTO alMED OKES. teaadro, in furtherance of an adventure on which he it bound, emiployt a mode of persuasion with Lopez the Spanish Curate, and Diego his Sexton, hy which they are suddenly convinced of their extreme «»- timacy with a gentleman, cf whose existence they were ignorant the minute before, Lopez and Diego, Leandko overhearing them, lop. Poor stirring for poor vicars. Die. Ajid poor sextons. Lop. We pray, and pray, but to no purpose ; Those that enjoy our lands, choke our devotions ; Our poor thin stipends make ua arrant dunces. Die. If you live miserably, Jiow shall we do, master, That are fed only with the sound of prayers ? "We rise and ring the bells to get good stomachs, And must be faiu to eat the ropes with reverence. Lop. "When was there a chiist'ning, Diego ? Die, Not this ten weeks. They are so hard-hearted here too, They wiU not die ; there's nothing got by burials. Lop. Diego, the air's too pure, they cannot perish. To Imve a thia stipend, and an everlasting parish, Lord, what a torment 'tis 1 Die. G-ood sensible master, Tou are allow' d to pray against all weathers, Both foul and fair, as you shall find occasion ; "Why not against all airs ? Lop. That's not i' th' canons. "We must remove iuto a muddy air, A most contagious climate. Vie. "We must, certain ; An air that is the nursery of agues. Lop. Gouts and dead palsies. Die. Surfeits, if we had 'em ; Those are rich marie, they make a church-yard &t. Lop. Then wills and funeral sermons come in season. And feasts that make us frolic. Die. '"Would I could see 'em ! 214 THE SPANISH CTJEATE. Lop. And tbough I weep i' th' pulpit for my brother, Tet, Diego, here I laugh. Die, The cause requires it. Lean. A precious pair of youths ! I must make toward 'em. \Coming forward. Lop. Who's that? Lookout; it seems he would speak to us. I hope a marriage, or some wUl to make, Diego. Die. My friend, your business ? Lean. 'Tis to that grave gentleman. — Bless your good learning, sir ! Lop. And bless you also ! He bears a promisiag face ; there's some hope toward. Lean. I have a letter to your worship. \Gives a letter. Lop. "Well, sir. From whence, I pray you ? Lean. Erom Nova Hispania, sir, And from an ancient friend of yours. Lop. 'Tis well, sir; 'Tis very well. — (Jside.) The devil a one I know there. Die. (aside to Lop.) Take heed of a snap, sir ; he has a I do not like his way. [cozening countenance. Lop. Let him go forward. Cantabit vacuus;' they that have npthing, fear nothingi IReads the letter, Signior Lopez, since my arrival from Cordova to these parts, I have written divers letters unto you, but as yet re- ceived no answer of any — Good and very good — And although so great aforgetfulness might cause a want in my due correspondence, yet the desire I have still to serve you, must more prevail with me — Better and bet- ter : The devH a man know I yet — and therefore, with the present occasion offered, I am willing to crave a con- • " Cantabit vaonus coram latrone viator." (Your pennileBB traveller ehall sing in the thief s presence.) From a passage in Juvenal, thus translated by Dryden ; — " The fearful passenger who travels late, Gharg'd with the carriage of a paltry plate, Shakes at the moonshine shadow of a rush. And sees a red-coat rise from every bush ; The beggar sings, even when he sees the place Beset with thieves, and never mends his pace." THU SPAinSH CUEATE. 215 tiiiuance of the favours which I have heretofore received from you, and do recommend my son, Leandro, the bearer, to you, with request that he may be admitted in that university, till such time as I shall arrive at home. Bis studies he will make you acquainted withal. This kind- ness shall supply the want of your slackness : and so, ' Heaven keep you. Tours, Alomo Tiveria. Alonzo Tiveria 1 Very well. A very ancient friend of mine, I take it ; For, till this hour, I never heard his name yet. Lean. Tou look, sir, as if you had forgot my father. Lop. No, no, I look as "[if] I would remember him ; For that I never remember' d, I cannot forget, sir. Alonzo Tiveria ? Lean. The same, sir. Lop. A nd now i' th' Indies ? Lean. Tes. Lop. He may be anywhere. For aught that I consider. Lean. Think again, sir ; Tou were students both at one time in Salamanca, And as I take it, chamber-fellows. Lop. Ha ? Lean. Nay, sure, you must remember. Lop. 'Would I could 1. Lean. I have heard him say you were gossips too. Lop. Very likely ; Tou did not hear him say to whom ? for we students May oft-times over-reach our memories. — (Aside.) Dost thou remember, Diego, this sameBignior ? Thou hast been mine these twenty years. 1 (aside.) Eemember? Why, this fellow would make ye mad. Nova Hispania ? And Signior Tiveria? What are these? He may as well name ye friends out of Cataya.' Take heed, I beseech your worship. — Do you hear, my Tou have no letters for me? [friend? ' Catat/a."] Cathay: — CMna, or Chinese Tartary. The word was |)opularly used for the one, but by geographers appropriated to the other. 216 THE SFAiriSH CrBATB. Lean. Not any letter ; But I was charged to do my father's love To the old honest sexton, Diego. Are you he, sir? Die. Ha ! have I friends, and know 'em not ? My name is Diego ; But if either I remember you or your father, Or Nova Hispania (I was never there, sir). Or any kindred that you have — (aside.) For Heaven Let's cast about a little, and consider ; [sake, master, We may dream out our time. Lean . It seems I am deceiv'd, sir : Tet, that you are Don Lopez, all men tell me, The curate here, and have been some time, sir, And you the sexton Diego ; such I am sent to ; The letter teUs as much. May be they're dead, And you of the like names succeed. I thank ye, gen> Te have done honestly in telling the truth ; [tlemen ; I might have been forward else ; for to that Lopez, That was my father's Mend, I had a charge, A charge of money to deliver, gentlemen ; Kve hundred ducats, a poor small gratuity. But since you are not he [Preparing to go. Lop. Good sir, let me think ; [Interrvpting, I pray ye be patient ; pray ye, stay a little : Nay, let me remember ; I beseech you stay, sir. Die. An honest noble friend, that sends so lovingly - An old friend too ; I shall remember, sure, sir. Lop. Thou say'st true, Diego. Bie. {aside to Lop.) 'Pray ye consider quickly ; Do, do, by any means. — {Aloud). Methinks, already,, A grave staid gentleman comes to my memory. Lean. He's old indeed, sir. Die. With a goodly white beard : (For now he must be so ; I know he must be. Signior Alonzo, master. Lop. I begin to have him. Die. He has been from hence about some twenty years, bit. Lean. Some five-and-twenty, sir. Die. Tou say most true, sir ; Just to an hour, 'tis now just five-and-twenty. THE SPAiriSH CUEATE. 217 A fine staraigiit timber' d man, and a brave soldier. He married — ^let me see Lean. De Castro's daughter. Die. The very same. Lean, {aside'). Thou art a very rascal ! De Castro is the Turk to thee, or anything. The money rubs 'em into strange remembrances ; For as many ducats more they would remember Adam. Lop. Give me your hand ; you are welcome to your coun- Now I remember plainly, manifestly, [try ; As freshly as if yesterday I had seen him. Most heartily welcome ! Sinful that I am, Most sinful man ! why should I lose this gentleman ? This loving old companion ? We had all one soul, sir. He dwelt here hard by, at a handsome Ziean. Farm, sir: You say moat true. lop. Alonzo Tiveria ! [knave thus ! Lord, lord, that time should play the treacherous Why, he was the only friend I had in Spaia, sir. I knew your mother too, a handsome gentlewoman ; She was married very young : I married 'em. I do remember now the masques and sports then, The fire-works, and the fine delights. Grood faith, sir, Now I look in your face — whose eyes are those, Diego ? Nay, if he be not just Alonzo's pictur e Lean, {aside). Lord, how I blush for these two impudents ! Bie. Well, gentleman, I think your name's Leandro. Lean. It is, indeed, sir. [else. {Aside). Gra' -mercy, letter ; thou hadst never known Die. I have dandled you, and kiss'd you, and play'd with you, A himdred and a hundred times, and danced you, And swung you in my bell-ropes — you loved swinging. Lop. A sweet boy. [for thousands ? Lean, {aside). Sweet lying knaves ! WTiat would these do L p. A. wondrous sweet boy then it was. See now. Time, that consumes us, shoots him up stiU sweeter. How does the noble gentleman P how fares he ? [try ? When shall we see him ? when will he bless his coun- 218 THE SPASISH CtJHATE. Lean. Oh, very shortly, sir. Till his return, He has sent me over to your charge. Lop. And welcome ; Nay, you shall know you are welcome to your friend, sir. Lean. And to my study, sir, which must be the law. To further which, he would entreat your care To plant me in the favour of some man That's expert in that knowledge. For his pains I have three hundred ducats more ; for my diet. Enough, sir, to defray me ; which I am charg'd To take still, as I use it, from your custody. I have the money ready, and I am weary. Lop. Sit down, sit down; and, once more, you're most The law you have hit upon most happily ; [welcome. Here is a master in that art, Bartolus, A neighbour by ; to him I will prefer you ; A learned man, and my most loving neighljour, I'U do you faithful service, sir. Die. {aside to Lopez). He's an ass. And so we'll use him ; he shall be a lawyer ! L(^. But, if ever he recover this money again — Before, Diego, And get some pretty pittance ; my pupil's hungry. Lean. 'Pray you, sir, unlade me. Lop. I'll refresh you, sir : "When you want, you know your exchequer. Lean, (aside'). If ail this get me but access, I am happy. PEEOIOirS TJTT'EBAirCE. Dearest, do not you delay me. Since thou know'st I must be gone ; Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me, But 'tis wind that must be blown iVom that breath, whose native smell Indian odours doth exceL Oh, then speak, thou fairest fair, KUl not him that vows to serve thee ; But perfume this neighbouring air. Else duU silence, sure, will starve me : 'Tis a word that's quickly spoken, "Which being restrain' d, a heart is broken. THE SPANISH CUEATE. 219 THE sexton's ■WILI. Liego, pretending to he dying, iequeatha imaginary sums of money to Bartolus and others. Scene — A Room with a Curtain in the background. A Table set out with a Standish, Pens, and Paper. Enter Lopez the Curate, and Babtolxis the Lawyer. Bar. Is't possible lie should be rich ? Lop. Most possible i He hath been long (though he'd but little gettings) Drawing together, sir. Bar. Accounted a poor sexton ! Honest, poor Diego. Lop. I assure you, a close fellow ; Both close ajid scraping ; and that Ms the bags, sir. Bar. A notable good fellow too. Lop. Sometimes, sir ; When he hoped to drink a man into a surfeit, That he might gain by his grave. Bar. So many thousands ? Lop. Heaven knows what. Bar. 'Tis strange, 'tis very strange. But, we see, by endea- And honest labour [vour. Lop. MUo, by contiauance, Grew, from a silly calf (with your worship's reverence). To carry a bull. IVom a penny to a pound, sir, And from a pound to many. 'Tis the progress. Bar. Ton say true. But he loved to feed well also ; And that, methinks Lop. From another man's trencher, sir. And there he found it season'd with small charge ; There he would play the tyrant, and would devour you More than the graves he made. At home he liv'd Like a cameleon ; suck'd the air of miseiy ; And grew fat by the brewis of an egg-shell ; Would smell a cook's shop, and go home and surfeit. And be a month in fasting out that fever. Bar. These are good symptoms. Does he lie so sick, say Lop. Oh, very sick. ■ [y^ ? Bar. And chosen me executor ? 220 THE SPANISH CT7EATB. Lop. Only your worship. Bar. No nope of his amendment f Lop. None, that we find. Bar. He hath no kinsmen neither ? Lop. 'Truth, very few. Bar. His mind will be the quieter. What doctors has he ? Lop. There's none, sir, he believes in. Bar. They are but needless things, in such extremities. Who draws the good man's will P Lop. Marry that do I, sir ; And to my grief. Bar. Grrief will do little now, sir ; Draw it to your comfort, friend, and as I counse you. An honest man : but such men live not always. Who are about him ? Lop. Many, now he is passing, [men That would pretend to his love ; yes, and some gentle- That would fain counsel him, and be of his kindred. !Rich men can want no heirs, sir. Bar. They do ill, Indeed they do, to trouble him ; very ill, sir. Bat we shsdl take a care. [The Curtain is drawn, and Drseo discovered in a bed. MiLAD^ES, Abs£NIO, anc? Parishioners, ahout Am.} Lop. Now you may see in what stat e Give him fresh air. Bar. I am sorry, neighbour Diego, To find you in so weak a state. /H'e. You're welcome ; But I am fleeting, sir. Bar. Methinks he looks weL ; His colour fresh, and strong ; his eyes are cheerful. Lop, A gUmmermg before death ; 'tis nothing else, sir. Do you see how he fumbles with the sheet ? do you note that P Die. My learned sir, 'pray you sit. I am bold to send for To take a care of what I leave. [yon, Lop. Do you hear that ? THE SPASISH CrEATB, 221 Ars. (aside to IHego). Play the kaaye finely ! Die. So I will, I warrant you, And carefully. — Bar, 'Pray ye do not trouble him ; You see he's weak, and has a wand'ring fancy. Die. My honest neighbours, weep not ; I must leave ye ; I cannot always bear ye company ; "We must drop stUl ; there vi no remedy.— 'Pray ye, master curate, wiU you write my testament, And write it largely, it may be remember'd ? And be witness to my legacies, good gentlemen. Tour worshipldo make my full executor; \To Bastolus. You are a man of wit and understanding. Give me a cup of wine to raise my spirits, 'Ear I speak low. I would, before these neighbours, Have you to swear, sir, that.you'U see it executed, And what I give let equally be render' d. For my soul's health. Bar. I vow it truly, neighbours : Let not that trouble you ; before all these, Once more I give my oath. Die. Then set me higher, And pray ye come near me all. Lop. We're ready for you. Die. Pirst, then. After I have given my body to the worms (For they must be serv'd first, they're seldom co- lop. Kemember your parish, neighbour. [zen'd) Die. You speak truly ; I do remember it, — a vile parish, — And pray it may be mended. To the poor of it. Which is to all the parish, I give nothing ; For nothing unto nothiDg is most natural : Yet leave as much space as wUl build an hospital;— Their children may pray for me. Bar, What do you give to it ? Die. Set down two thousand ducats. Bar. 'Tis a good gift. And will be long remember'd. Die. To your worship, 222 THE SPANISH CITEATB. Because you must take pains to see all finish'd, I give two thousand more — it may be three, sir — A poor gratuity for your paiaa-taking. Bar. These are large sums. Lop. Nothing to him that has 'em. Die. To my old master vicar I give five hundred ; Five hundred and five hundred are too few, sir ; But there be more to serve. Bar. (aside). This fellow coins, sure. Die. Give me some more drink. Bar. If he be worth aH these, I'm made for ever. Die. I give five hundred pounds to buy a church-yard, A spacious church-yard, to lie thieves and knaves in Bich men and honest men take aU the room up. Lop. Are you not weary ? Die. Never of well- doing. Bar. These are mad legaciesi, Die. They were got as madly. My sheep and oxen, and my moveables, My pl^te and jewels, and five hundred a«res — I have no heirs — Bar. This cannot be ; 'tis monstrous. Die, Three ships at sea too — Bar. Tou have made me fuU exeeutor ? Die. Pull, fuL, and total. 'Would I had more to give you ; But these may serve an honest mind. .Bar. Tou say true, A very honest mind, and make it rich too ; [monies ? Bich, wondrous rich! But, where shall I raise these About your house, I see no such great promises. Where shall I find these sums ? Die. Even where you please, sir ; You're wise and provident, and know business, [able. Even raise 'em where you shall think good ; I'm reason- Bar. Think good ? wiU that raise thousands ? What do you make me ? Die. Tou have sworn to see it done ; that's all my comfort. Bar. WTiere I please ? This is pack'd sure to disgrace me ! Die. Tou're just, and honest,, and I know you'U do it ; Even where you please, for you know where the wealth is. THE EEGOABS' BUSH. 223 Bar. I am abus'd, betray'd ! I am laugb'd at, seom'd, Baffled, and bored, it seems ! Ars. No, no 5 you are fool'd. Lop. Most finely fool'd, and handsomely, and neatly ; Suet cunning masters must be fool'd sometimes, sir ; We are but quit. Tou fool us of our monies. Die. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! some more drink for my heart, gentle- This merry lawyer — Ha, ha, ha, ha ! this scholar — [men. I think this fit will cure me ! This executor I shall laugh out my lungs ! Bar. This is derision above sufferance ; Tillainy Plotted and set against me ! Die. 'Faith, 'tis knavery ; In troth, I must confess thou art fool'd indeed, lawyer. MIL Did you think, had this man been rich Bar. 'Tis well, sir. Mil, He would have chosen such a wolf, a canker, A maggot-pate, to be his whole exeeut&r ? Lop. A lawyer, that entangles all men's honesties, And lives like a spider in a cobweb lurking, Atid catching at all flies that pass his pitfalls,— "Would he trust you ? Do you deserve Die. I find, gentlemen. This cataplasm of a well-cozen' d lawyer Laid to my stomach, lenifies my fever. Methinks I could eat now, and walk a little. Bar. I am ashamed to feel how flat I'm cheated; How grossly, and maliciously, made a may-game ' God yield you, and God thank you ! I am fool'd, gentie- The mwyer is an ass, I do confess it, [men ! A weak, dull, shallow ass ! Good even to your worships ! Vicar, remember, vicar ! Eascal, remember, Thou notable rich rascal ! THE BEGtGAES' BXJSH. BEGQABS' HOLIDAY SONG. Cast our caps and cares away: This is beggars' holiday ! 224 "!™e bes&abs' bush. At the crowning of our king, Thus we ever dance and sing. In the world look out and see, Where's so happy a prince as heP Where the nation lives so free, And so merry as do we? Be it peace, or be it war, Here at liberty we are, And enjoy our ease and rest ; To the field we are not press'd ; Nor are call'd into the town. To be troubled with the gown. Hang aU offices, we cry, And the magistrate too, by. When the subsidy's increas'd, We are not a penny sess'd ; Nor will any go to law With the beggar for a straw. All which happiness, he brags, He doth owe unto his rags. PKIDE or BANK ADMONISHED. Morez, Prince cf Flandert, ditguUed a» a merchant under the name of Go» •jiin, during theiaurpaiion of its right, rtbutes one of the umrper'a cap- tains, who does not know him, for treating hit addresses to his niece with contempt. Goswnr, Hempskibkb, Hxjbeet, Vandtjitke, Mabgaeet (his Wife), and Geetetjde. Hemp, {to Gert.) You must not only know me for your uncle Now, but obey me : Tou go cast yourself Away, upon a dunghill here ! a merchant ! A petty fellow ! one that makes his trade With oaths and perjuries ! 6-'m. What is that you say, sir ? If it be me you speak of, as your eye Seems to direct, I wish you'd speak to me, sir. Hemp. Sir, I do say, she is no merchandize ; Will that suffice you ? Gos. Merchandize, good sir ! The' you be kinsman to her, take no leave thence TEE EEQGAES' BUSH. 225 To use me with contempt : I ever thought Your niece above all price. Hemp. And do so still, sir. I assure you, her rate's at more than you are worth. Gos. Tou do not know what a gentleman's worth, sir, Nor can you value him. Huh. Well said, merchant ! Vand. Nay, Let him alone, and ply your matter. Hemp. A gentleman ? What, of the wool-pack ? or the sugar-jChest ? Or lists of velvet ? Which is't, pound or yard, You vent your gentry by ? Hub. Oh, Hempskirke, fie ! Vand. Come, do not mind 'em ; drink ! — He is no Wolfort, Captain, I advise you. Hemp. Alas, my pretty man, I think't be angry, by its look. Come hither ; Turn this way a Ettle. If it were the blood Of Charlemagne, as't may, for aught I know. Be some good botcher's issue, here in Bruges Gos. How ? Hemp. Way, I'm not certain of that ; of this I am, If it once buy and sell, its gentry's gone. Gos. Ha, ha ! Hemp. You're angry, though you laugh. Gos. No, now 'tis pity Of your poor argument. Do not you, the lords Of land (if you be any), sell the grass, The corn, the straw, the milk, the cheese Vand. And butter : Eemember butter : do not leave out butter. Gos. The beefs and muttons, that your grounds are stor'd Swine, with the very mast, beside the woods ? [with ? Hemp. No, for those sordid uses we have tenants. Or else our bailiffs. Gos. Have not we, sir, chapmen. And factors, then, to answer these ? Your honour, Petch'd from the heralds' ABC, and said over With your court faces, once an hour, shall never 226 THE BESQASS' BUSH. Make me mistate myself. . Do not your lawyers Sell aU their practice, aa your priests their prayers ? What is not bought and sold ? The company That you had last, what had you for't, i'faith ? Hemp. Tou now grow saucy. Gos. Sure, I have been bred StiU. with my honest liberty, and must use it. Hemp. Upon your equals then. Gog. Sir, he that wiU Provoke me first, doth make himself my equal. Hemp. Do you hear ? No more ! Gos. Tes, sir, this little, I pray you. And it shall be aside ; then, after, as you please ! Tou appear the unele, sir, to her 1 love More than mine eyes ; and I have heard your scorns "With so much scoffing, and so much shame. As each strive which is greater : but, believe me, I suck'd not in this patience with my mUk. Do not presume, because you see me yoking, Or cast despites on my profession, For the civility and tameness of it. A good man bears a contumely worse Than he would do an injury. Proceed not To my offence. Wrong is not still successful ; Indeed it is not. I would approach your kinswoman With all respect done to yourself and her. [Ta&ea hold of Gebtbttde's hand. Hemp. Away, companicm f handling her ? take that. [^Strikes hifn. Gos. Nay,- 1 do love no blows, sir. There's exdiange ! [He gels HsHPSEiaEE'S' sword, and eufs kim on the head. Hub. Hold, sir! 3/arg. Oh, murder I Gert, Help my Goswin. Marg. Man! Vand. Let 'em alone. My Ii& £}c one I Got. Nay, eome. If you have will. Hub. None to ©fiend you I, sir. Gos. He that had, thank himself! Not hand her ? Yea, sir, THE BEOGAES' BTTSH. 227 And clasp her, and embrace her ; and (would she Now go with me) hear her thro' all her race, Her father, brethren, and her nncles, arm'd. And all their nephews, though they stood a wood Of pikes, and wall of cannon ! — Kiss me, G-ertrude ! Quake not, but kiss me ! Vand. Kiss him, girl ; I bid you. — My merchant-royal ! Fear no uncles ! Hang 'em ^ Hang up all uncles ! Are we not in Bruges, Under the rose, here? Go3. In this circle, love, Thou art as safe as in a tower of brass. Let such as do wrong, fear. Vand. Ajr that ia good ; Let Wolfort look to that. Gos. Sir, here she stands, Tovff niece, and my belov'd. One of these titles She must apply to. If unto the last, Not aU the anger can be sent unto her. In frown, or voice, or other art, shall force her, Had Hercules a hand in't ! — Come, my joy, Say thou art mine aloud, love, and profess it. Vand. Do ; and I drink to it. Gos. Pr'ythee say so, love. Gert. 'Twould take away the honour from my blilihes (Do not you play the tyrant, sweet !) : — they speak it. Hemp. I thank you, niece. Gos. Sir, thank her for your life ; And fetch your sword within. Hemp. Tou insult too much With your good fortune,, sir. [Exeunt Gos. and Geet. Sub. A brave clear spirit ! — Eempskirke, you were to blame. A civil habit Oft covers a goo,d man ; and you may meet, In person of a merchant, with a soul As resolute and free, and all ways worthy, As else in any file of mankind. Pray you, "What meant you so to slight him ? Hemp. 'Tis done now ; Ask no more of it; I must suffer, [Exit. 228 THE HrMOEOUa tlJETriEIIAHT. Ruh. This Is still the puniehmcnt of rashnsss — sorrow. THE HUMOKOUS LIEUTENANT. CLAIUS or EXTEBNA.LS. \st Usher. Make aJl things perfect. Would you haye these ladies, Enter Ladies and Gentlemen. They that come here to see the show, these beauties That have been labouring to set off their sweetness, And wash'd and curl'd, lose all their expectations 'i Madams, the best way is the upper lodgings ; There you may see at ease. Ladies, We thank you, sir. [Exeunt Ladies and Gentlemen. 1st Usher. Would you have all these slighted ? Who should report then. The ambassadors were handsome men ? His beard A neat one : the fire of his eyes quicker than lightning, And, when it breaks, as blasting ; his legs, tho' little Tet movers of a mass of understanding ? [ones, Who shall commend their clothes ? who shall take notice Of the most wise behaviour of their feathers P' EXA.LTED MAETIAIi SPEAKINO. Seleucus, Itynmachus, and Ptolemy {three of the kings made out of the general) of Alexander) send ambastadors to their brother king, Jntigoma, to remonstrate with him on his ambition. AifTJGOiniB, TiMON, CHAErcTTHTrs, and Meuippus. Ant. Conduct in the ambassadors. \st Usher. Make room there. Ant. They shall not long wait answer. > Wise behaviour of their feathers.'] This witty expression is a match for the "embonpoint" of the coxcomb's " plumes" in Mcliere'i Frecieutea liuUeules. THE HIIMOBOdS LIEUXEKiNT. 229 Flourish. Enter Three Ambassadors. Ani. Now your grievance. Speak short ; and have as short dispatch. \iit Ambassador. jDhen thus, sir, In all our royal masters' names, we tell you You have done injustice ; — broke the bounds of concord ; And from their equal shares (from Alexander Parted, and so possess' d), not like a brother, . But as an open enemy, you have hedg'd in Whole provinces ; mann'd and maintairt'd these injuries; And daily with your sword, though they still honour you, Make bloody roads, take towns, and ruin castles j And stiU their sufferance feels the weight. Think of that love, great sir, that honour' d friendship, Yourself held with our masters ; think of that strength, "When you were all one body, all one mind ; When all yoiu- swords struck one way ; when your Like so many brother billows, rose together, [angers. And, curling up your foaming crests, defied Even mighty kings, and in their falls entomb'd 'em. Oh, think of these ! and you that have been conquerors. That ever led youi- fortunes open-eyed, Chain'd fast by confidence ; you that Fame courted, Now ye want enemies and men to match ye. Let not your own swords seek your ends, to shame ye ! Zrd Arab. Chuse which you will, or peace or war ; We come prepared for either. Enter Demeteius, with a javelin, and Gentlemen. \st Usher. Sioom for the prince there ! Dem. Hail, royal father ! dnt. You're welcome from your sport, sir. — D'ye see this gentleman, [quakes You that bring thunders in your mouths, and earth- To shake and totter my designs ? Can you imagine. You men of poor and common apprehensions. While I admit this man my son, this natiure That in one look carries more fire and fierceness Than all your masters in their liva^ — dare I admit him. Admit him thus, even to my side, my bosom, 230 THE HUMOBOUS LrEUTENANT. Wten he is fit to rule, when all men cry him,' And all hopes hang about his head, thus place His weapon hatch' d in blood, — all these attending When he shall make their fortunes, aU as sudden In any expedition he shall point 'em, * As arrows from a Tartar's bow, and speeding ; Dare I do this, and fear an enemy ? Fear your great master ? yours ? or yours ? Dem. Oh, Hercules ! Who saya you do, sir ? Is there anything In these men's faces, or their masters' actions, Able to work such wonders ? Tou call 'em kings : they never wore those royalties ; Nor in the progress of their lives arriv'd yet At any thought of king. Imperial dignities, And powerful godlike actions, fit for princes. They can no more put on, and make 'em sit right, Than I can with this mortal hand hold Heaven. Poor petty men ! Nor have I yet forgot. The chiefest honours time and merit gave 'em : Lysimachus, your master, at his best. His highest, and his hopeful' st dignities, Was but grand master of the elephants ; Seleucus of the treasure ; and, for Ptolemy, A thing not thought on then, scarce heard of yet, Some master of ammunition. And must these men — Must these examine what the wills of kings are ? Prescribe to their designs, and chain their actions To their restraints ? be friends and foes when they Send out their thunders and their menaces, [please ? As if the fate of mortal things were theirs P — Gro home, good men, and teU your masters from us, We do 'em too much honour to force from 'em Their barren countries, ruin their waste cities ; And tell 'em, out of love, we mean to leave 'em. Since they will neftds be kings, no more to tread on Than they have able wits and powers to manage ; And so we shall befriend 'em. ' Crt/ Mm^ Cry him up j extol him. THE HUMOBOITB l/IETTTEKAITT. 23 ', Srd Amb. Once more, sir, We ask your resolutions : Peace, or war, yet f Dem. War, war, my noble father ! \st Amh. Thus I fling it : And, fijir-eyed Peace, farewell ! BETOTBD TALOtJB. I scorn to say I saw you fall, sigh for you. And tell a whining tie, some ten years after. To boys and girls in an old chimney-corner. Of what a prince we had, how bravely spirited. How young and fair he fell. We'U all go with you ; And you shall see us all, like sacrifices, lii our best trim, fill up the mouth of ruin ! EETKEATINa IN OBDEE TO EETUBN. Leon. Tou are too tender : Fortune has hours of loss, and hours of honour, And the most valiant feel them. both. Take comfort; The next is ours ; I have a soul descries it. The angry buU never goes back for breath. But when he means to arm his fury double. BATTLE no BESPECTEE OP PEBSOIfS. How now, Lieutenant ? Enter LlECTElTAirT, wounded. Lieut. I know not; I am maul'd; we are bravely beaten; All our young gallants lost. Leontius. Thou'rt hurt. Lieut. I'm pepper'd ; I was i' th' midst of all, and bang'd of all hands : They made an anvil of my head ; it rings yet ; Never so thresh'd. Do you call this fame ? I have famed I have got immortal fame, but I'll no more on't ; [it ; I'll no such scratching saint to serve hereafter. O' my conscience, I was kill'd above twenty times ; And yet, I know not what a devil's in't, I crawl'd away, and liv'd again stiU. I'm hurt plaguily 232 THE FAITHTUL BKEPHEBSEBB. Demetrhm. All the young men lost ? Ideut. I'm glad You're here ; but they are all in the povind, sir ; They'll never ride o'er other men's com again, I take it. Such frisking, and such flaunting with their feathers, And such careering with their mistress' favours ! And here must he be pricking out for honour, And there got he a knock, and down goes pUgarlick, Commends his soul to his she-saint, and exit. Another spurs in there, cries, " Make room, villains ! I am a lord !" scarce spoken, but, with reverence, A rascal takes him o'er the face, and fells him : There Hes the lord ; the Lord be with him \ THE FAITHFUL SHEPHEEDESS. CONSTAUOT ATTEB DEATH. Clorin, the Faithful Shepherdess, vows eternal constancy to her deceased lover. Scene — A Wood. Enter CLOEiif, having buried her Love in an Arbour. Clorin. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed his flocks By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly ! Thus I salute thy grave ; thus do I pay My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, To thy stUl-loved ashes ; thus I free Myself from all ensuing heats and fires Of love ; — all sports, delights, and jolly games That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. Now no more shaU these smooth brows be begirt With youthful coronals, and lead the dance ; No more the company of fresh fair maids And wanton shepherds be to me delightful. Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes Under some shady deU, when the cool wind Plays on the leaves. All be far away. Since thou art far away, by whose dear side THE PAlTHm SHEPHJEEDESS. 233 How often have I sat crown' d with fresh flowers For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, And hanging scrip of finest cordevan.' But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory ; That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring "Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing ; And here wiU I, in honoiu: of thy love. Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes ; Only remembering what my youth did gain In the dark, hidden virtuous use of herbs : That win 1 practise, and as freely give All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, Or charm' d with powerful words of wicked art, Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wud or lunatic, their eyes or ears Thicken'd with misty film of dulling rheum ; These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs, applied by a virgin's hand. My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, Berries and chestnuts, plantanes on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pull'd from the fair head of the straight-grown pine ; On these I'U feed with free content and rest, "When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest. Enter a Satyr with a Basket of Fruit. Sat. Thorough yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main. And through these thick woods, have I run, Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun Since the lusty spring began. — ; AH to please my master Pan Have I trotted without rest ' Cordevan.'\ Spanish leather , leather of Cordova. 234 THE FAITHFUL SHEPHSBDESS. To get Mm finiit ; for at a feast He entertains, this coming night, His paramour, the Syrinx bright. — But, behold a fairer sight ! \_Seeing Ciomv. By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine. Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods ; for in thy face Shines more awful majesty Than dull weak mortsdity Dare with misty eyes behold, And live ! Therefore on this mould Lowly do I bend my knee Iij. worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive whate'er this land From her fertile womb doth send Of her choice fruits ; and but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells. Pairer by the famous wells, To this present day ne'er grew ; Never better nor more true. Here be grapes, whose lusty blood Is the learned poets' good ; Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them ; Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. For these black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb : See how well the lusty time Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red. Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen. Some be red, some be green ; These are of that luscious meat. The great god Pan himself doth eat : AH these, and what the woods can yield. The hanging mountain or the field, THE rAITHTUL SHEPHEEDiiSS. 235 I freely offer, and ere long "Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ; Till when humbly leave I take, Lest the great Fan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Tinder a broad beech's shade. I must go, I must run Swifter than the fiery sun. lEseii. Col. And all my fears go with thee. What greatness or what private hidden power Is there in me, to draw submissioii From this rude man and beast .' Sure I am mortal : The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal, And she that bore me mortal. Prick my hand And it win bleed ; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs ahriak, Makes me a-cold. My fear says I am mortal. Yet I have heard, (my mother told it me, And now I do beKeve it) if I keep My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elfe, or fiend, Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves, Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires ; Or voices calling me in dead of night, To make me follow, and so tole me on Through mire and standing pools, to find my ruin : Else, why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners, nor smooth humanity, whose heats Are rougher than himself, and more mis-shapen, Thus mildly kneel to me ? Sure there's a power In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast AH rude uncivil bloods, all appetites That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, Be thou my strongest guard ; for here I'U dwell In opposition against fate and hell ! [She retires into the arbour. 286 THE FAITHFUI. SHEPHEEDEBS. SONG TO PAW. Sing his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep ; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round. While the hollow neighb'rin^ ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing : Thou that keep'st us chaste and free, As the young spring. Ever be thy honour spoke. Prom that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke ! A TIETUOTTS WELL. To that holy wood is consecrate A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free Prom dying flesh and dull mortality. By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn, And given away his freedom : many a troth Been plight, which neither envy, nor old time Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given, In hope of coming happiness : By this fresh fountain many a blushing maid Hath crown'd the head of her long-loved shepherd With gaudy flowers, whilst he, happy, sung Lays of his love and dear captivity. A SPOT POB LOVEES. I pray thee stay ! Where hast thoii been ? Or whither goest thou ? Here be woods as green As any ; air likewise as fresh and sweet As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet THE TAITHITL SHEPHEHDBSS. 237 Pace of tlie curled streams, with flowers as many As the young spring gives, and as choice as any ; Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells. Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines ; caves and dells ; Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing. Or gather rushes, to make many a ring For thy long fingers ; tell thee tales of love, How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, Krst saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire tlmt never dies ; How she convey' d him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night, GUding the mountain with her brother's light, To kiss her sweetest. rfrsrocENOB saved teom death. Amoret, whose shape has been magically assumed hy another shepherdess in order to mislead Perigot, is wounded iy him in the belief that she has been unfaithful, and then east into a well by an accomplice of the criminal, called from, his selfish and lonely habits the Sullen Shepherd. But her life is saved by the River God, who has the well in his keeping. Amoeet, and then Peeigot. Amo. Many a weary step, in yonder path. Poor hopeless Amoret twice trodden hath. To seek her Perigot, yet cannot hear His voice. My Perigot ! She loves thee dear That calls. Peri. See yonder where she is ! how fair She shows ! and yet her breath infects the air. Amo. My Perigot ' Peri. Here. Amo. Happy ! Peri. Hapless ! first It lights on thee : the next blow is the. worst. [Wounds her and exit. Sull. Shep. Now shall their love be cross'd ; for, being struck, I'll throw her in the fount, lest being took By some night traveller, whose honest care 23S THE FAJTHFTTL SHDPHEBDESS . May help to cure her — Shepherdess, prepare Touraelf to die! Amo. No meroj- I do crave : Thou canst not give a worse blow than I have. Tell him, that gave me this, who lov'd him tooi He struck my soul, and not my body through. TeU him> when I am dead, my soul shall be At peace, if he but think he injur' d me. Sull. Shep. In this fount be thy grave. Thou were not Sure for a woman, thon'rt so innocent. — [meant \Flinga her into the well. She cannot 'scape, for, underneath the ground. In a long hollow the clear spring is bound, Till on yon side, where the morn's sun doth look, The struggling water breaks out in a brook. [Exit. The God of the River riseth with Amoeet in his arms. God. What powerful charms my streams do bring Back again unto their spring, "With such force, that I their God, Three times striking with my rod. Could not keep them in their ranks ? My fishes shoot into the banks ; There is not one that stays and feeds ; All have hid them in the weeds. Here's a mortal almost dead, Pallen into my river head, Hallow'd BO with many a speU, That till now none ever fell. See upon her breast a wound, , On whiqh there is no plaister bound: Tet she's warm, her pulses beat ; 'Tis a sign of life and heat. — If thou be'st a virgin pure, I can give a present cure : Take a drop into thy wound IVom my wat'ry locks, more round Than orient pearl, and far more puro Than unchaste flesh may endure. — See, she pants, and from her flesh THE EilTHFUL SHIPHEEDBSS. 2^ The warm blood gusheth out afresh. ■ She is an unpolluted maid ; I must have this bleeding staid. From my banks I pluck this flower With holy hand, whose virtuous power la at once to heal and draw. The blood returns. I never saw A fairer mortal. Now doth break Her deadly slumber. Virgin, speak. Amo. "Who hath restor'd my sense, giv'n me new breath. And brought me back out of the arms of death ? God. I have heal'd thy wounds. Amo. A.J, me ! God. Pear not him that succour'd thee : I am this fountain's God. Below My waters to a river grow ; And 'twixt two banks with osiers set, That only prosper in the wet. Through the meadows do they glide, Wheeling still on every side, Sometimes winding round about. To find the evenest channel out : And if thou wilt go with me. Leaving mortal company. In the cool stream sbalt thou lie, TVee from harm as well as I. I will give thee for thy food No fish that useth in the mud ; But trout and pike, that love to swim Where the gravel from the brim Through the pure streams njay be seen : Orient pearl fit for a queen WUl I give, thy love to vrin. And a shell to keep them in. Not a fish in all my brook That shall disobey thy look, But, when thou wilt, come sliding by. And from thy white hand take a fly. And to make thee understand How I can my waves command, 240 *HE FAITHPTJL SHEPHEEDK8S. They shall bubble wMst 1 sing, Sweeter than the silver string. TEs Boira. Do not fear to put thy feet Kaked in the river, sweet ; Think not leech, or nevrt, or toad, Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod; Kor let the water rising high, As thou wad'st in, make thee cry And sob ; but ever live with me, And not a wave shall trouble thee! Amo. Immortal power, that rul'st this holy flood, I know myself unworthy to be woo'd By thee, a God ! Por ere this, but for thee, I should have shown my weak mortality. Besides, by holy oath betwixt us twain, I am betroth'd unto a shepherd swain. Whose comely face I know the gods above May make me leave to see, but not to love. Gorf. sMay he prove to thee as true. Pairest virgin, now adieu ! I must make my waters fly, Lest they leave their channels dry. And beasts that come unto the spring Miss their morning's watering, "Which I would not ; for of late All the neighbour people sate On my banis, and from the fold Two white lambs of three weeks old Ofier'd to my deity : For which this year they shall be free From raging floods, that as they pass Leave their gravel in the grass : Nor shall their meads be overflown. When their grass is newly mown. Amo. Por thy kindness to me shown, Never from thy banks be blown Any tree, with windy force, Cross thy streams, to stop thy course; THE FiJIHlfTrL SKEiFHEBDESa. 241 May no beast that comes to drink, With his horns cast down thy brink ; May none that for thy fish do look, Cut thy banks to dam thy brook ; Barefoot may no neighbour wade In thy cool streams, wife or maid. When the spawns on stones do lie, To wash their hemp, and spoil the fry ! God. Thanks, virgin ! I must down again. Thy wound wiU put thee to no pain : Wonder not so soon 'tis gone, A holy hand was laid upon. [Exit. Amo. ' And I, unhappy born to be. Must foUow lum that flies from me. \Exit. SoEiTE — The Grove before CiOEiif's Arboai. Enter Sattb, loith Alexis hurt. Sat. Softly gliding as I go, With this burthen full of woe. Through still silence of the night, Guided by the glow-worm's light, Hither am I come at last. Many a thicket have I past ; Not a twig that durst deny me. Not a bush that durst descry me To the little bird, that sleeps On the tender spray ; nor creeps That hardy worm with pointed tail. But if I be under sail, Flying faster than the wind. Leaving aU the clouds behind. But doth hide her tender head In some hollow tree, or bed Of seeded nettles ; not a hare Can be started from his fare By my footing ; nor a wish Is more sudden ; nor a fish Can be found with greater ease Cut the vast unbounded seas. Leaving neither print nor sound. 212 THE FAITHFUL SHEFHSBBESS. Than I, when nimbly on the ground I measure many -a league an hour. But behold the happy power, \_Seeing Clobiv. That must ease me of my charge. And by holy hand enlarge The soul of this sad man, that yet Lies fast bound in deadly fit. Heaven and great Pan succour it ! — Enter CiiOEiir, Hail, thou beauty of the bower, Whiter than the paramour Of thy master ! Let me crave Thy virtuous help to keep from grave This poor mortal, that here lies, "Waiting when the destinies WiU undo his thread of life. View the wound by cruel knife Trench'd into him. Clo, What art thou caU'st me from my holy rites, And, with the feared name of death, a&ights My tender ears ? Speak me thy name and wiU, Sat. I am the Satyr that did fill Tour lap with €arly fruit ; and wiU, When I hap to gather more. Bring you better and more store. Tet I come not empty now : See a blossom from the bough ; But beshrew his heart that pull'd it, And his perfect sight that cuU'd it From the other springing blooms ! For a sweeter youth the grooms Cannot show me, nor the downs. Nor the many neighbouring towns. Low in yonder glade I found him ; Softly in mine arms I bound him ; Hither have I brought him sleeping Li a trance, his wounds &esh weepings Li remembrance such youth may Spring and perish in a day. THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. 243 Clo. Satyr, tney wrong thee, that do term thee rude f Though thou be'st outward rough, and tawny-hued, Thy manners are as gentle and as fair As his who brags himself bom only heir To all humanity. Let me see the wound. \She applies herbs to the wound, and cures it. Sat. Brightest, if there be remaining Any service, without feigning I will do it. Were I set Xo catch the nimble wind, or get Shadows gliding on the green, Or to steal from the great queen Of the fairies all her beauty, I would do it ; so much duty Do I owe those precious eyes. Clo. I thank thee, honest Satyr. If the cries Of any other, that be hurt, or ill, Draw thee unto them, pr'ythee, do thy will To bring them hither. Sat. I will ; and when the weather Serves to angle in the brook, I will bring a silver hook. With a line of finest silk, And a rod as white as mUk, To deceive the little fish : So I take my leave, and wish • On this bower may ever dwell Spring and summer ! Clo. Friend, farewell ! DAWN, See, the day begins to break, And the light shoots like a streak Of subtle fire. The wind blows cold. While the morning doth unfold. SOrNDS AT NIGHT. Priest. Wherefore hast thou wander'd ? Thenof, 'Twas a vow That drew me out last night, which I have now 244 THE FAITHFTTL SHEFHXBDDBS. Strictly perfonn'd, and homewards go to give 'Eveah. pasture to my sheep, that they may lire. Pnest. 'Tia good to hear you, shepherd, if the heart In this well-sounding music bear his part. "Where have you left the rest ? The. I have not seen. Since yesternight we met upon this green \ To fold our flocks up, any of that train ; " Yet have I walk'd those woods round, and have lain All this same night under an aged tree ; Tet neither wand'ring shepherd did I see, Or shepherdess, or drew into mine ear The sound of living thing, unless it were The nightingale among the thick-leav'd spring. That sits alone in sorrow, and doth sing Whole nights away in mourning ; or the owl Or our great enemy, that still doth howl Against the moon's cold beams. A PEATEE TO PAN FOE HELP AGAINST OTTTBAdB. Mnter Amabillis, runninff. Amar. If there be Ever a neighbour-brook, or hollow tree Eeceive my body. — Pan, for her dear sake That loves the river's brinks, and stiU doth shake In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit,' Let me be made a reed, and ever mute, Nod to the waters' fall, whilst every blast Sings through my slender leaves that I was chaste ! A SPOTLESS BOSOM. Amoret, again wounded, is hrotigU to the Faithful Shepherdeia for help. Enter Satte, carrying her. Amo. Be'st thou the wildest creature of the wood, That bear'st me thus away, drown'd in my blood, ' For her dear sake, ^c] Por the sate of Syrinx, who was turned into eeds. The fancy is beautiful ; but Fletcher seems to have forgotten that in this very pastoral he has restored Syrinx to her former state ; for she is mentioned in the first scene as about to be entertained by Fan at supper. THE rAITHFOTi SHEPHBEDBSS. 245 And dying, know I cannot injured be ; I am a maid ; let tha,t name fight for me ! Sat. Fairest virgin, do not fear Me, that doth thy body bear. Not to hurt, but heal'd to be ; Men are ruder far than we. See, fair goddess,^ the wood [SpeaHr^ to CLOBtiff. They have let out yet more blood : Some savage man hath struck her breast, So soft and white, that no wild beast Durst have touch' d, asleep, or 'wake ; So sweet, that adder, newt, or snake, Would have lain from arm to arm On her bosom to be warm All a night, and, being hot, Gone away, and stung her not. Quickly clap herbs to her breast : A man sure is a kind of beast ! Ch. With spotless hand on spotless breast I put these herbs, to give thee rest. A POETICAL EABEWELIi. The Satyr takes leave of the Faithful Shepherdesa. Sat. Thou divinest, fairest, brightest. Thou most powerful maid, and whitest, rhou most virtuous and most blessed. Eyes of stars, and golden tressed Like ApoUo ! tell me, sweetest. What new service now is metest Por the Satyr ? Shall I stray In the middle air, and stay The sailing rack, or nimbly take Hold by the moon, and gently make Suit to the pale queen of night For a beam to give thee light ? Shall I dive into the sea. And bring thee coral, making way Through the rising waves that fall In snowy fleeces ? Dearest, shall 246 THE FAITHFUL SHEPHEEDJBSB. I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies Whose woven wings the summer dyes Of many colours ? get thee fruit ? Or steal from heav'n old Orpheus' lute ? All these I'll venture for, and more To do her service all these woods adore. Clo. No other service. Satyr, than to watch About these thicks, lest harmless people catch Mischief or sad mischance. Sat. Holy virgin, I will dance Eound about these woods as quick As the breaking light, and prick' Down the lawns, and down the vales, Faster than the windmill sails. So I take my leave, and pray. All the comforts of the day. Such as Phoebus' heat doth send On the earth, may stiU befriend Thee and this arbour. Clo. And to thee All thy master's love be free. ' Pricl: ] Hasten rapidly ; go at speed j — s term originating in the haste made by the horseman vith his spurs. [" If all the parts of this play had been in unison with these innocent scenes, and sweetly rio intermixtnres, it bad been a poem fit to vie with Comus or the Arcadia ; to have been put into the hands of boys and virgins ; to have made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Hermia and Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this moon. Nothing short of infatuation could have driven Fletcher upon mixing up with this blessedness such an ugly deformity as Cloe, the wanton shepherdess. Coarse words do but wound the ears ; but a character of lewdness affronts the mind. Female lewdness at once shocks nature and mora- lity. If Cloe was meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that such weeds, by juxtaposition, do not set off but kill sweet flowers." — Lamb. [It need not be added that there is nothing of Cloe in this selection.] " T^he.FaiiAfal Sliepherdest, by Fletcher alone, is ■ a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.' [The critic overlooks here what Lamb has been noticing.] The author has in it given a loose to his fancy, and his fancy was his most delightful and genial quality, where, to use his own words, ' He takes most ease, and grows ambitions Through his own wanton fire, and pride delicious.' THE HAS LOTSB. 24? The songs and lyrical descriptions throughout are luxuriant and delicate in a high degree. He came near to Spenser in a certain tender and voluptuous sense of natural beauty ; he came near to Shakspeare in the playful and fantastic expression of it. The whole composition is an exquisite union of dramatic and pastoral poetry, where the local de- scnptions receive a tincture from the sentiments and purposes of the speaker, and each character, cradled in the lap of nature, paints ' hei virgin fancies wild' with romantic grace and classic elegance."^ Hazlitt. Schlegel is as severe on this play as Hazlitt is panegyrical. He charges it with heaviness and ultra-mythology ; and Mr. Hallam has objected, with justice, to some of the fancies of the Satyr as being " not much in the character of these sylvans." He says of the whole play, that it is very characteristic of fletcher, being a mixture of tenderness, temerity, indecency, and absurdity. But he adds that it is impossible te withhold our praise &om its " poetical beauties."] THE MAD LOVER. A soldieb's taunting. ^nff AsTOBAi, his Crenwa/ Memnon, Calis, and Gle/lsth^. Memnon. I know no court but martial. No oily language, but the shock of arms. No dalliance but with death ; no loftj measures, But weary and sad marches, cold and hunger, 'Larums at midnight Valour's self would shake at ; Tet I ne'er shrank. Balls of consuming wUdfire, ^ That Uck'd men up like lightning, have I laugh'd at ; And toss'd 'em back again like children's trifles. Upon the edges of my enemies' swords [waiting, I have march'd like whirlwinds; I"ury at this hand Death at my right. Fortune my forlorn hope : When I have grappled with Destruction, And tugg'd with pale-fac'd Euin, night and mischief, Frighted to see a new day break in blood ! And everywhere I conquer'd ; those that griev'd you I've taken order for, i' th' earth. Those fools Tnat shall hereafter ■ 248 THE MAS IiOTSB. Astorax. No nucre wars, my soldier: We muiit now treat of peace, sir. [He takes Memnok aside, and talks with him. Cleanthe. How he talks ! How gloriously ! Calis. A goodly timber'd fellow ; Valiant, no doubt. Cle. If valour dwell in vaunting. In what a phrase he speaks ! as if his actiooB Could be set off in nothing but a noise ! Snre, h' has a drum in his mouth. PBATEB TO TBNTTS. O divinest star of Heaven, Thou, in power above the seven : Thou sweet kindler of desires, Till they grow to mutual fires : Thou, O gentle queen, that art Curer of each wounded heart : Thou, the fuel and the flame : Thou, in Heaven and here the same : Thou, the wooer and the woo'd : Thou, the hunger and the food : Thou, the prayer and the pray'd : Thou, what is or shall be said : Thou, still young, and golden tressed, Make me by thy answer blessed ! STATE or THE SOTILS OF LOVEES APTBE DEATH. {A Masque presented to cure the Mad Lover.) Enier Obphbtts. Orpheus I am, come from the deeps below To thee, fond man, the plagues of love to show. To the fair fields where loves eternal dwell There's none that come, but first they pass through helL Hark, and beware ! unless thou hast lov'd, ever Belov'd again, thou shalt see those joys never. Hark, how they groan that died despairing ! Oh, take heed then ! Hark how they howl for over-daring! All these were men. THE MAD LOTBE. 249 The^ that be fools, and die for fame^ They loae their name ; ^d they that bleed, Hark how they speed ! Now in cold iroets, now scorching fires, They sit, and curse their lost desires : Nor shall these souls be free &om pains and fears. Till women waft them over in their tears. Mem. How ? Should I know my passage is denied me,' Or which of all the devils dare Bum. This song "Was rarely form'd to fit him. [Apart. aosa. Orph. Charon, Charon, Thou wafter of the souls to bliss or bane ! Cka. Who calls the ferryman of hell P Orph. Come ueai-. And say who lives in joy, and who in fear. Cha. Those that die well, eternal joy shall follow ; Those that die ill, their own foul &te shall swallow. Gtji/i. Shall thy black bark those guilty spirits stow. That kill themselves for love? CAa. Oh, no, no, no. My cordage cracks when such great sins are near ; No wind blows fair, nor 1 myself can steer. Orph. What lovers pass, and in jElyzium reign p Cha. Those gentle loves that are beloVd again, Orph. This soldier loves, and &in would die to win ; Shall he go on ? Cha. No, 'tis too foul a sin. He must not come aboard ; I dare not row j Storms of despair and guilty blood will blow. Orph. Shall time release him, say p Cha. No, no, no, no. Nor time nor death can alter us, nor prayer : My boat is Destiny ; and who then dare, But those appointed, come aboard p Live stUl, And love by reason, mortal, not by will. Orph, And when thy mistress shall close up thine eyes Cha. Then come aboard, and pass, Orph. Till when, be wise. Cha. Till when, be wise. ' How ? Should I know, ^c] That is, — " How b this ? Were I to be made certain that my passage is denied me, or which of all the devilg dare dispute it, I would" Here we are to suppose himbreakirg off iu a fury. 250 THE LOTAL SaBJEOT. THE LOYAl SUBJECT. HrVOLTJlfTAET TEIFMPH OF 'VIRTUB. Archai, a faithful Minuter, accused of wronnfitllff secreting a treamrefroin his Prince, is forced by his accuser to show it. Scene — ^ Boom in a Country-house, with a lioor in the Back-ground. Enter DuKE, Aechas, BoEObKiB, Btteeis, Gentleman, and Attendants. Duke. They are handsome rooms all, well contriv'd and fitted. Full of convenience : the prospect's excellent. Archai. Now, will your grace pass down, and do me but the To taste a country banquet ? [honour Duke. What room's that ? I would see all now ; what conveyance has it ? I see you have kept the best part yet : pray open it. , Archas (aside). Ha! I misdoubted this. — 'Tis of no receipt; For your eyes most unfit. [air Duke. I long to see it, [cellent painting* Because I would judge of the whole piece. Some ex- Or some rare spoils, you would keep to entertain me Another time, I know. Archas. In troth there is not, Nor anything worth your sight. Below I have Some fountains and some ponds. Duke. I would see this now, [nothing Archas {aside). Boroskie, thou art a knave ! — It contains But rubbish from the other rooms, and unnecessaries ; "Will't please you see a strange clock ? Duke. This, or nothing. Why should you bar it up thus with defences Above the rest, unless it contain' d something More excellent, and curious of keeping ? Open't, for I will see it. Archas. The keys are lost, sir. Does your grace think, if it were fit for yen, I could be so unmannerly ? Duke. I will see it ; And either show it Archas, Good sir THE LOTAl SUBJECT. 251 Vuke. Thank you, Archas ; Tou show your love abundantly. Do I use to entreat thus ? — Force it open. Burris. That were inhospitable ; you are his guest, sir, And 'tis his greatest joy to entertain you. Ouke. Hold thy peace, fool. — ^WiU you open it ? Archas. Sir, I cannot. I must not, if I could. Buke. Go, break it open. [gentlemen ! Archas. I must withstand that force. . Be not too rash, Duke. Unarm him flrst ; then, if he be not obstinate. Preserve his life. Archas. I thank your grace ; I take it : And now take you the keys ; go in, and see, sir ; [The door is opened. There, feed your eyes with wonder, and thank that That thing that sells his faith for favour ! [traitor, [Exit Duke. Burris. Sir, what moves you ? Archas. I have kept mine piu-e. — LordBurris, there's a Judas That for a smile will sell ye all. A gentleman ? The devil has more truth, and has maiutain'd it. Enter Duke. Buke. What's all this, Archas ? I cannot blame you to conceal it so. This most inestimable treasure. Archas. Tours, sir. Duke. Nor do I wonder now the soldier slights me. Archas. Be not deceiv'd : he has had no favour here, sir, Nor had you known this now, but for that pickthank, That lost man in his faith ! he has revealed it ; To suck a little honey from you, has betray' d it. — I swear he smiles upon roe, and foresworn too ! Thou crack' d, uncurrent lord ! — ^I'U tell you all, sir. Tour sire, before his death, knowing your temper To be as bounteous as the air, and open, As flowing as the sea to all that follow'd you, Tour great mind fit for war and glory, thriftily, > Thou cracUd, ntuurrent lord."] I. e. Thou bad coin, that must not b« suffered to pass for a good one. 252 THE LOIAL STTBJECT Like a great husband, to preserve your actions, Collected all this treasure ; to our trusts, — To mine I mean, and to that long-tongued lord's there,— He gave the knowledge and the charge of all this ; Upon his death-bed too ; and on the sacrament He swore us thus, never to let this treasure Part from our secret keepings, till no hope Of subject could relieve you, all your own wasted, No help of those that lov'd you could supply you, And then some great exploit a-foot. My honesty I would have kept tiU I had made this useful (I show'd it, and I stood it to the tempest). And useful to the end 'twas left : I am cozen'd, And so are you too, if you spend this vainly. This worm that crept into you has abus'd you, Abus'd your father's care, abus'd his faith too ; Nor can this mass of money make him man more ! A flead dog has more soul, an ape more honesty ! AU mine you have amongst it ; farewell that ! I cannot part with't nobler ; my heart's clear, My conscience smooth as that, no rub upon't.— But, oh, thy hell — [7b Boboskie. Bor. I seek no heaven from you, sir. Archas. Thy gnawing heU, Boroskie ! it will find thee. "Woxild you heap coals upon his head has wrong'd you, Has ruin'd your estate ? give him this money, Melt it into his mouth. Duke. What little trunk's that ? That there o' th' top, that's lock'd ? Bor. You'll find it rich, sir ; Richer, I think, thto all. Archas. Tou were not covetous, Nor wont to weave your thoughts with such a coarse- Pray rack not honesty ! [ness ; Bor. Be sure you see it. Duk . Bring out the trunk. Enter Attendant, with a trunk. Archas. You'll find that treasure too ; All I have left me now. \The trunk is opened. EtJLE A WIFE AKD HAVE A WIFE. 263 Duke. TVTiat's this ? a poor gown ? And tbis, a piece of Seneca ? Archas. Yes, sure, sir, More worth than all your gold (yet you have enough And of a mine far purer, and more precious. [on't), This sells no friends, nor searches into counsels, And yet all counsel, and all friends live here, sir ; Betrays no faith, yet handles all that's trusty. Will't please you leave me this ? Duke. With all my heart, sir. Archas. What says your lordship to't ? Bor. I dare not rob you. [both ! — Archas. Poor miserable man, you have robb'd yourselves This gown, and this unvalued treasure, your brave father Pound me a child at school with, in his progress ; Where such a love he took to some few answers (Unhappy boyish toys, hit in my head then) That suddenly I made him, thus as I was (For here was all the wealth I brought his highness) He carried me to court, there bred me up, Bestow'd his favours on me, taught me arms first. With those an honest mind : I serv'd him truly, And where he gave me trust, I think I fail'd not ; Let the world speak. I humbly thank your highness ; Ton have done more, and nobler ; eas'd mine age, sir ; And to this care a fair quietus given. Now to my book again ! BtriiB A WIPE AND HAVE A WIFE. THE CONQTJEEIirG HUSBAND. Leon and Maegaeita. Leon. Come, we'll away unto your country-house, And there we'll learn to live contentedly : This place is full of charge, and full of hurry ; No part of sweetness dwells about these cities. Marg. Whither you will ; I wait upon your pleasure ; Live in a hollow tree, sir, I'll live with you. Leon. Ay, now you strike a harmony, a true one. 254 THB CHAKCEB. When your obedience waits upon your husband, And your sick will aims at the care of honour. Why, now I dote upon you, love you dearly, And my rough nature falls, like roaring streams, Cearly and sweetly into your embraces. Oh, what a jewel is a woman excellent, A wise, a virtuous, and a noble woman ! When we meet such, we bear our stamps on both sides, And thro' the world we hold our current virtues ; Alone, we're single medals, only faces, And wear our fortunes out in useless shadows. Command you now, and ease me of that trouble ; rU be as humble to you as a servant : Bid whom you please, invite your noble friends, They shall be welcome all ; visit acquaintance. Go at your pleasure, now experience Has link'd you fast unto the chain of goodness ! THB CHANCES. love's cetteltt bbpeecated. Ji Song to a lute. Merciless Love, whom nature hath denied The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride And glory in thy murders, vihy am I, That never yet transgress' d thy deity, Never broke vow, from whose eyes never flew Disdainful dart, *hose hard heart never slew. Thus iU. rewarded ? Thou art young and fair. Thy mother soft and gentle as the air. Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer, Then everlasting Love, restrain thy will : 'Tis godlike to have power, but not to kill. Alf IirCANTATIOlf. Followed by soft music. Appear! appear! And you, soft winds so clear. That dance upon the leaves and make them sing THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE. 255 Gentle love-lays to the spring, GHlding all the vales below With your verdure, as ye blow, Baise these forms from under ground With a soft and happy sound. THE WILD-GOOSE CHASE. A PEIZE. A woman of a loving mind, a quiet, And one that weighs the worth of him that loves her.^ APPAEBNT LEVITT CAPABLE OF LOVING GBATITT. PnTAC and Lillia-bianoa. Pinac. Self-will in a woman Chain'd to an overweening thougbt, is pestilent. Murders fair Fortune first, then fair Opinion. Lil. I can but grieve my ignorance. Eepentance, some say too, is the best sacrifice ; Por sure, sir, if my chance had been so happy (As I confess I was mine own destroyer) As to have arriv'd at you (I will not prophesy. But certain, as I think), I should have pleas' d you; Have made you as much wonder at my courtesy, My love, and duty, as I have dishearten'd you. Some hours we have of youth, and some of folly ; And being free-bom maids, we take a liberty. And to maintain that, sometimes we strain highly. Pinac. Now you talk reason. LU. But being yoak'd and govern' d, flow fair we grow ! how gentle and how tender We twine about those loves that shoot up with ub. A sullen woman fear, that talks not to you ; » She has a sad and darken' d soul ; loves duUy : A merry and a free wench, give her liberty, Believe her, in the lightest form she appears to yon, Believe her excellent, though she despise you ; 256 A WIPE FOE A MONTH. Let but these fits and flashes pass, she'll show to you As jewels rubb'd from dust, or gold new bumish'd : Such had I been, had you believ'd ! Pinae. Is't possible ? Lil. And to your happiness I dare assure you, If true love be accounted so. Tour pleasure, Tour will, and your command, had tied my motions : But that hope's gone. I know you are young and And, till you have a wife can govern with you, [giddy, Tou sail upon this world's sea, light and empty ; Tour bark in danger daily. 'Tis not the name neither Of wife can steer you, but the noble nature, The diligence, the care, the love, the patience. She makes the pilot, and preserves the husband, That knows and reckons every rib he is buUt on. But this I tell you to my shame. Pinae. I admire you ; And now am sony that I aim beyond you.i A "WXFE FOR A MONTH. AlfOTJQEB TTEANT POISOITED. j^lphonso. Give me more air, air, more air ! blow, blow ! Open, thou Eastern gate, and blow upon me ! DistU thy cold dews, O thou icy moon. And rivers run through my afficted spirit ! I am aJl fire, fire, fire ! The raging Dog-star Eeigns in my blood ! Oh, which way shall I turn me ? ^tna, and all his flames, burn in my head. King me into the ocean, or I perish ! Dig, dig, dig, till the springs fly up. The cold, cold springs, that I may leap into 'em, And bathe my scoroh'd limbs iu their purling pleasures ! Qr shoot me up into the higher region, "Where treasures of delicious snow are nourish' d, And banquets of sweet hail ! ^ Am sorry that I aim beyond you."] He means, that he is sorry hd has transferred his addresses elsewhere. A TrafE FOE A MONTH. 267 Rugio. Hold him fast, friar ; Oh, how he burns ! Alph. What, will ye sacrifice me ? Upon the altar lay my willing body, And pile your wood up, fling your holy incense ; And, as I turn me, you shall see all flame, Consuming flame. — Oh, heU, hell, heU ! Oh, horror. Marco. To bed, good sir. Alph. My bed will burn about me : Like Phaeton, in all-consuming flashes I am enclos'd ! Oh, for a cake of ice now. To clap unto my heart to comfort me ! My eyes burn out, and sink into their sockets, And my infected brain like brimstone boils ! I live in hell, and several furies vex me ! Oh, carry me where no sun ever show'd yet A face of comfort, where the earth is crystal. Never to be dissolv'd ! where nought inhabits But night and cold, and nipping frosts, and winds That cut the stubborn rocks and make them shiver. TBOrBHT OE A BErDE&BOOir WHO IS TO DLE AT THE EHK OF THE MONTH. Twenty sweet summers I vnU tie together. A THEEATENIlfG IiGTE-MASQTTE. ITo intimate to a Bride and Bridegroom that their Happiness mil end in Misery.) Cttpid, with his eyes bound, descends in a chariot, the Geaces sitting by him. Cupid. Unbind me, my delight : this night is mine. [The Geaces unbind his eyes. Now let me look upon what stars here shine : Let me behold the beauties ; then clap high My colour'd wings, proud of my deity. ■ I am satisfied. Bind me again, and fast : My angry bow wiU make too great a waste Of beauiy else. Now caU my masquers in ; Call with a song ; and let the sports begin : 258 A -WIFE FOB A MONTH. Call all my servants, the effects of love, And to a measure let them nobly move. SONa BT TEE GSACBS. Come, you servants of proud Iiore, Come awaj ! Fairly, nobly, gently move : Too long, too long, you make us stay. Fancy, Desire, Delight, Hope, Fear; — Distrust and Jealousy, be you too here ; Consuming Care, and raging Ire, And Poyerty in poor attire, March fairly in ; and last, Despair. — "Sow, full music strike the air. Enter the Masquers, as above mentioned, and join in a measure. After which Cxjpid speaks. Away ! I have done : the day begins to light : Lovers, you know your fate : good night, good night ! [Cttpid and the Geacbs ascend in the chariot. [This Masque, the best thing in> which is the ironical congratulation with which it terminates, is a small and very slight sketch after the noble Masque of Cupid in Spenser, the persons of which include all the miseries of life, in audst of whom, the God rides in triumph on s lion: — Kelt, after her, the Winged God himselfe Came riding on a lion ravenous Taught to obey the menage of that Fife That man and beast, with powre imperious, Subdeweth to his kingdom tyrannous : His blindfold eies he bad awhile unbinde, That his prowd spoile of that same dolorous Fair Dame he might behold in perfect kinde : Which seene, he much rejoyc^d in hlscruell minde. Of which full prowd, himselfe uprearing hyCj He looked round about with steme disdkyne. And did survay his goodly company ; And, marshalling the evill-ordered tsayne. With that, the darts which his right mud did strayne Full dreadfully he shooke, that aU did qpake. And clapt on hye his colour'd wing^s twaine. That all his many it afiraide did make : Iho {thett\ blinding him. againe, his way he forth did take. faerie Queene, 3odk iii. Canto 12, Stanza 22.] THE PILSBIlf. 259 THE PILGEIM. INirOCENT PASSION. Alinda, dug»i»ed ai a hoy, and confined for supposed Madness, cannot contain her transports on meeting uneiyeciedly with her lover. Aliitda {looMng in at the door), Pedeo, and the Master of a Madhouse. Alin. Must I come in too ? Master. No, my pretty lad ; Keep in thy chamber, boy ; 'shalt have thy supper. Pedro. I pray you what is he, sir ? Mast. A strange boy, that last night Was found i' th' town, a little craz'd, distracted, • And so sent hither. Fedro. How the pretty knave looks, And plays, and peeps upon me I — Sure such eyes I have seen and lov'd ! — What fair hands ! — Certainly — Mast. Good sir, you'll make him worse. Pedro. I pray believe not : Alas, why should I hurt him I — How he smiles I The very shape and sweetness of Alinda ! Let me look once again. Were it iu such clothes As when I saw her last Mast. Pray yon be mild, sir I I must attend elsewhere. [Easit, and enter Alinda. Pedro. Pray yoisi be secure, sir.— [bles ! What would you say ? — How my heart beats and trem- He holds me hard by th' hand. 0' my life, her flesh too ! I know not what to think ! Her tears,_her true ones. Pure orient tears \ — Hark, do you know me, little one ! Alin. Oh, Pedro, Pedro ! Pedro. Oh, my soul ! Alin- Let me hold thee ; And now come aU the world, and aU that hate me ! Pedro. Be wise, and not discover'd. Oh, how I love you ! How do you now ? Alin. I have been miserable ; But your most virtuous eyes have cured me, Pedro. Pray you think it no immodesty, I kiss you ; My head 's wild still ! 260 THE PILaBIM, Pedro. Be not so full of passion, 'Ear do not hang so greedily upon me; 'TwiU be iU taken. Alin. Are you weary of me ? I will hang here eternally, kiss ever, And weep away for joy, PEETTT IMITATION OS MADITESS. Alindtt, to save herself from " nete peril, again acte the part of a lunatu), AiiWDA and AiiPHOifSO. Alphonso. Dost thou dwell in Segovia, fool ? Alin. No, no, I dwell in Heaven ; And I have a fine little house, made of marmalade. And I am a lone woman, and I spia for Saint Peter ; I have a hundred little children, and they sing psalms with me. AlpA. 'Tis pity this pretty thing should want understanding. But why do I stand talking. — ^Is this the way to the town, fool ? Alin. Tou must go o'er the top of that high steeple, gafier. And then you shall come to a river twenty mile over. And twen% mile, and ten; and then you must pray,' And still you must pray, and pray. [gafier, Alph. Pray Heaven deliver me Prom such an ass as thou art. Alin. Amien, sweet gafier ! And fling a sop of sugar-cake into it ; And then you must leap in, naked, And sink seven days together. Can you sink, gafiier ? A^h. Yea, jes. Pr'y thee, farewell : A plague o' that fool too, that set me upon thee Alin. And then I'll bring you a sup of mUk shall serve you I am going to get apples. \_She smgs I am not proud, nor fall of wine (This little flower will make me fine), Cruel in heart (for I shall cry, If I see a sparrow die) : THE CAPTAIN. 261 I am not watch&l to do ill, Nor glorious to piirsue it still : Nor pitiless to those that weep ; Such as are, bid them go sleep. Ann. I'll bid you good even: for my boat stays for me yonder, And I must sup witb the moon to-night in the Mediterranean. [Exit. THE CAPTAIN. SONG or LOTE BESPAIEING, AND PEEPAEED TO DIE. AwSLj, delights ; go seek some other dwelling, For I must die : , Farewell, false love ; thy tongue is ever telling Lie after lie. For ever let me rest now from thy smarts ; Alas, for pity go. And fire their hearts That have been hard to thee ; mine was not so. Never again deluding Love shall know me, Tor I vrill die ; And all those griefs that think to over-grow me, Shall be as I : For ever wiU. I sleep, while poor maids cry, " Alas, for pity stay, And let us die "With thee ; men cannot mock us in the clay." * WHAT IS LOVE ? TeU me, dearest, what is Love ? 'Tis a lightning from above, 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, "Ha a boy they call Desire.' ' Mod MJ in the claj/.J Exquisite are the conclusions of both these stanzas. * fell me, dearest, ^c] This is the beautiful beginning of a song the rest of which is so poor, that I can hardly think Beaumont or Metcher ocmpletad it. Mark the variety and tone of the vowels, — 'Tis an arrow, 'tis afire^ 'Tis a boy, &o. 262 THE PEOPHETESS. THE PEOPHETESS. TBITJMPH OVEE TBITJMPH ITSELF. The Emperor Dioeleaian, hamng triumphed over his enemies, ani returned and pardoned false friends, abdicates at the highest moment of his glory. Scene — Before the Tent of Dioclesian. Enter (in triumph with Roman ensigns) Ghiard, DiociESiAif, ChslBtitus, Atteelia, Maximiniatt, Nigee, Geta, and others; CosEOE, Cassasa, Persians, as Prisoners; and Dbubilla, privately. Dio. I am rewarded in the act : your freedom To me's ten thousand triumphs : you, sir, share In all my glories : and, xmkind Aurelia, IVom being a captive, stiU command the victor. Nephew, remember by whose gift you are free. Tou I afford my pity : baser minds Insult on the allicted : you shall know. Virtue and courage are admir'd and lov'd In enemies ; but more of that hereafter. — Thanks to your valour ; to your swords I owe This wreath triumphant. Nor be thou forgot, My first poor bondman ! Geta, I am glad Thou art tnm'd a fighter. Geta. 'Twas against my will ; But now I am content with't. Char. But imagine What honours can be done to you beyond these, Transcending aU example ; 'tis in you To will, in us to serve it. Niger. We will have His statue of pure gold set in the Capitol, And he that bows not to it as a god, Makes forfeit of his head. Maxi. (aside). I burst with envy ! And yet these honours, which, conferr'd on me. Would make me pace on air, seem not to move him. Dio. Suppose this done, or were it possible I could rise higher still, I am a man ; And all these glories, empires heap'd upon me, Confirm'd by constant Mends, and faithful guards, THE PEOPHETESB. 263 Gaimot defend me from a shaking ferer. Or bribe the uncorrupted dart of Death To spare me one short minute. Thus adom'd In these triumphant robes, my body yields not A greater shadow than it did when I Liv'd both poor and obscure ; a sword's sharp point Enters my flesh as far ; dreams break my sleep, As when I was a private man ; my passions Are stronger tyrants on me ; nor is greatness A saving antidote to keep me firom A traitor's poison. Shall I praise my fortune. Or raise the building of my happiness On her uncertain favour f or presume She is my own, and sure, that yet was never Constant to any ? Should my reason fail me {As flattery oft corrupts it), here's an example To speak, how far her smiles are to be trusted. The rising sun, this morning, saw this man The Persian monarch, and those subjects proud That had the honour but to kiss his feet ; And yet, ere his diurnal progress ends. He is the scorn of Portune. But you'll say That she forsook him for his want of courage, But never leaves the bold ? Now, by my hopes Of peace and quiet here, I never met A braver enemy '. And, to make it good, Cosroe, Cassana, and the rest, be free, And ransomless return ! Cos. To see this virtue Is more to me than empire ; and to be O'ercome by you a glorious vietoiy.' Maxi. (aside). What a devil means he next ! Dio. I know that glory Is like Alcides' shirt, if it stay on us Till pride hath mix'd it with our blood ; nor can we Part with it at pleasure ; when we would uncase, It brings along with it both flesh and sinews, And leaves us living monsters. Maxi. (aside). Would 'twere come To my turn to put it on ! I'd run the hazara. 264 THE PEOPHETESS. Dio, No ; T will not be pluck'd out by the ears, Out of this gloriouB castle ; uncompell'd, I will surrender rather : Let it suffice I have touch' d the height of human happiness, And here I fix nil ultra. Hitherto I have liv'd a servant to ambitious thoughts. And fading glories ; what remains of life, I dedicate to Virtue ; and, to keep My faith untainted, farewell pride and pomp ! And circumstance of glorious majesty, Farewell for ever J — Nephew, I have noted That you have long with sore eyes look'd upon My flourishing fortune ; you shall have possession Of my felicity ; I deliver up My empire, and this gem I priz'd above it. And all things else that made me worth your envy, Freely unto you. — Gentle sir, your suffrage, [To Chabinttb. To strengthen this. The soldier's love I doubt not : His valour, gentlemen, will deserve your favours, . "Which let my prayers further. All is yours. — But I have been too liberal, and given that I must beg back again. Maxi. What am I fallen from ! Bio. Nay, start not : — it is only the poor grange, The patrimony which my father left me, I would be tenant to. Maxi. Sir, I am yours : I will attend you there. Dio. No ; keep the court ; Seek you in Eome for honour : I will labour To find content elsewhere. Dissuade me not ; By Heaven, I am resolv'd ! — And now, DrusiUa, Being as poor as when I vow'd to make thee My wife, if thy love since hath felt no change, I'm ready to perform it. Brus. IstUllov'd Tour person, not your fortunes. In a cottage^ Being yours. I am an empress. THE PEOPHETEBS. 265 DIOClESIAir IN HIS EETIEEJIENI. DIOCLESIAlf and DErSXLLA. Dio. Come, Drusilla, The partner of my best contents ! I hope now You dare believe me. Drus. Tes, and dare say to you, I think you now most happy. Dio. Tou say true, sweet : For, by my soul, I find now by experience, Content, was never courtier. Dnw. I pray you walk on, sir ; The cool shades of the grove invite you. Dio. Oh, my dearest ! "When man has cast off his ambitious greatness. And sunk into the sweetness of himself, Emit his foundation upon honest thoughts, Not great, but good desires his daily servants, How quietly he sleeps ! How joyfully He wakes again, and looks on his possessions, And from his willing labours feeds with pleasure ! Here hang no comets in the shapes of crowns To shake our sweet contents ; nor here, Drusilla, Cares, like eclipses, darken our endeavours : "We love here without rivals, kiss with innocence : Our thoughts as gentle as our Hps ; our children The double heirs both of our forms and faiths. Drus. I am glad ye make this right use of this sweetness. This sweet retiredness. Dio. 'Tis sweet, indeed, love, And every circumstance about it shows it. How liberal is the spring in every place here ! The artificial court shows but a shadow, A painted imitation of this glory. SmeU to this flower ; here Nature has her exceUeuce; Let all the perfumes of the empire pass this. The carefiiU'st lady's cheek show such a colour; They are gilded and adulterate vanities ; And here in poverty dwells noble nature. 266 IiOte's cttse : oe, thb maetial maid. LOVE'S CXJRE s OR, THE MARTIAL MAID. PEE8UMPT10N TATJdHT. iuao, who tad heen bred effeminately, teaches a lesson of true mlottr to Lamoral. [Fight. Lucio disarms Lamoeal. Lamoral. She is yours ! this and my life too. Follow your fortune ; \Oives up his lady's glove. And give not only back that part the loser Scorns to accept of! Luiio. What's that ? Lam. My poor life ; Which do not leave me as a further torment, Having despoil'd me of my sword, mine honour, Hope of my lady's grace, fame, and all else That made it worth the keeping. Lucio. I take b^ck No more from you than what you forced from me^ And with a worser title. Tet think not That I'll dispute this, as made insolent By my success, but as one equal with you. If so you will accept me. That new courage (Or call it fortune if you please) that is Conferr'd upon me by the only sight Of fair Genevora, was not bestow'd on me To bloody purposes ; nor did her command Deprive me of the happiness to see her. But till I did redeem her favour from you ; Which only I rejoice iu, and share with you In all you suffer else. Lam. This courtesy Wounds deeper than your sword can, or mine own : Pray you make use of either, and dispatch me ! Lucio. The barbarous Turk is satisfied vrith spoil ; And shall I, being possess'd of what I came for, Prove the more infidel ? Lam. Tou were better be so Than publish my disgrace, as 'tis the custom, And which I must expect. Lucio. Judge better of me : WOlCEIf PLBASEIJ. 267 I have no tongue to trumpet mine own praise To your dishonour ; 'tia a bastard courage That seeks a name out that way, no true-bom one. Pray you be comforted ! for, by all goodness, But to her virtuous self (the best part of it) I never will discover on what terms I came by these : which yet I take not from you, But leave you, in exchange of them, mine own. With the desire of being a friend ; which if Tou will not grant me, but on further trial Of manhood in me, seek me when you please (And though I might refuse it with mine honour), "Win them again, and wear them. So good-morrow ! [^Griveg him his own hat, and exit. Lam. I ne'er knew what true valour was till now ; And have gain'd more by this disgrace, than all The honours I have won. They made me proud. Presumptuous of my fortune, a mere beast, Fashion'd by them, only to dare and do, Yielding no reasons for my wilful actions But what I stuck on my sword's point, presuming It was the best revenue. How unequal Wrongs, well maintain' d, make us to others ; which Ending with shame, teach us to know ourselves 1 WOMEN PLEASED. A MISES'S BELICACIDS. Lopez at a table tcith jewels and money upon it ; an egg roasting by a candle. Lopez. Whilst prodigal young gaudy fools are banqueting. And launching out their states to catch the giddy, Thus do I study to preserve my fortune, And hatch vrith care at home the wealth that aarnts me. Here's rubies of Bengala, rich, rich, glorious ; These diamonds of Ormus, bought for little. Here vented at the price of princes' ransoms, How bright they shine, like constellations I 26S trouEir pleases. The South-sea's treasure here, pearl, fair and orient, Able to equal Cleopatra's banquet ; Here chains of lesatir stones for ladies' lustres, Ingots of gold, rings, brooches, bars of silver, These are my studies to set off in sale well, And not in sensual surfeits to consume 'em.— How roasts mine egg ? he heats apace ; I'U. turn him.' — Penurio ! where, you knave, do you wait ? Penurio, You lazy knave ! Enter PEirnEiO. Pen. Did you call, sir ? Lopez. Where's your mistress ? What vanity holds her from her attendance ? Pen. She is within, sir. Lopez. "Within, sir ? at what thrift, you knave? what getting? ' How roasts mine egg ? ^c] This soliloquy ib in imitation — I hope not in emulation, much less in malicious burlesque (as if irom conscious failure) — of the magnificent one of the/i?r loving's sake. ' Jfectionti] Fancies j tastes in apparel. ' Idie old Importmenfs dastard.'] Who was he ? and who was " old Iraportment" himself ? The sense is Tery obscure. Mr. Weber's in- terpretation appears to be adopted by the commentators. He con- .strues the passage thus : — This rehearsal of cur amotions (which, every innocent soul well knows, comes in like the mere bastard, the faint shadow of the true import, the real extent of our natural affections) has this end, or purpose, — to prove that the love between two maidens, &o.— I suspect that " old Impoitment" was something special and significant. He looks very like our old friend " Moral," who is so officious, in. ex.- plainiug Msop's Fables. •niB TWO NOBLE KUfSMBlT. 281 IMPillSONMENT, EEIEWDSHIP, AND tOTB. Palamon and Jrdte, twofriendt in prison, are turned into enemiei by love, ScJSNE — A Boom in a Prison, looking out on a garden. Enter the Two Captives ^o»» opposite doors. Pal. How do you, noble cousin ? Arc. How do you, sir ? Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at Misery, And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners, I fear, for qver, cousin. Ire. I believe it ; And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? Where are our friends, and kindreds ? Never more Must we behold those comforts ; never see The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, Hung with the painted favours of their ladies, Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst 'em, And, as an east wind, leave 'em all behind us Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Out-stript the people's praises, won the garlands, Ere they have time to wish 'em ours. Oh, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of Honour, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses. Like proud seas under us ! Our good swords now (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore), Eavish'd our sides, like age must run to rust, And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; These hands shall never draw 'em out like lightning, To blast whole armies, more ! ire. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us. Here we are. And here the graces of our youths must wither. Like a too-timely spring ; here Age must find us. And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried j The sweet embraces of a loving wife Leaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cu«»ids, 282 IKE TWO IiTOBLB KUfSMEW. Shall never clasp our necks ! no issue know us ; No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach 'em Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say Eemember what your fathers were, and conquer ! The fair-eyed maiids shall weep our banishments, And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To Youth and Nature. This is all our world ; "We shall know nothing here, but one another ; Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes ; The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it ; Summer shall come, and with her aU delights. But dead-cold Winter must inhabit here still ! Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite ! To our Theban hounds, That shook the aged forest with their echoes. No more now must we halloo ; no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Mies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Stuck with our weU-steel'd darts ! AU valiant uses (The food and nourishment of noble minds) la us two here shall perish ; we shall die (Which is the curse of Honour !), lastly, Children of Grief and Ignorance. Are. Yet, cousin. Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that Fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings. If the gods please to hold here' ; a brave patience, And the enjoying of our giiefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison ! Pal. Certainly 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twined together. 'Tis most true, two souk Put in two noble bodies, let 'em suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together. Win never sink ; they must not ; say they could,- A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done. ' 2b holdliere^ To keep station; to maintain superinfcendencj. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEK. 283 Are. Shall we make worthy uses of this place, That all men hate so much P Pal. How, gentle cousin ? Are. Let's think this prison a holy sanctuary, To keep us from corruption of worse men ! "We are young, and yet desire the ways of Honour ; That, liberty and common conversation, The poison of pure spirits, might, like women, Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours ? and here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another ; We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of Love ; we are father, friends, acquaint- We are, in one another, families ; [ance ; 1 am' your heir, and you are mine ; this place Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us : here, with a little patience, We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; The hand of War hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth ; were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men Gravel our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin, WTiere you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes. Or prayers to the gods. A thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us. Pal. You have made me (I thank you, cousin Arcite!) almost wanton With my captivity. What a misery It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 'Tis like a beast methinks ! I fixid the court here, I am sure, a more content f and all those pleasures ' Grave.'\ Put an end to ; bury. " Ditches grave you all." Kmon of Athens. ^ A more conient.'] This word more, must surely be a misprint for mere : "a mere content ;" that is, a court which gives thorough con- tentment. The word mere, used in this way, is of constant oceurrenoa in writings of the time. 284 THE TWO KOBLE XISailES. That woo the wills of men to vanity, I see through now ; and am sufficient To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. What had we been, old in the court of Creon, Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The Tirtues of the great ones P Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for UB, We had died as they do, ill old men unwept. And had their epitaphs, the people's curses !* Shall I say more ? Jrc. I would hear you still. Pal. Tou shall. Is there reedrd of any two that lov'd, Better than we do, Arcite ? Arc. Sure there cannot. Pal. I do not think it possible our friendship Should ever leave us. Arc. Till our deaths it cannot ; And after death our spirits shall be led To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir ! Enter Emilia, and her Servant, below. Emi. This garden has a world of pleasure in't. What flower is this ? Serv. 'Tis caU'd Narcissus, madam. Emi. That was a fair boy certain, but a fool To love himself; were there not maids enough P— Arc. Pray, forward ! Pal. res.— Emi. Or were they all hard-hearted ? Serv. They could not be to one so fair. Emi. Thou wouldst not ? Serv. I think I should not, madam. Emi. That's a good wench ! But take heed to your kindness though ! ' Re people's curtes."] "This scene," obserres Lamb, "bears indubit- able marks of Fletcher ; the two which precede it [Theseus with the queen, and a scene ndt here given] give strong countenance to the tra- dition that Shakspeare had a hand in this play. The same judgment mar be formed of the death of Arcite and some other pasBages." TEE TWO BOBLE EXETSMSIir. 286 Serv. "Why, madam ? Emi. Men are mad things. — Arc. Will yoti go forward, cousin ? — Emi. Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench ? Serv. Tes. Emi, I'll have a gown full of 'em ; and of these ; This is a pretty colour. "Will 't not do Earely upon a skirt, wench ? Serv. Dainty, madam.— Are. Cousin! Cousia! How do you, sir ? Why, Palamon! Pal. Never tUl now I was in prison, Arcite. Arc. Why, what's the matter, man ? Pal. Behold, and wonder ! By Heaven, she is a goddess ! Arc. Ha! Pal. Do reverence ! She is a goddess, Arcite ! — Emi, Of all flowers, Methinks a rose is best. ■ Serv. Why, gentle madam ? Emi. It is the very emblem of a maid : Por when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blows, and paints the sun With her chaste blushes ! when the north comes near Ilude and impatient, then, like Chastity, [her. She locks her beauties in her bud again, And leaves him to base briers. Arc. She's wond'rous fair ! Pal. She's all the beauty extant ! Etrti. The sun grows high ; let's walk in ! Keep these flowers ; WeU see how near Art can come near their colours. [Etit with Servant. Pal. What think you of this beauty P Are. 'Tis a rare one. Pal. Is't but a rare one ? Arc. Yes, a matchless beauty. Pal, Might not a man well lose himself, and love her ? Arc. I cannot tell what you have done ; I have ; Beshrew mine eyes for't ! Now I feel my shackles. Pal. Tou love her, then P Arc. Who would not P 286 THE TWO J!(OBLE KIKSlOtlT. Pal. And desire her ? Arc. Before my liberty. Pal. I saw her first. 4rc. That's nothing. Pal. But it shall be. Are. I saw her too. Pal. Yes ; but you must not love her. Arc. I will not, as you do ; to worship her, As she is heavenly, and a blessed goddesa: 1 love her as a woman ; So both may love. Pal. You shall not love at all ! Are. Not love at all ? who shall deny me ?' Pal. I that first saw her ; I, that fook possession First witli mine eye on all those beauties in her Eeveal'd to mankind ! If thou lovest her ; Or entertain' st a hope to blast my wishes, Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow False as thy title to her. — Friendship, blood, And all the ties between us, I disclaim, If thou once think upon her ! Are. Yes, I love her ; And if the lives of all my name lay on it, I must do so. I love her with my soul. If that will lose you, farewell, Palamon ! I say again, I love ; and, in loving her, maintain I am as worthy and as free a lover, And have as just a title to her beauty, As any Palamon, or any living, That is a man's son. Pal. Have I call'd thee friend ? Arc. Yes, and have found me so. "Why are you mov'd thus P Let me deal coldly with you ! am not I ' Who shall deny me .''] I cannot help thinking that an " I " is wanting at the end of this line, to commence the answer of Falamon. A syllable is wanting to complete, the verse ; the personal pronoun sug- gests itself as the syllable ; it is warranted, perhaps necessarily implied by the I's which follow, and which sound fflce reasons for it j it is im- petuous, instantaneous, and leaves nothing to be desired. Are. Not love at all ! Who shall deny me ? Pal. I. I that first saw her ; I that took possession, &c. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMES. 287 Part of your blood, part of your soul ? you have told me That I was Palamon, and you were Axcit^. Pal. Tea. Arc. Am not I liable to those affections, Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall suffer ? Pal. Tou may be. Arc. Why then would you deal so cunningly, So strangely, so unlike a Noble Kinsman, , To love alone ? Speak truly ; do you think me Unworthy of her sight ? Pal. No ; but unjust, If thou pursue that sight. Arc. Because another First sees the enemy, shall I stand still. And let mine honour down, and never charge ? Pal. Yes, if he be but one. Arc. But say that one Had rather combat me ? Pal. Let that one say so. And use thy freedom ! else, if thou pursuest her. Be as that cursed man that hates his country, A branded villain ! Arc. Tou are mad. Pal. I must be. Till thou art worthy, Arcite ; it poncerns me ! And, in this madness, if I hazard thee And take thy life, I deal but truly. Arc. Ey, sir ! Tou play the child extremely : I will love her, T must, I ought to do so, and I. dare ; And all this justly. Pal. Oh, that now, that now Thy false self, and thy friend, had but this fortune. To be one hour at liberty, and grasp Our good swords in our hands, I'd quickly teach theo What 'twere to filch affection from another ! Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse ! Put but thy head ojit of this window more. And, as I have a soul, I'U nail thy life to't ! Arc. Thou dar'st not, fool; thou can' st not ; thou art feeble ' Put my head out ? I'll throw my body out, 288 THE TWO irOBIiE KCTSMEIT. And leap the garden, ■when I see her next, And pitch between her arms, to anger thee. Enter Jailor. Pal. No more ! the Keeper's coming : I shall live To knock thy brains out with my shackles. Arc. Do! Jailor. By your leave, gentlemen ! Pal. Now, honest Keeper ? Jailor. Lord Arcite, you must presently to the duke : The cause I know not yet. Are. I am ready. Keeper. Jailor. Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you Of your fair cousin's company. [Exit with Aecite. Pal. And me too. Even when you please, of life ! PEATEE TO MAES. Palamon and Arcite being allowed iff Theseus to figH for Emilia, Areitt puts uf a prayer to Mars. Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turn'd Green Neptune into purple ; [whose approach] Comets prewarn ; whose havock in vast field "Unearthed skulls proclaim ; whose breath blows down The teeming Ceres' foyzon ; who dost pluck' ' Who dost pluck With hand armipotent, ^c] A moat magnificent image. The epithet armipotont is from Chaucer, and employed in a manner not unworthy of that iU-underetood master of versification.. Chaucer took it from Boccac- cio, but turned it from prose into poetry, by putting it in a right place : — Vide in questa la casa del suo Die Armipoiente, ed essa edificata Tutta d' acciajo iaplendido e pulio, Ac. Teieide, lib. vii. st. 3S. And downward from an hill, under a bent. There stood the temple of Mars armipotent. Wrought all of burned stele &c. Boccaccio's work is full of beauties, and of such beauties as have a right toeing, and become poetry; but music singularly fails him, and his beauties are full of redundancies. Chaucer took up the lax exuberance of the great Tuscan proser, squeezed it together as if with one grasp of smil- , ing and loving rectification, crushed out of it aU that was superfluoui, condensing the admirable remainder, and sent it forth among the orba cf song, spinning and singing for ever ^ became it. THB TWO KOBIiB KUfSMEIT. 289 With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds The mason'd turrets ; that bothmak'st and break' st The stony girths of cities ; me thy pupU, Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day' "With military skUl, that to thy laud I may advance my streamer, and by thee Be styled the lord o' th' day ! Give me, great Mars, Some token of thy pleasure ! ^Jlere Ajbcite and his suite fall on their faces, and there u heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise, and bow to the altar. O great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that heal'st with blood The earth when it is sick, and cur'st the world O' th' plurisy of people ;' I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design march boldly. ' Youngest foUower, ^c] This line, which would have been a stretch of rhythmdoal license, even in the hands of Pletcher, and which would certainly never have come out of those of Shakspeare, is so easily and unobjectionably alterable for the better, that I cannot think it could have stood as it here does in the original manuscript. The article the is wanting in its commencement, and the two words this day are evidently superfluous at the end. They render the word dag in the third line following, a tautology. Were the line to be read thus : Me thy pupil. The youngest follower of thy drum, instruct "Witii military skill, &c. it wo'jld set all right. But the text of Beaumont and Fletcher was incorrectly transcribed or printed &om the first, and remedy seems now hopeless. 2 Plurisy of people."] Superabundance, overplus. This address to War is also most noble, and full of the finest Shakspearian excogitation. Here is a good half of all that can be said in vindication of war, and quite as much as a martialist need be supposed to utter. Mr. Charles Knight is of opinion that the participator with Fletcher in this play was Chapman, I really believe that if any poet in those times, besides Shakspeare, could have written passages of this kind. Chapman was the man; but I cannot think he could have sustained them with a vigour at once so weighty and so unforced, with so much equality of power throughout, or with so dramatic a propriety. 290 IKE TWO irOBLX EIKSUEX. PEATEB TO DIAlfA. ScEiTB — The Temple of Diana. \Still music of rtrerds. Enter Euilia, in white, her hair about her shoulders, a wheat en wreath ; one in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers ; one before her carrying a silver Mnd, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odours, which being set upon the altar, her Maid standing aloof, she sets fire to it ; then they curtesy and kneel. End. O' sacred, sbadowy, cold and constant queen, Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative, Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure As wiad-fann'd snow, who to thy female knights AUow'st no more blood than will make a blush, Which is their^ order's robe ; I here, thy priest, Am humbled 'fore thine altar. Oh, vouchsafe. With that thy. rare green eye,' which never yet Beheld thing maculate, look, on thy virgin ! And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear (Which ne'er heard seurril term, into whose port Ne'er enter' d wanton sound). to my petition, Season'd with holy fear! This is my last. Of vestal office ; I am bride-habited, But maiden-hearted ; a husband L have, 'pointed,' But do not know him ; out of two I should Ghuse one, and pray for his success, but I Am guiltless of election of mine eyes ;. Were I to lose one (they are equ^ precious), I could doom neither ; that which perish'd should Gro to't unsentenc'd. Therefore, most modest queen, He, of the two pretenders, that best loves me And has the truest title in't, let him Take off my wheaten. garland, or else granti The file' and quality I hold, I may Continue, in thy band ! \fler-e the hind vanishes under the altari, and in the palace ascends a rose-tree, hoping one rose upon it. ' Bare green eye.'] Eyes tintedwith greenwere forMeriy.rnuch admired. ' 'Pointed.'] Appointed. ^-FUe,'] Bank. Station on the same liner THE TWO NOBIiE KIlfSMEir. 29 1 See what our general of ebbs and flows, Out from the bowels of her holy altar, With sacred act advances f But one rose ? If well inspir'd, this battle shaU confound Both these brave knights, and I a virgin flower Must grow alone unpluck'd. [Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree. The flower is fall'n, the tree descends ! Oh, mistress. Thou here dischargest me ; I shall be gather'd ; I think so ; but I know not thine own. will : TJnelasp thy mystery ! — I hope she's pleas' d ; Her signs were gracious. {They curtesy, and exeunt. A " VICTOE TICTIM." ArcUe, having conquered in his fight vnth Palamon, loses the fruits of his vietort/ by an accident. Enter PBBlTHOrs- to PAtAHOIf . Per. Noble Falamon,. The gods will show their glory in a life That thou art yet to lead. Pal. Can that be, when Venus, I have said, is false ? How do things fere ? Per. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear That are most dearly sweet and bitter ! Pal. What Hath wak'd ua from our dream ? Fer. List then ! Your cousin Mounted upon a steed that Emily Did first bestow on him ; a black one ; owing Wot a haip worth of white, which some will say Weakens his price, and many wiQ not buy His goodness with this note ; which superstition Here finds allowance. On this horse is Arcite, Trotting the stones at Athens, which the calkins' Did rather teU than trample ; for the horse Would make his length a mile,^ ift pleas'd his rider • CalHna.'] The prominent parts of a horse shoe, that secure it from slipping. ^ Would make his length a mile.^ I am ignorant of the meaning of this J nor can I procure it from persons to whom I have applied, and who are technically conTersant ^Yith horses. 262 THE TWO NOBLE KIN SMBN. To put pride in him. As he thus went counting The flinty pavement, dancing as 'twere to the music His own hoofs made (for, as they say, from iron Came music's origin) what envious flint, Cold as old Saturn, and like him possesa'd "With fire malevolent, darted a spark. Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made, I comment not ; the hot horse, hot as fire. Took toy' at this, and fell to what disorder His power could give his wiU ; bounds ; comes on end ; Porgets school-doing, being therein train'd. And of kind manage ; pig-like he whines At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather Than any jot obeys ; seeks all foul means Of boisterous and rough jadery, to dis-seat His lord that kept it bravely. "When nought serv'd, "When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor diffring plunges Dis-root his rider whence he grew, but that He kept him 'tween his legs, on his hind hoofa On end he stands. That Arcite's legs being higher than his head, Seem'd with strange art to hang. His victor's wreath Even then fell off his head ; and presently Backward the jade comes o'er, and his full poize Becomes the rider's load. Yet is he living. But such a vessel 'tis that floats but for The surge that next approaches. He much desires To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears ? ' Tooi ioi/.'] Began to be playftiL ^ Zo, he appears /] ThiB description of the horse is most admirable as a description ; and I have no doubt that the author of Ventu and Adonis wrote it : but what does it do in this place ? Lamb, speaking of passages in the Tao Noble Kinsmen, including this " death of Arcite," says that they have a " luxuriance in them which strongly resembles Shakspeare's manner in those parts of his plays where, the progress of the interest being subordinate, the poet was at leisure for description." This remark was surely a strange oversight on the part of Lamb. How can " the progress of the interest" in which a lover must be impatient to the very last degree for the result of what his informant is describing, be looked upon as subordinate to the description ! — to a long story of a horse, the close of which can be all that he cares about, and for delay of which close he must be inwardly cursing the ezi^uislte impertinence of the nar- THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEW. 203 Enter Theseits, Hippohta, Emilia, and Abcitb, the lent brought in a chair. Pal. Oh, miserable end of our alliance ! The gods are mighty ! — Arcite, if thy heart. Thy worthy manly heart, he yet unbroken, Give me thy last words ! I am Palamcm, One that yet loves thee dying. dre. Take Emilia, And with her all the world's joy. Eeach thy hand ; Farewell ! I have told my last hour. I was false, Tet never treacherous. Forgive me, cousin ! One kiss from fair Emilia ! (Kisses her.} 'Tis done : Take her. Idle! [Dies. Pal. Thy brave soul seek Elysium ! Ihni. rU close thine eyes, prince ; blessed souls be with thee i Thou art a right good man ; and while I live. This day I give to tears. Pal. And I to honour. Thes. In this place first you fought ; even very here I sunder'd you : acknowledge to the gods Our thanks that you are living.' His part is play'd, and, though it were too short. He did it well : your day is lengthen' d, and The bUssfiil dew of Heaven does arrose* you ; The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar, And given you your love ; our master Mars Has vouch'd his oracle, and to Arcite gave The grace of the contention. So the deities Have show'd due justice. Bear this hence ! Pal. Oh, cousin, That we should things desire, which do cost us rator, all the while he is parading his horse-knowledge. This I hold to be another of the passages which either would hare been blotted by Shakspeare when he revised his play, or which Ben Jonson would justly have found fault with, as a dramatist, for his not blotting. ' Our thanks, ^c] Surely this our ought to be your. What could be the meaning of Palamon's acknowledging to the gods the thanks of Theseus ? ^ Arrose."] Besprinkle. — I suppose from ros, a dew-drop. It is a word of very pleasing sound, though on what principle it was formed, I know not, — ^nor where else it is to be met with . Arrosion mesasgnamtiff. 294 THE rWO NOBLE KUfSMES. The loss of our desire ! That nought could buy Dear love, but loss of dear love ! Thes. Ifever iFortune Did play a subtler game. The conquer'd triumphs, The victor has (the loss ; yet ia the passage The gods have been most equal. Palamon, Tour kinsman hath confess'd the right o' the lady Did lie in you ; for you first saw her, and Even then prodaim'd yo.ur fancy ; he restor'd her, As your stolen jew€4, and desir'd your spirit To send him hence forgiv'n. The gods my justice Take from my hand, and they themselves become The executioners. Lead your lady oflF ; And call your lovers' from the stage of death j Whom I adopt my friends ! A day or two Let us look sadly, and give grace unto The funeral of Arcite! in whose end The visages of bridegrooms we'll put on, And smile with Palamon ; for whom an hour, But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry, As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad, As for him sorry. — Oh, you heavenly charmers, What things you make of us ! For what we lack, We laugh ; for what we have, are sorry ; still Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful For that which is ; and with Tou leave dispute, That are above our question ! * Lovert.^ Fartizans ; lovers of his cause. [This play was given to the world as the joiiit production ofMetoher and Shakspeare j and the majority of critics, among whom are Ooie- ridge and Lamb, agree in so thinking it. Others are of opinion that Shakspeare had nothing to do with it ; and others, that the scenes at- tributed to him are but imitations of his maimer and turn of thought. Such readers as are not acquainted with the controversy, may take thit opportunity of judging for themselves. My own opinion is, that .Shakspeare left behind him considerable uncorrected portions of the play ; and that Ketoher, without touching those portions, was induced by some manager to complete it. All the scenes here given are sup- posed (and justly, I think) to be the production of Shakspeare, with the exception of that between the two friends in prison. The main story (the whole of which is gatherable from these scenes) is froim Chaucer's noble abridgment of these TeaHde of lioccaccio.l TH3 FALSB ONE. 205 THE FALSE ONE. DEFEAT AND 'WOKLDLT OOTJITSBL. Ptolemt/i Xing of Egypt, is advised to refuse hospitality to Pompey, defeated by Ccesar. PHOTimis, AcHOBEtrs {Pnest of Ids), ant^ AchilIiAS. Fho. Good day, Achoreiis. — My best friend, Achillas, . Hath fame deliver'd yet no certain rumour Of the great Eoman action ? Achil. That we are To inquire and learn of you, sir, -whose grave care For Egypt's happiness, and great Ptolemy's good, Hath eyes and ears in all parts. Vho. I'll not boast What my intelligence coats me ; but ere long Ton shall know more. — The king, with him a Soman. Enter Ptoiemt, Labienus wounded, and Gruard. Achor. The scarlet livery of unfortunate war Dy'd deeply on his fece. Achil. 'Tis Labienus, CsBsar's lieutenant in the wars of Gaul, And fortunate in all his undertakings : But, since these civil jars, he tum'd to Pompey, And, though he followed the better cause, Not with the like success. Pho. Such as are wise Leave falling buildings, fly to those that riae : But more of that hereafter. — Lab. (to Ptolemy^. In a word, sir. These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave. Speak Pompey' s loss. To tell you of the battle, How many thousand several bloody shapes Death wore that day in triumph ; how we bore The shock of Caesar's charge ; or with what fury His soldiers came on, as if they had been So many Caesars, and, like him, ambitious To tread upon the liberty of Eome ; How fathers kill'd their sons, or sons their fathers j Or how the Eoman piles' on either side ' Files,'] JaTelins; — the piixm. 296 THE TALBE OUT!. Drew Boman blood, which spent, the prince of weapons (The sword) succeeded, which, in civil wars. Appoints the tent on which wing'd yictory Sh^ make a certain stand ;. then, how the plains Flow'd o'er with blood, and what a cloud of vnltuies. And other birds of prey, hung o'er both armies,. Attending when their ready servitors, i The soldiers, from whom the angry gods Had took all sense of reason and of pity, "Would serve in their own carcases for a feast ; How Csesar with his javelin forc'd them on That made the least stop, when their angry hands Were lifted up against some known friend's face ; Then coming to the body of the army. He shows the sacred senate, and forbids them To waste their force upon the common soldier (Whom willingly, if e'er he did know pity. He would have spar'd) Ptol. The reason, Labienus ? Lab. Full well he knows that in their blood he waa To pass to empire, and that through their bowela He must invade the laws of Eome, and give A period to the liberty of the world. Then feU the Lepidi, and the bold Corvini,. The famed Torquati, Scipio's, and Marcelii) — Names, next to Pompey's, most renown'd on earth. The nobles and the commons lay together, And Pontick, Punick, and Assyrian blood. Made up one crimson lake : which Pompey seeing, And that his and the fate of Eome had left him, Standing upon the rampire of his camp, Though scorning aU. that could fall on himself. He pities them whose fortunes are embark'd In his Tinlucky quarrel ; cries aloud too That they should sound retreat, and save themselreB : That he desir'd not so much noble blood Should be lost in his service, or attend On his misfortunes : and then, taking horse With some few of his friends, he came to Lesboa, And with Cornelia, his wife, and sons, THE FALSE oins. 297 He's touch'd upon your shore. The king of Parthia, Famous in his defeature of the Crassi, Oflfer'd him his protection, but Pompey, Belying on his benefits and your faith. Hath chosen Egypt for his sanctuary, Till he may re-collect his scatter'd powers, And try a second day. Now Ptolemy, Though he appear not like that glorious thing That three times rode in triumph, and gave laws To conquer'd nations, and made crowns his gift (A.S this, of yours, your noble father took From his victorious hand, and you still wear it At his devotion), to do you more honour In his declin'd estate, as the straightest pine In a full grove of his yet-flourishing friends, He flies to you for succour, and expects The entertainment of your father's friend. And guardian to yourself. Ptol. To say I grieve his fortune. As much as if the crown I wear (his gift) "Were ravish'd irom me, is a holy truth. Our gods can witness for me ; yet, being young, And not a free disposer of myself, Let not a few hours, borrow'^d for advice. Beget suspicion of unthankfulness. Which next to hell I hate. Pray you retire. And take a little rest ; and {to the others) let his wounds Be with that care attended, as they wer6 Carv'd on my flesh. — Good Labienus, think The little respite I desire shall be Wholly employ'd to find the readiest way To do great Pompey service. Lab. May the gods. As you intend, protect you ! [Exit with Attendants. Ptol. Sit, sit all ; It is my pleasure. Tour advice, and freely. Achor. A short deliberation in this. May serve to give you counsel. To be honest. Religious, and thankful, in themselves Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish 298 THE EALSE Olfl!. Or gloBB in the persuader ; your kept faith. Though Pompey never rise to the height he's fallen Caesar himself will love ; and my opinion [from, Is, still committing it to graver censure, Tou pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard Of all you can call yours. Ptol. "What's yours, Photinus ? Pho. AchoreuB, great Ptolemy, hath counsell'd Like a religious and honest man, "Worthy the honour that he justly holds In being priest to Isis. But, alas, "What in a man sequester'd from the world, Or in a private person, is preferr'd, No policy allows of in a king : To be or just, or thankful, makes kings guilty ; And faith, though prais'd, is punish' d, that supports Such as good fate forsakes. Join with the gods, Observe the man they favour, leaive the wretched ; The stars are not more distant from the earth Than profit is from honesty ; all the power. Prerogative, and greatness of a prince Is lost, if he descend once but to steer His course, as what's right guides him. Let him leave The sceptre, that strives only to 'be good. Since kingdoms are maintaini'd by force and blood. Achor. Oh, wicked ! Ptol. Peace ! — Go on. Pho. Proud Pompey shows how much he scorns your youth, In thinking that you cannot keep your own Prom such as are o'ercome. If you are tir'd "With being a king, let not a stranger take "What nearer pledges challenge. Eesign rather The government of Egypt and of Nile To Cleopatra, that has title to them ; At least, defend them from the Eoman gripe : What was not Pompey's, while the wars endured. The conqueror will not challenge. By all the world Forsaken and despis'd, your gentle guardian, His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice of "What nation he shall fall with ; and pursued THE FALSE ONE. 299 By their pale ghosts slain in this civil war, He flies not Csesar only, but the senate, Of which the greater part have cloy'd the hunger Of shaxp Pharsalian fowl ; he flies the nationa That he drew to his quarrel, whose estates Are sunk in his ; and, in no place receiv'd. Hath found out Egypt, by him yet not ruin'd. 4iid Ptolemy, things consider'd justly, may Complain of Fompey. Wherefore should he stain Our Bgppt ■vrath the spots of civil war, Or make the peaceable, or quiet Nile, Doubted of Caesar? Wherefore should he draw His loss and overthrow upon our heads. Or choose this place to suffer in ? Already We have offended Csesar in our wishes, And no way left us to redeem his favour But by the head of Pompey. dehor. Gfreat Osiris, Defend thy Egypt from such cruelty, And barbarous ingratitude ; Pho. Holy trifles, And not to have place in designs of state. This sword, which fate eommand-s me to unsheath, I would not draw on Pompey, if not vanquish'd ; I grant, it rather should have pass'd through Caesar ; But we must foUow where his fortune leads us : All provident princes measure their intents According to wieir power, and so dispose them. And think'st thou, Ptolemy, that thou canst prop His ruins, under whom sad Bome now suffers, Or tempt the conqueror's force when 'tis confirm'd ? ShaU we, that in the battle sat as neuters. Serve him that's overcome ? "So, no, he's lost : And though 'tis noble to a sinking friend To lend a helping hand, whUe there is hope He may recover, thy part not engaged. Though one most dear, when all his hopes are dead, To drown him, set thy foot upon his head. Achor. Most execrable counsel ! Achil. To be follow'd ■ 'Tis for the kingdom's safety. 300 THE FALSE OITB. Ptol. "We give up Our absolute power to thee. Dispose of it As reason shall direct thee. Pho. Good Achillas, Seek out Septimius, Do you but soothe him j He is already wrought. Leave the dispatch To me, of Labienus. "Tis determin'd Already how you shall proceed. Nor fate Shall dter it, since now the dye is cast, But that this hour to Pompey is his last \_Eieeunt, IMPEISONED BEAITTT. Song to Cleopatra while iept in a itate of secltuion. Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ; Ev'n in shadows you are fair ; Shut-up beauty is like fire. That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your body be confin'd. And soft love a prisoner bound, Tet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly then, and dare Ev'n the fetters that you wear. THE HEAD OF FOMPET. Miter Septimius with the head o^Pompet, Achillas, and Guard. Sept. 'Tis here ! 'tis done ! — Behold, you fearful viewers. That, that whole armies, nay, whole nations, Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at. And fled before, wing'd with their fears and terrors ; That steel' d "War waited on, and Fortune courted ; That high-plum' d Honour built up for her own. Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness, Behold that child of war, with all his glories. By this poor hand made breathless ! Here, my AcMHas; Egypt and Caesar owe me for this service, And aU the conijuer'd nations. THE I'iXSE 0113. 301 AcMl. Peace, Septimius ; Thy words sound more ungrateful than thy actions. Though sometimes safety seek an instrument Of thy unworthy nature, thou loud boaster, Think not she's bound to love him too that's bar- Why did not I, if this be meritorious, [barous. And bmds the king unto me, and his bounties. Strike this rude stroke ? I'U tell thee, thou poor Eoman. It was a sacred head I durst not heave at ; Not heave a thought. Sept. It was ? Achil. I'll tell thee truly, And, if thou ever yet heard' st tell of honour, I'll make thee blush. It was thy general's ! [thee ; That man's that fed thee once, that man's that bred The air thou breath' dst was his, the fire that warm'd thee iVom his care kindled ever ! Nay, I'll show thee, Because I'll make thee sensible of thy business. And why a noble man durst not touch at it. There was no piece of earth thou put'st thy foot on But was his conquest, and he gave thee motion ! He triumph'd three times. Who durst touch his per- The very walls of Borne bow'd to his presence j [son ? Dear to the gods he was : to them that feared him A fair and noble enemy. Didst thou hate him, And for thy love to Caesar sought his ruin ? Arm'd, in the red PharsaUan fields, Septimius, Where killing was in grace, and wounds were glorious, Where kings were fair competitors for honour. Thou shouldst have come up to him, there have fought There, sword to sword. [him, Sept. I kUl'd him on commandment, If kings' commands be fair, when you all fainted, When none of you durst look Achil. On deeds so barbarous. What hast thou got ? Sept. The king's love, and his bounty. The honour of the service ; which though you rail at. Or a thousand envious souls fling their foams on me, 302 THE TAIiSE OITE. Will dignify the cause, and make me-gloriouB j- And I shall' live Achil, A miserable villain. What reputation and reward belongs to it, [Seizes the head. Thus, with the head^ I seize on, and make mine ; And be not impudent to ask me why, sirrah, Nor bold to stay ; read in mine eyes the reason. The shame and obloqjiy I leave thine own. (Sept. The king will yet consider. [Exit. Miter Ptolemt, A43HOeet8, and Photintts.. Achil. Here he comes, sir^ dehor, {to Ptolemy)). ¥et, if it be undone, hear me, p»at If this inhumanstroke be yet unstricken, [sir If that adored head be not yet sever'd Erom the most noble body, weigh the miseries, The desolations, that this great eclipse works. Tou are young ; be provident. Kx not your empire Upon the tomb of him wiU shake all Egypt ; Whose warlike groans will raise ten thousand spirits Great as himself, in every hand a thunder ; Destructions darting from their looks, and sorrows That easy women's eyes shaU never empty. Pho. (aside to Achillas). 1 ou have done well, and 'tis done.'?— {to Ptolemy) See AchillaB, And in his hand the head. Ptol. Stay; come no nearer ! Methinks I feel the very earth shake under me !' I do remember him : he was my guardian, Appointed by the senate to preserve me. What a full majesty sits in his face yet ! Pho. The king is troubled. — Be not frighted, sir ; Be not abus'd with fears ; bis death was necessary ; Not to be miss'd: and' humbly thank great Isis, He came so opportunefy to your hand. Pity must now give place to rules of safety. Is not victorious Caesar new arriv'd. And enter'd Alexandria with his friends, His navy riding by to wait his charges i THE FALSE OITEI. dUd Did lie not beat this Pompey, and pursue him ? Was not this great man his great enemy ? This godlike virtuous man, as people held him ? But what fool dare be friend to flying virtue ? [Flourish, I hear their trumpets ; 'tis too late to stagger. Give me the head ; and be you confident. Enter C^sae, ksrowi, Dolabbiia, Scbta, and Soldiers. Hail, conqueror of the world, th« headofaHj Now this head's off! Casar. Ha ! Fho. Do not shun me, Caesar. Prom kingly Ptolemy I bring this present^ The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour, The goal and mark of high ambitious honour. Before, thy victory had no name, Csesar, Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompense j Thou dream'dst of being worthy, and of war, And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers : Here they take life ; here they inherit honour. Grow flx'd, and shoot up everlasting triumphs. Take it, and look upon thy humble servant ; With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy, That offers with this head, most mighty Caesar, What thou wouldst once have given for it, all Egypt. AqMI. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror. Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee, Because 'tis easily got: it comes the safer : Tet, let me tell thee, most imperious Caesar, Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this, Nor iabour'd through no showers of darts and lances, Tet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly. An inward war : he was his grandsire's guest, Priend to his father, and, when he was expeU'd And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand. And had none left him to restore his honour. No hope to find a friend in such a misery, Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune, Strengthen'd and cherish'd it, and sefc it right agais. This was a love to Caesar. 304l THE FALSE OITB. See. Give me hate, gods ! Pho. This CsBsar may account a little wicked ; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then ; If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that He was thy son-in-law ; there to be tainted [way ! Had been most terrible ! Let the worst be render' d. We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. CcBsar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head ! See, captains. The head of godUke Pompey ! See. He was basely ruin'd ; But let the gods be griev'd that sufi'er'd it. And be you Csesar. Cesar, O thou conqueror, [addressing the head. Thou glory of the world once, now the pity. Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ! "What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluck'd thee on. To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? The light and life of Home, to a blind stranger, That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was ? That never heard thy name sung, but in banquets, And loose lascivious pleasures P to a boy. That had no fuith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life, to know thy goodness ? And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend. Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee, Li soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great Pompey, If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee ! Thou hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory, My love and mercy. Ant. Oh, how brave these tears show ! How excellent is sorrow in an enemy ! Dol. Grlory appears not greater than this goodness. Ceesar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids, BuUt to out-dure the sun, as you suppose. Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes. Are monuments fit for him ? no, brood of Nilus ; Nothing can cover his high fame but Heaven j No pyramids set off his memories. THE lotee's peogkess. 305 But the eternal substance of his greatnesB, To which I leave him. Take the head away, And, with the body, give it noble burial : Tour earth shall now be bless'd, to hold a Koman, Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance. FEMUrilTE MAITNEBS. Casar. Pray you, undo this riddle, And tell me how I have vex'd you. Cleopatra. Let me think first, Whether I may put on a patience. That will with honour suffer me. Know, I hate you : Let that begin the story : now, I'll tell you. Casar. But do it mUder. In a noble lady. Softness of spirit, and a sober nature. That moves like summer winds, cools, and blows sweet- Shows, blessed, like herself. [nesSj THE LOVEE'S PEOGEESS. SONS OP HEAVENLT A&AINST EABTHLT lOVB. Adieu, fond love ! farewell, you wanton Powers i I am free again ; Thou dull disease of blood and idle hours, Bewitching pain. Fly to the fools that sigh away their time ! My nobler love, to Heaven climb. And there behold beauty still young. That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy 5 Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung. And honour'd by eternity and joy ! There lives my love, thither my hopes aspire ; Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher. LOTe's GBNTLEITESS. Love is a gentle spirit ; The wind that blows the AprU flowers not softer ; X 306 THE LOTEE's PE0GEEB8. She's drawn with doves to show her peacefulness ; Lions and bloody pards are Mars's servants. Would you serve Love ? do it with humbleness, "Without a noise, with still prayers, and soft murmurs ; Upon her altars offer your obedience, And not your brawls ; she's won with tears, not terrors : The fire you kindle to her deity Is only grateftil when it's blown with sighs, And holy incense flung with white-hand innocence. A MATTEB-OE-FACT GHOST. Sorilata and Oleander,, aitting up at night drinking, are viiiled iy the Landlord'a Bh'ost. Scene — A Country Hun. Enter Ddbilatis, Cleansebj Chamberlain ;. a. table, tapers, and chairs. Cle. We have supp'd well, friend. Het oup beds be ready ; We must be stirring early. Gham. They are made, sir. Dor. I cannot sleep yet. Where's the jovial' host Tou told me of ? "E has been my custom ever' To parley with mine host. 6le. He's a good fellow, Ard'such a one I know you love to laughs wiliik — Go call your master up. Cham. He cannot come, sir. Dor. lis he a-bed ? Cham. No, certainly. Cle. Why thenbe shall come, by your leave, my friend ; I'll fetch him up myself. Cham. Indeed you'll fail; sin Dor. Is he i' th' house ?• Gham. No, but he's hard by, siri;. He is fasti in 's grave ; he has been dfead these three weeks Dor, Then o' my conscience he wiU come but lamely< And discourse worse, fif^fe BareweH, mine honest host then. Mine-honest merry host ! — WUl you to bed^yet p Boni No, not this hour ; I pr'y thee, sit and chat by me. Gle. G-ive us.. a< quart of wine then ;; we'll be merry. THE LOTBB'8 peogebbs. 307 Dor. A. match, my son. Pray let your wine be lining, Or lay it by your master. Cham. It shall be quick, sir. [Exit,. Dor. Had not mine host a wife ? Cle. A good old woman. Dor. Another coffin! that is- not so handsome; Tour hostesses in inns should' be blithe things ;, Pretty and young, tO' draw in passengerss Enter ©hamberlain with Winei- Well done. Here's to Lisander ! Cle. ■ My full love meets i%. — Make fire in our lodgings ,■ "We'll trouble thee no' farther. — [Exit Chamberlaini To your son ! (JMnka again.): Dor. Put in Glarange'too j. off with'k I thank you. This wine drinks merrier still; Oh, for mine host now ! Were he alive again, and well' disposed), I would so claw his pate \ Cle. You're a. hard drinker. Dor. I love to make mine host drunk ; he will' lie then The rarest). Mid' tiie roundest, of his friends, [A lute is struck wilhin His quarrelsj. and> his guests.- Whaf s that ? a lute ? 'Tis at the (foor, I think. Cle. The doors are shut fast. Dor. 'Tis morning; sure the fiddlers are got up To fright men's slieeps. Cle. I've heard mine host thai^'S- dead Touch a lute-rarely, and as rarely sing too, A brave stiU mean.'' Dor. I would' give a brace of French crowns To see him rise and fiddle. Cle. Hark; a song! A soNGt {miHn^ "Kb late and cold ; stir up the fire ; Sit close, and draw the table nigher ; Be merry, and drink wine that's old, A. hearty medicine 'gainst a cold ! ' Mea7i^ A middle voice ; atcutu. 308 THE lotee's peogbess. Call for the best the house may ring ; Sack, white, and claret let them bring ; And drink apace, vi bile breath you hare ; Tou'll find but cold drink in the grave : Welcome, welcome, shall fly round. And I shall smile, though under ground. Cle. Now, as I live, it is his voice ! Dor. He sings well ; The devil has a pleasant pipe. Cle. The feUow lied, sure. Bnter the Host's Ghost. He is not dead ; he's here. How pale he looks ! Dor. Is this he ? Cle. Yes. Host. Tou are welcome, noble gentlemen ! Mj brave old guest, most welcome ! Cle. Lying knaves. To tell us you were dead. Come, sit down by us. We thank you for your song. Host. 'Would 't had been better ! Dor. Speak, are you dead ? Host. Yes, indeed am I, gentlemen ; I have been dead these three weeks. Dor. Then here's to you. To comfort your cold body ! Cle. What do you mean ? Stand further off. Dor. I will stand nearer to him. Shall he come out on's coffin to bear us company, And we not bid him welcome ? — Come, mine host, Mine honest host, here's to you ! Host. Spirits, sir, drink not. Cle. Why do you appear ? Host. To wait upon ye, gentlemen ; ('T has been my duty living, now my farewell) I fear ye are not used accordingly. Dor. I could wish you warmer company, mine host, Howe'er we are used. THE LOTEE's PEOaEESS. 309 Host. Next, to entreat a courtesy ; And then I go to peace. Cle. Is't in our power ? Host. Tes, and 'tis this ; to see my body buried In holy ground, for now I lie unhallow'd. By the clerk's fault ; let my new grave be made Amongst good fellows, that have died before me, And merry hosts of my kind. Cle, It shall be done. Dor. And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeraL Cle. Do you know our travel ? Host. Yes, to seek your friends, That in afflictions wander now. Cle. Alas ! Host. Seek 'em no farther, but be confident They shall return in peace. Dor. There's comfort yet. Cle. Pray one word more. Is't in your power, miae host, (Answer me softly) some hours before my death, To give me warning ? Host. I cannot tell you truly ; But if I can, so much alive I lor'd you, I win appear again. Adieu ! [Emit. Dor. Adieu, sir. Cle. I am troubled. These strange apparitions are For the most part fatal. Dor. This, if told, will not Find credit. The light breaks apace ; let's He down. And take some little rest, an hour or two. Then do mine host's desire, and so return. I do believe him. Cle. So do I. To rest, sir ! [Exeunt. THE GHOST KEEPS HIS PSOMISE Scene — A Boom in Cleander's House. Enter Cleaitdeb, unth a Book. Cle. Nothing more certain than to die ; but when Is most uncertain. If so, every hour 310 THE L0\TE!E'8 PEOGEESS. We should prepare us for the journey, which Is not to -be put off. I must submit To the diwne decree, not argue it, And cheerfully I welcome it. I have Dispos'd of my estate, confess'd my sina, And have remission from my ghostly father. Being at peace too here. The apparition Proceeded not from fancy : Borilaus Saw it, and heard it with me. It made answer To our demands, and promia'd, if 'twere not Denied to him by Eate, he would forewarn me Of my approaching end. I feel no symptom Of sickness-; yet, I know not how, a dulness Invadeth me aU over. — Ha ! Enter the Spirit of the Host. Sost. I come, sir. To keep my promise ; and, as far as spirits Are sensible of sorrow for the living, I grieve to be the messenger to teU you, Ere many hours pass, you must resdro To M a gra^e. Cle. And feast itiie worms ? Host. Even so, sir. Cle. I hear it like a man. Host. It well becomes you ; There's no evading it, Cle. Can you discover By whose means I must die? Host. That is denied me : But my prediction is too sure. Prepare To make your peace with Heaven ; so farewell, sir ! [Zxit, Cle. I see no enemy near ; and yet I tremble. Like a pale coward ! My sad doom pronounc'd By this aerial voice, as in a glass Shows me my death in its mast dreadful shape. What rampire can my human frailty raise Against the assault of Eate F I do begin To fear myself ! my inward strength forsakes me ; THE LOTBE S PROQBESS. 311 I must call out for help. — "Wifcliiii there ! haste. And break in to my rescue ! Enter Doeilatts, Camsta, Olinba, Besoste, Aioidon, Servants, and OiiAEINda, at several doors. Dor. Eescue ? where ? Show me your danger. Co/. I will interpose My loyal breast between you and all hazard. Ber. Tour brother's sword secures you. Ale. A true friend Will die in your defence. Cle. I thank ye ! To all my thanks ! Bncompass'd thus with friends. How can I fear ? and yet I do ! I'm wounded, Mortally wounded. Nay, it is within ; I am hurt in my mind. One word^ Dor. A thousand. Cle. I shall not lire to speak so many to you. Dor. "Why ? what forbids you ? Cle. But even now the spirit Of my dead host appear'd, and 'told me, that This night I should be with him. Did you not meet It went out at that door. [it? Dor. A vain chimera Of your imagination ! Can you think Mine Host would not as well have spoke to me now, As he did in the inn? These waking dreams Not alone trouble you, but strike a strange Distraction in your family. See the tears Of my poor daughter, fair Olinda's sadness. Tour brother's and your iriend's grief, servants' sorrow. Good son, 'bear up ; you have many years to live A comfort; to us all. Let's in to supper. Ghosts never walk tiU afber midnight, if I may 'believe my grannam. We will wash These thoughts away with wine, 'spite of hobgoblins. Cle. Ton reprehend me justly. — Gentle madam, And all the rest forgive me j I'll endeavour 312 THE ioteb's prooeess. To be meny with you. Dor. That's well said. [I hare introduced these two scenes of the ghost, rather out of re- spect to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who admired them, than from any sense of their merit. 7here is merit in the idea, bat the idea is not properly borne out. What Sir Walter observes respecting a mixture of the ludicrous and tlie terrible, is very true in the abstract ; and the same may be said of any other familiarity so combined. Those jarringB of the every-day world with the supernaturai world render the latter so much the more startling. But surely a more dull as well as matter-of-fact ghost than that of the innkeeper has never been seen. He has not a touch in him of fancy or expression ; scarcely any thing of his boasted old jollity ; and very little of his new solemnity. His presence neither sustains the posthumous merriment of the soag which he is supposed to sing behind the scenes ; nor, when he says, " Spirits, sir, drink not," do we conceive him saying it either like a proper ghost, or with a more bewildering, familiar significance. He is simply com- monplace and insipid. Indeed, from the prosaicalness of the versifica- tion, I doubt whether Fletcher had any hand in these scenes. They look more like Shirley. It is to be allowed at the same time, that Fletcher, for so fine a poet, was singularly deficient in a sense of the supernatural. I do not know that he has given any instance to the contrary but one, and that is inia passage in the Faithful Shepherdess, where he speaks of " voices calling in the dead of night." Walter Scott, who was far otherwise, put, I suspect, into the scenes before us, " out of his own head," all the impressions which he found in them. His opinion, however, gives them a zest of its own ; and it enables me to add two interesting passages from his Jjife. Among the family readings of the great novelist, his biographer men- tions " certain detached scenes of Beaumont and Fletcher, especially that in the Lover's Progress, where the ghost of the musical innkeeper makes his appearance (Vol. iv. p. 163). And in Vol. vi. (p. . 158) is the following entry in his Diary ; — " De- cember 11 (1825.) — A touch of the morbus eniditorum, to which I am as little subject as most folks, and have- it less now than when young. It is a tremor qf the head, the pulsation of which becomes painfuBy sensible — a disposition to causeless alarm — much lassitude— and decay of vigour and activity of intellect. The veins feel weary and painful, and the mind is apt to receive and encourage gloomy apprehensions. Fighting with this fiend is not always the best way to conquer him. I have found exercise and the open air better than reasoning. But such weather as is now without doors does not encourage la jpetitt guerre ; so we must give battle in form, by letting both, mind and body know, that, supposing one the House of Commons and the other the House of Peers, my will is sovereign over both. There is a fine de- scription of thie species of mental weakness in the Sue play of Beau- THE NOBLE GEN TIiEMAM . 313 mont and Fletcher called the Lover's Progress, where the man, warned that hia death is approaching, works himself into an agony of fear, and calls for assistance, though there is no apparent danger. The appari- tion of the innkeeper's ghost, in the same play, hovers between the ludicrous and the terrible ; and to me the touches of the former quality which it contains, seem to augment the effect of the latter — they seem to give reality to the supernatural, aa being a circumstance with which an inventor would hardly have garnished his story." — Loceeabt's Life of Scott, 1st edit.] THE NOBLE GBHTLEMAS. Uarine, or Mount-Marine, a siraple-vntted gentleman, being resolved to return into the country, in consequence of his disappointments at court, is persuaded by some courtiers who wish to retain his wife there, thai he u successively made a knight, baron, earl, and duke. Enter Longtjbtille to Mount-Maeine and another Gentleman. Long. "Where's monsieur Mount-Marine ? Gent. "Why, there he stands ; wUl ye aught with him ? hong. Yes. — Good day, monsieur Marine ! Mar. Good day to you ! Long. His majesty doth commend himself Most kindly to you, sir, and hath, by me, Sent you this favour. Kneel down ; rise a knight ! Mar. I thank his majesty ! Lvng. And he doth further Bequest you not to leave the court so soon ; For though your former merits have been slighted, After this time there shall no office fall "Worthy your spirit (as he doth confess There's none so great) but you shall surely have it Gent. Do you hear ? If you yield yet, you are an ass. Mar. I'll show my service to his majesty In greater things than these : but for this small one I must entreat his highness to excuse me. Long. I'll bear your knightly words unto the king, And bring his princely answer back again. \Eonl. Gefrd. "Well said ! Be resolute awhile ; I know 314 THE NOBLE GENTLEMi'S'. There is a tide of honoura coming on, I warrant you ! Enter Beaufoet. Beau. Where is this new-made knight P Mar. Here, sir. Beau. Let me enfold yon in my arms. Then call you lord ! the king will have it so ; Who doth entreat your lordship to remember His message sent to you by Longueville. Gent, (aside to Mar.) If you be dirty and dare not mount Ton may yield now ; I know what I would do. [aloft, Mar. Peace ! I will fit him. — Tell his Majesty I am a subject, and I do confess I serve a gracious prince, that thus hath heap'd Honours on me without desert ; but yet As for the message, business urgeth me ; I must begone, and he must pardon me, Were he ten thousand kings and emperors. Beau. I'll tell him so. Gent, (aside'). Why, this was like yourself! Beau, (aside). As he hath wrought him, 'tis the finest fellow That e'er was Christmas-lord ! he carries it So truly to the life, as though he were One of the plot to gull himself. [Exit. Gent. Why, so ! Tou sent the wisest and the shrewdest answer TJnto the king, 1 swear, my honour'd friend, That ever any subject sent his liege. Mar, Nay, now 1 know I have him on the hip, I'U follow it. Re-enter Longitetille. Long. My honourable lord ! Give me your noble hand, right courteous peer, And from henceforth be a courtly earl ; The king so wills, and subjects must obey : Only he doth desire you to consider Of his request. THE NOBLE GENTLEMAN. 3lS Gent. Why, faith, you are well, my lord : Yield to him. Mar. Yield ? Why, 'twas my plot Gent, {aside). Nay, 'Twas your wife's plot. Mar. To get preferment by it ; And thinks he now to pop me in the mouth But with an earldom ? I'll be one step higher. Gent, (aside). It is the finest lord ! I am afraid anon He will stand upon 't to share the kingdom with him. Enter BEATrroET. Beau. Where's this courtly earl ? His majesty commends his love unto you. And will you but now grant to his request. He bids you be a duke, and chuse of whence. Gent. Why, if you yield not now, you are ^undone ; What can you wish to have more, %ut the kingdom F Mar. So please his majesty, I would be duke Of Burgundy, because I like the ^ace. Beau. I know the king is pleas' d. Mar. Then will I stay. And kiss his highness' ^and. Beau. His majesty Win be a glad man when he hears it. Lonff. But how shall we keep this from the world's ear, [Aside to the Gentleman. That some one teU him not he is no duke ? Gent. We'U. think of that anon. — Why, gentlemen. Is this a gracious habit for a duke p Bach gentle body set a finger to, To pluck the clouds (of these his riding weeds) Prom off the orient sun, off his best clothes ; I'll pluck one boot and spur off. Lonff. I another. Beau. I'U pluck his jerkin off. Gent. Sit down, my lord. — Both his spurs off at once, good Longueville ! And, Beaufort, take that scarf off, and that hat, Now set your gracious foot to this of mine ; One pluck will do it ; so ! Off with the other ! 316 THE KOBLS GENTLEiUir. Long. Lo, thus your servant Longuerille doth pluck The trophy of your former gentry off. — Off with his jerkin, Beaufort ! Oent. (apart). Didst thou never see A nimble-footed tailor stand so in his stockings, "WhUst some Mend help'd to pluck his jerkin ofl^ To dance a jig V Enter Jaqttes. Zonff. Here's his man Jaqu^s come, Booted and ready still. Jaques. My mistress stays. — "Why, how now, sir ? "What do your worship mean, To pluck your grave and thrifty habit off ? Mar. My slippers, Jaques ! Long. Oh, thou mighty Duke ! pardon this man, That thus hath trespassed in ignorance. Mar. I pardon him. Long. His grace's slippers, Jaques ! Jaques. Why, what's the matter ? Long. Footman, he's a duke : The king hath rais'd him above all his land. Jaques. I'U to his cousin presently, and teU him so ; Oh, what a dunghill country rogue was I ! [Exit. LI&HTLT COME, LIGHTLY GO. Marine being again resolved, though for happier reasone, to return into the country, it as suddenly deprived of his titles as he was gifted with them. Enter to him and others, LosraiTETILLE. Long. Stand, thou proud man ! Mar. Thieves, Jaques ! raise the people. Long. No; raise no peo| le : 'tis the king's command Which bids thee once more stand, thou haughty man ! Thou art a monster ; for thou art ungrateful. And, like a feUow with a rebel nature. Hast flung from his embraces, and, for His honours given thee, hast not return'd So much as thanks, and, to oppose his will, Eesolv'd to leave the court, and set the roaJm THE NOMIE GENTLEMAS. 317 A-fire, in discontent and open action • Therefore he bids thee stand, thou proud man, Whilst, with the whisking of my sword about, I take thy honours off. This first sad whisk Takes off thy dukedom ; thou art but an earl. Mar. Tou are mistaken, LongueviUe. Long. Oh, 'would I were ! This second whisk divides Thy earldom from thee ; thou art yet a baron. Mar. No more whisks if you love me, LongueviUe ! Long. Two whisks are past, and two are yet behind, Yet all must come. But not to linger tiine, "With these two whisks I end. Now Mount..Marine, T'or thou art now no more, so says the king ; And I have done his highness' will with grief. Gent. Why do you stand so dead, monsieur Marine ? Mar. So CsBsar fell,- when in the capitol They gave his body two-and-thirty wounds. Be warned, aU ye peers ; and, by my fall. Hereafter learn to let your wives rule all ! Oent. Monsieur Marine, pray let me speak with yon. Sir, I must wave you' to conceal this party ; It stands upon my utter overthrow. Seem not discontented, nor do not stir a foot, Por, if you do, you and jone hope — I swear you are a lost man, if you stir ! And have an eye to Beaufort, he wiU tempt you. Beau. Come, come ; for shame go down ; Were I Marine, by Heaven I would go down ; And being there, I would rattle him such an answer Should make him smoke. Mar. Q-ood monsieur Beaufort, peace ! Leave these rebellious words ; Or, by the honours which I once enjoy' d. And yet may swear by, I will tell the king Of your proceedings ! I am satisfied. Lady, 'You talk'd of going down When 'twas not fit ; but now let's see your spirit ! A thousand and a thousand will expect it. Mar. Why, wife, are you mad ? [strength. Lady. No, nor drunk ; but I'd have you know your own ' Wave you."] Move vou. 318 THE NOBLE GENTLEMAW. Mar. Tou talk like a foolish woman, wife ; I tell yoTi I will stay ! Tet I have A crotchet troubles me.. Long. More crotchets yet ? Mar. Follow me, Jaques ! 1 must have thy counsel. — I will return again ; stay you there, wUe ! [Exit, with Jaques, Lady. He will not stir a foot, I'll lay my hfe. Beau, Ay, but he's discontented ; how shall we Eesolve that, and make him stay with comfort ? f.ady. 'Faith, Beaufort, we must even let Nature work ; For he's the sweetest-temper' d man for that As one can wish ; for let men but go about to fool him, And he'll have his finger as deep in't as the best. But see where he comes frowning: Bless us all ! Re-enter Maeinb. Mar. Off with your hats ! for here doth come The high and mighty duke of Burgundy. "Whatever you may think, I have thought, and thought,, And thought upon it ; and I find it plain, The king cannot take back what he has given. Unless I forfeit it by course of law. Not all the water in the river Seine Can wash the blood out of these princely veins. I am a prince as great within my thoughts As when the whole state did adore my person. What trial can be made to try a prince ? I vriU oppose this noble corpse of mine To any danger that may end the doubt. [way Madame Marine. Great duke and. husband, there ia but one To testify the world of our true right, And it is dangerous. Mar. What may it be ? Were it to bring the great Turk bound in chains Through France in triumph, or to couple up The Sophy and great Prester John together,' I would attempt it. Duchess, tell the course. ■ Tlie Sophy.'} The Persian king of the Soofee dynasty. The myste" rious personage entitled Prester, i. e. Presbyter, or Priest, John, is THE NOBLE GENTLEMAIT. 319 Madam Mar. There is a strong opinion through the world, And, no doubt, grounded on experience, That lions will not touch a lawful prince : If you be confident then of your right. Amongst the lions bear your naked body : And if you come off clear, and never wince, The world will say you are a perfect prince. liar. I thank you, Duchess, for your kind advice, But know, we don't affect those ravenous beaste. l.nng. A lion is a beast to try a king ;. But for the trial of such a state as this, Pliny reports, a mastiff-dog wiU serve. Mar. We wiU not deal with dogs at all, but mac. \it Gent. Tou shall not need to deal with these at aU. Hark you, sir ; the king, doth know you are a duke. Mar. No ! does he ? \st Gent. Tes ; and is content yoU' shall be ; but with this caution. That none know it but yourself; for, if you do. He'll take't away by act of parliament. Mar. Here is my hand ; and whilst I live or breathe, No living wight shall know. T am a duke. Gent. Mark me directly, sir ; your wife may know it. Mar. May not Jaques r^ Gent. Tes, he may. Mar. May not my country cousin ?: Gent. By no means; sir, if y«u love your life and state Mar. "Well then, know all, I am no duke. Gent, {aside to Jaque^. Jaques-P .1 agues. Sir? Mar. I am a duke. Both. Are you ? Mar. Tes, 'faith, yes, 'faith ; But it must only run among ouraelveSi And, Jaques, thou shalt be my secretary stdU. supposed by some to have been the Crrand Lama of Thibet ; by some a minor Eastern Frince, of the Nestoriau sect of Christians ; by others, u Ehan of Tartary, whose native appellation was eqiUTalent to that title ; and by others, the Eing of Abyssinia. 320 LOATl'S PILGHHUQE. LOVE'S PILGEIMAGE. PKOSPEEITIES OP PULL DEB8S AND PINB LANGUiSE. SoBiTB — An Inn at Ossuna. Enter Iitcttbo and Dmoo. Incuho. Signor Don Diego, and mine host, save thee ! Diego. I thank you, master Baily. Inc. Oh, the block ! Diego. Why, how should I have answer'd ? Inc. Not with that Negligent rudeness ; but, " I kiss your hands, Signor Don Incubo de Hambre : " and then My titles ; " master Baily of Castel-Blanco." Thou ne'er wilt have the elegancy of an host ; I sorrow for thee, as my friend and gossip ! — No smoke, nor steam out-breathing from the kitchen ? There's little life i' th' hearth then. Diego. Ay ; there, there ! That is his fnendship, hearkening for the spit, And sorry that he cannot smell the pot bofl.. Inc. Strange an inn should be so curs'd, and not the sign Blasted nor wither' d ; very strange ! three days now. And not an egg eat in it, or an onion. Diego. I think they ha' strew' d the highways with caltraps,' I, No horse dares pass 'em ; I did never know A week of so sad doings, since I first Stood to my sign-post. Inc. Gossip, I have found The root of all. Kneel, pray ; it is thyself Art cause thereof; each person is the founder Of his own fortune, good or bad. But mend it ; Call for thy cloak and rapier. Diego. How ! 7/80. Do, call. And put 'em on in haste. Alter thy fortune. ' Cdltrafs^ Anglo-saxon, raWriKjope, star-thistle: — 'i.ta^aia,caJcatrippa, contrivances for impeding cavalry. They were armed with spikes, one oi which turned up whicherer way they fell. LOVE'S PILGEIMAaB. 321 By appearing worthy of her. Dost thou think Her good face e'er will know a man in cuer/)o /' In single body, thus F in hose and doublet, The horse-boy's garb ? base blank, and half-blank Did I, or master dean of SeyU, our neighbour, [_cuerpo ^ E'er reach our dignities in euerpo ? ISo ; There went more to't : there were cloaks, gowns, cas- And other ^arowen^o*' CaU, I say. — [socks. His cloak and rapier here ! Enter Hostess. Hostess. "What means your worship ? Inc. Bring forth thy husband's sword.— So ! hang it on. And now his cloak ; here, cast it up. — I mean, Q-ossip, to change your luck, and bring you gueste. Hostess. Why, is there charm in this ? Inc. Expect! Now walk ; But not the pace of one that runs on errands I For want of gravity in an host is odious. Ton may remember, gossip, if you please (Tour wife being then th' infanta of the gipsies, And yourself governing a great man's mules then), Me a poor 'squire at Madrid, attending A master of ceremonies (but a man, believe it, That knew his place to the gold- weight*) ; and sucli. Have I heard him oft say, ought every host "Within the catholic king's dominions Be, in his own house. Diego- How ? Inc. A master of ceremonies ; At least, vice-master, and to do nought in euerpo ; That was his maxim. I will tell thee of him. ' Cuerfo.'] Body (Spanieh) : to be in euerpo was to be in- An undress closely fitting the body, without a cloak. Hence the ludicrous and more proper application of the term, in Smollett and others, to no dress at aU. 2 Blank and ha!f-Ha/ak euerpo.'] I know not what is meant by this, nor do the commentators inform us. Is it white and half-white p or a close fit with a diifereuce P ' Paramentoi.'] Apparellings (Spanish). * To the gout-weight^ To the degree of nicety attainable by the weights used in weighing gold. X 322 lote's ph-grimaue. He -would not spea.k with an ambassador's cook, See a cold bake-meat from a foreign part, In merpo. Had a dog but stay'd without, Or beast of quality, as an English cow. But to present itself, he would put on His Savoy chain about his neck, the ruff And cuffs of Holland, then the Naples hat, With the "Blame hatband, and the Florentine agate, The Milan sword, the cloak of Genoa, set With Flemish buttons ; all: his given pieces. To entertain 'em in ; and compliment With a tame cony,' as with the pulnoe that sent it. ■ \Einoek within. Diego. List !' who is there ? Inc. A guest, an't be thy will ! Diego. Look, spouse ; cry " luck," an' we be encounter'd. Ha! Hostess. Luck then, and good ; for 'tis a fine brave guest. With a brave horse. Bic. Why now, beheve of cuerpo, As you shall see occasion. Go, and meet him,. Enter Theodosia in men's clothes. Theod. Look to my horse, I pray you, well. Diego. He shall, sir. Inc. Oh, how beneath his rank and call was that now ! " Tour horse shall be entreated as becomes A horse of fashion,, and his inches." Theod. Oh ! (Faints.) Inc. Look to the cavalier ! What ails he P Stay! If it concerns his horse, let it not trouble him ; He shall have all respect the place can yield him. Either of barley or fresh straw, Diegoi Gk)od sir, Look up.- Inc. He sinks !' Somewhat to cast upon nim ; He'Ugoaway in cuerpo else. Diego. What, wife ! Oh, your hot waters quickly, and some cold. To cast in his sweet face^ ' Con^.2 Babbit. Lore's fII.GBIMA&Z. 323 Hostess. Alas, fair flower ! Inc. Does anybody entertain his liorse ? Diego. Yes ; Lazaro has him. Enter Hostess with a glass of water. Inc. G-o you see him in person. \Bxit Diego. Hostess. Sir, taste a little of thisi Sweet lily, look upon me ; Tou are but newly blown, my pretty tulip ; Faint not upon your stalk. 'Tis firm and fresh. Stand up. So ! bolt upright. Tou are yet in growing. TReod. Pray you let me have a chamber. Hostess. That you shall, sir. Theod. And where I may be private, I entreat you. Hostess. For that, in troth, sir, we have no choice. Our Is but a vent of need,' that now and then [house Eeceives a guest between the greater towns. As they come late ; only one room Inc. She means, sir, 'tis none Of those wild scatter'd heaps call'd inns, where scarce The host's heard, though he wind his horn to his people ; Here is a competent pile, wherein the man. Wife, servants, all, do live within the whistle. Hostess. Only one room Inc. A pretty modest quadrangle ! She will describe to you. Hostess. (Wherein stand two beds, sir) We have : and where, if any guest do come, He must of force be lodg'd ; that is the truth, sir. INN OONSCIENCES. The Landlord and Ma Hostler confer about their treatment of pevple't horses. Diego. Lazaro ! Enter Lazabo. How do the horses ? ^A vent cf need.l An inn only to be resorted to for waV* of a better : — aninaby the way*-i», «nit)tefroni neighbourhood. Venta is Spcozit^ for inn. 824 LOTE's FIL8BTllA.eE. Laz. 'Would you would go and see, sir ! A plague of all jades, what a clap he has given me ! As sure as you live, master, he knew perfectly I cozen'd him on's oats ; he look'd upon me, [sirrah !" And then he sneer' d, as who should say, " Take heed. And when he saw our half-peck, which you know "Was but an old court-dish. Lord, how he stampt ! I thought 't had been for joy ; when suddenly He cuts me a back caper with his heels. And takes me just o' th' crupper ; down came I, And all m.y ounce of oats. ihego. 'Faith, Lazaro, "We are to blame, to use the poor dumb servitors So cruelly. haz. Tender's this other gentleman's horse, Keeping our Lady-eve ; the devil a bit He has got since he came in yet ; there he stands, And looks, and looks — But 'tis, your pleasure, sir, He shall look lean enough. He has hay before him, But tis as big as hemp, and vriU as soon choak him, Unless he eat it butter' d. He had four shoes. And good ones, when he came ; 'tis a strange wonder "With standing still he should cast three. Diego. Oh, Lazaro, The devil's in this trade ! Truth never knew it ; And to the devil we shall travel, Lazaro, Unless we mend our mamten. Once every week I meet with such a knock co mollify me, Sometimes a dozen to awake my conscience, Tet BtUl I sleep securely. Laz. Certain, master, "We must use better dealing. Diego. 'Faith, for mine own part (Not to give ill example to our issues) I could be well content to steal but two girths. And now and then a saddle-cloth ; change a bridle, Only for exercise. Laz. If we could stay there, There were some hope on's, master ; but the devil is "We are drunk so early we mistake whole saddles, IOTb's PILHEIlIAaB. 325 Sometimes a horse ; aad then it seems to us too Every poor" jade has his whole peck, and tumbles Up to his ears in clean straw ; and every bottle Shows at the least a dozen ; when the truth is, sir, There's no such matter, not a smell of provender, Not so much straw as would tie up a horse-tail, Nor anything i' th' rack but two old cobwebs. And so much rotten hay as had been a hen's nest. Diego. Well, these mistakings must be mended, Lazaro, These apparitions, that abuse our senses. And make us ever apt to sweep the manger. But put in nothing ; these fancies must be forgot, Ajid we must pray it may be reveal' d to us Whose horse we ought, in conscience, to cozen. And how, and when. A parson's horse may suffer A little greasing iu his teeth ; 'tis wholesome. And keeps him in a sober shuffle ;' and his saddle May want a stirrup, and it may be sworn His learning lay on one side, and so broke it : He has ever oats in's cloak-bag to prevent us,' And therefore 'tis a meritorious office To tithe him soundly. Laz. And a grazier may (For those are pinching puckfoists,' and suspicious) Suffer a mist before his eyes sometimes too, And think he sees his horse eat half a bushel ; When the truth is, rubbing his gums with salt, TiD. aR the skin come off, he shall but mumble Like an old woman that were chewing brawn, Ajid drop 'em out again. Diego. That may do well too. And no doubt 'tis but venial. But, good Lazaro, Have you a care of uaderstandiag horses, ' A soier shuffie."] Weber informs us, that greasing the teeth with candle snuff was " a common trick of the ostlers at the time, to pre- vent the horses from eating the hay." ' To prevent «i.] To hinder our profits ; — ^to anticipate, and rraidcr us unnecessary. ' Puckfoists.'] Puek-fiats, pickpockets. Richardson dorives the word from Puck (the fairy) bioA foist, to " introduce surreptitiouBly " (videficet, the fingers). ■826 IiOTB's PILQBIUAai!. Horses with angry heels, gentlemen's horses, Horses that know the world ! Let them have mmt Till their teeth ache, and ruhbing till their ribs Shine like a wench's forehead ; they are devils Laz. And look into our dealings. As sure as we live, These courtiers' horses are a kind of Welch prophets ; Nothing can be hid from 'em ! For mine own part. The next I cozen of that kind shall be founder" d, And of all four too. I'll no more such compliments Upon my crupper. Dieffo. Steal but a 'little longer, TiU I am lam'd too, and we'll repent together', It will not be above two days. Zae. By that time I shaJl be well again, and all forgot, w. , Dieffo. "Why then, I'll stay for thee. [I hesitated to insert this and the preceding scene in the present volume < 'because the chief portions of them are taken &om Ben Jonson's comedy, the Tfeie Tim. The copy, however, has variations, and good ones ; we cannot be certain that JTonson may not have owed portions of the original to his friend Fletcher, and some playwright or manager have re- stored them to the co-partner, when " getting up" the piece for per- formance ; and at all events this posthumous treatment of dramatists by the caterers for public amusement leaves the question to be settled as it may. It is not difficult to discern where the lighter, tenderer, and more off-hand manner of Fletcher comes into play ; but the learned de- nunciation of cuerpo, and enumeration of the ornaments on the dress of ceremony, are Jonson's own beyond a doubt. The reader may fancy the two friends composing the scenes together, and thus give me the plea- santest warrant for their introduction.] SBOOim-IiOTB WON. " Leoeadia leaves her father's house, disguisedm man's apparel, to travelm search of Marc-Antonio, to whom she it contracted, but has been deserted by him. When at length she meets with him, she finds that, by a precon- tract, he is the husband of Theodosia, In this extremity, Philippe, brother to Theodosia, offers Leoeadia marriage" SoEifE — A Harbour. Enter Philippo and Lxocasia. Phil. Will you not hear me ? Leoc, I have heard so much Will keep me deaf for ever ! No, Mare- Antonio, lote's pilgbimage. 327 After thy sentence, I may hear no more : Thou hast pronounced me dead ! Phil. Appeal to Eeason : She will reprieve you from the power of grief, "Which rules but in her absence. Hear me say A sovereign message from her, which in duty, And love to your own safety, you ought hear. Why do you strive so ? whither would you fly ? Tou cannot wrest yourself away from care, Tou may from counsel ; you may shift your place, But not your person ; and another clime Makes you no other. Leoc. Oh! Phil. For passion's sake (Which I do serve, honour, and love in you). If you will sigh, sigh here ; if you would vary A sigh to tears, or outcry, do it here ! No shade, no desart, darkness, nor the grave, Shall be more equal to your thoughts than I. Only but hear me speak ! Leoc. What would you say ? Phil. That which shall raise your heart, or pull down mint;, Quiet your passion, or provoke mine own ; We must have both one balsam, or one wound. Por know, lov'd fair, since the first providence Made me your rescue, I have read you through. And with a wond'ring pity look'd on you ; I have observ'd the method of your blood, And waited on it even with sympathy Of a like red and paleness in mine own ; I knew which blush was Anger's, which was Love's, Which was the eye of Sorrow, which of Truth ; And could distinguish honour from disdain In every change ; and you are worth my study. I saw your voluntary misery Sustain'd in travel : a disguised maid, Wearied with seeking, and with finding lost ; Neglected, whero you hop'd most, or put by ; — I saw it, and have laid it to my heart : And though it were my sister which was righted, let being by your wrong, I put off nature. 328 love's PIL9BIMAaB. Could not be glad, where I was bound to triumph. My care for you so drown'd respect of her. Nor did I only apprehend your bonds, But studied your release ; and for that day Have I made up a ransom, brought you health. Preservative 'gainst chance, or injury. Please you apply it to the grief; myself. Leoc. Humph! PMl. Nay, do not think me less than such a cure ; Antonio was not ; and, 'tis possible, PhiUppo may succeed. My blood and house Are as deep-rooted, and as fairly spread. As Marc- Antonio's ; and in that all seek, Fortune hath given him no precedency. As for our thanks to Nature, I may bum Incense as much as he ; I ever durst Walk with Antonio by the self-same light At any feast, or triumph, and ne'er cared Which side my lady or her woman took In their survey : I durst have told my tale too, Though his discourse new ended. Leoe. My repulse-^ Phil. Let not that torture you, which makes me happy ; Nor think that conscience, fair, which is no shame I 'Twas no repulse ; it was your dowry rather : Tor then, methought, a thousand graees met To make you lovely, and ten thouaand stories Of constant virtue, which you then out-reach' d. In one example did proclaim you rich : Nor do I think you wretched, or disgrac'd, After this suffering, and do therefore take Advantage of your need ; but rather know You are the charge and business of those powers, Who, like best tutors, do inflict hard tasks Upon great natures, and of noblest hopes.' ' TfAo, like best tutors, ^c] This noble eentiment has been still more nobly, though very ruggedly, put by another poet j though whether by Daniel, or by Sir John Eeaumont (our dramatist's brother), its appearance ill both their works does not allow us to determine. " Only the firmest and the oonstant'st hearts God sets to act the stout'st and hardest parts.' love's pilgmmage. 829 Eead trivial lessons, and half lines to slugs ; They that live long, and never feel mischance, Spend more than half their age in ignoramce. Leoc. 'Tis weU you think so. Phil. Ton shaU think so too ; Ton shall, sweet Leocadia, and do so. Leoc. Q-ood sir, no more ! you have too fair a shape To play so foul a part in as the tempter. Say that I could make peace with Fortune, who, "Who should absolve me of my vow yet ? ha f My contract made ? Phil. Tour contract ? Leoc. Yes, my contract. Am I not his ? his wife f Phil. Sweet, nothing less. Leoc. I have no name then ? Phil. Truly then, you have not : How can you be his wife, who was befoie Another's husband P Leoc. Oh, though he dispense With his faith given, I cannot with mine. Phil. Ton do mistake, clear soul ; his precontract Doth annul yours, and you have given no faith That ties you in religion, or humanity ; Tou rather sin against that greater precept. To covet what's another's ; sweet, you do : Believe me, you dare not urge dishonest things Eemove that scruple therefore, and but take Tour dangers now into your judgment's scale, And weigh them with your safeties. Think but whither Now you can go ; what you can do to live ; How near you ha' barred all ports to your own succour. Except this one that I here open, love. Should you be left alone, you were a prey To the wild lust of any, who would look Upon this shape like a temptation. And think you want the man you personate ; Would not regard this shift,' which love put on ' SMft.l Pretext. 330 THE NIGHT-WALKEB. As virtue forc'd, but covet it like vice ; So should you live the slander of each sex, And be the child of error and of shame ; And, which is worse, even Marc- Antony Would be caU'd just, to turn a wanderer o£F, And fame report you worthy his contempt ; Where,' if you make new choice, and settle here, There is no further tumult in this flood ; Each current keeps his course, and all suspicions Shall return honours. Came you forth a maid ? G-o home a wife. Alone ? and in disguise ? Go home a waited Leocadia. G-o home, and, by the virtue of that charm. Transform all mischiefs, as you are transform'd ; Turn your offended father's wrath to wonder. And all his loud grief to a silent welcome ; Unfold the riddles you have made. What say you ? Now is the time ; delay is but despair ; K you be chang'd, let a kiss teU me so ! [Kisses her. Leoc. I am ; but how, I rather feel than know. [" This is one of the most pleasing, if not the most shining, scenes in Fletcher. All is sweet, natural, and unforced. It is a copy which we may suppose Massinger to have profited by the studying." — LiJiB.] THE NIGHT- WALKEK ; OE, THE LITTLE THIEF THE IiITDra PHANTOM. Maria, the mistress of Eearttove, after having been suijected to eqmvoeal ajpjpearances by the plot of a icild cottsin, in the Iwpe of forwarding her marriage with her lover, has been put into a coffin for dead during a swoon, aud thus becomes the means of saving them from killing one another. SCBITB — A Churchyard. Enter Heabtlote- Heartl. The night, and all the evils the night covers, The goblins, hags, and the black spawn of darkness, ' Where.'] Whereas. THE KIOHT-VALKEE. 331 Cannot fright me. No, Death, I dare thy cruelty ! For I am weary both of life and light too. Keep my wits. Heaven ! They say spirits appear To melancholy minds, and the graves open : I would fain see the fair Maria's shadow ; But speak unto her spirit, ere I died ; But aek upon my knees a mercy from her. I was a villain ; but her wretched kinsman, That set his plot, shall with his heart-blood satisfy Her injur'd life and honour. — What light 's this ? Enter WlliDBBAilf, voith a lantltom. Wildb. It is but melancholy walking thus ; The tavern-doors are barricadoed too, Where T might drink tUl morn, in expectation ; I cannot meet the watch neither ; nothing in The likeness of a constable, whom I might. In my distress, abuse, and so be carried. For want of other lodging, to the Counter. Heard. 'Tis his voice. Pate, I thank thee ! Wildh. Ha ! who's that ? An' thou be'st a man, speak, Frank Heartlove ? then I bear my destinies ! Thou art the man of all the world I wish'd for : My aunt has tum'd me out of doors ; she has. At this unchristian hour ; and I do walk Methinks like Guido Faux, with my dark lanthom. Stealing to set the town a-flre. I' th' country I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, Or Eobin Qood-feUow. And how dost, Frank ? Seartl. The worse for you ! Wildb. Come, thou'rt a fool. Art going to thy lodging ? rU lie with thee to-night, and tell thee stories, How many devils we ha' met withal ; Our house is haunted, Frank ; whole legions I saw fifty for my share. Heartl. Didst not- fright 'em ? IVildb. How ! fright 'em ? No, they frighted me sufficiently. Heartl. Thou hadst wickedness enough to make thera stare. And be afraid o' thee, malicious devil ! {Braws. ddZ THE HIQHT-WALKEB. And draw thy sword ; for, by Maria's sonl, I will not let thee 'scape, to do more mischief. Wildb. Thou art mad ! what dost mean ? Heartl. To kill thee ; nothing else will ease my anger : The injury is fresh I bleed withal ; Nor can that word express it ; there's no peace in't ; Nor must it be forgiven, but in death. Therefore call up thy valour, if thou hast any, And summon up thy spirits to defend thee ! Thy heart must suffer for thy damned practieea Against thy noble cousin, and my innocence. Wildb. Hold ! hear a word ! did I do anything But for your good ? That you might have her ? That in that desperate time I might redeem her. Although with show of loss ? Heartl. Out, ugly villain ! Pling on her the most hated name [could blast her] To the world's eye, and face it out in courtesy ? Bring him to see't, and make me drunk to attempt it ? Enter Mabia, in her shroud. Maria. I hear some voices this way. Heartl. No more ! if you can pray, Do it as you fight. Maria. What new frights oppose me ? I have heard that tongue. Wildb. 'Tis my fortune ; Tou could not take me in n better time, sir : I have nothing to lose, but the love I lent thee. My life my sword protect ! [Braws. They fight. Maria. I know 'em both ; but, to prevent their ruins. Must not discover — Stay, men most desperate ! The mischief you are forward to commit Win keep me from my grave, and tie my spirit To endless troubles else. Wildb. Ha! 'tis her ghost! Heartl. Maria! Maria. Hear me, both ! each wound you make Euns through my soul, and is a new death to me ; THE iriQHT-'WALEEB. 333 Eacli threatening danger will affiight my rest. Look on me, Heartlove ; and, my kinsman, view me ; "Was I not late, in my unhappy marriage, Sufficient miserable, full of aU misfortunes, But you must add. with your most impious angers, Unto my sleeping dust this insolence ? "Would you teach Time to speak eternally Of my disgraces P make records to keep them. Keep them in brass ? Kght then, and kill my honour. Kght deadly, both ; and let your bloody swords Through my reviv'd and reeking infamy. That never shall be purg'd, find your own ruins. Heartlove, I lov'd thee once, and hop'd agaiu In a more blessed love to meet thy spirit : If thou kill'st him, thou art a murderer ; And murder never shall inherit Heaven. My time is come ; my coneeal'd grave expects me : Farewell, and follow not ; your feet are bloody, And wiU pollute my peace. [Exit. Heartl. Stay, blessed soul. Wildb. "Would she had Come sooner, and sav'd some blood ! Heartl. Dost bleed ? Wildb. Yes, certainly ; I can both see and feel it. . ~Seartl. Now I well hope it is not dangerous. Give me thy hand. As far as honour guides me, I'll know thee agdn. Wildb. I- thank thee heartily. 334 THE BLOODY BaOTHEB. THE BLOODY BROTHER j OR, ROLLO, PUKK OV NORMANDY. MAD FANCIES OJf FEA8TEBS. Scene — .i Servant's Hall. Enter the Master Cook, Butler, Pantler, Yeoman of the Cellar with a jack of beer' and a dish. Cook. A hot day, a hot day, vengeance hot day, boys I Q-ive me some drink ; this fire 's a plaguy fretter ! [^Drinks out of the dish' Body of me, I am dry still !' give me the jack, boy ; This wooden skiff holds nothing. ipyinks out of the jack. Pant. And, 'faith, master, What brave new meats ? for here will be old eating. Cook. Old and young, boy, let 'em all eat, I have it ; Let 'em have ten tire of teeth a-piece, I care not. But. But what new rare munition ? Gook. Pho ! a thousand : I'll make you pigs speak French at table, and a fat swan Come sailing out of England with a challenge ; I'll make you a dish of calves' feet dance the canaries,*' And a consort of cramm'd capons fiddle io 'em : A calf's head speak an oracle, and a dozen of larks Bise from the dish, and sing all supper time. 'Tis nothing, boys. I have framed a fertdfication ' A jack of ieer."] A jack was (and is, for it is extant still in old in- stitutions) a toll vessel for holcUng liquor, made of stiffened leather, lined with rosin, and shaped like a boot; whence a great stiffened boot is called & jack-boot. " Drinks out of the dish.'] The term- dish was not always confined, as it is now, to something shallow, or at best something nnused for holding drink. The phrase, dish of tea, still lingers perhaps in some old domestic places. ^ With a challenged] An aJluMon, perhaps, to some circumstance of the day, * The canaries.^ ''A dance," says Richardson, "common to the Canary Isles, and thence introduced into this country." Query, from a passage which he refers to in Sh^speare, whether the name of the danca THE BLOODY BEOTHEE. 335 Out of rye-paste, which is impregnable ; And against that, for two long hours together, Two dozen of marrow-bones shall play continually. JFor fish, I'll make you a standing lake of white-broth, And pikes come plowing up the plums before them ; Arion, on a dolphin, playing Lachrymae ;' And brave king Herring,' with his oil and onion Crown'd with a lemon peel, his way prepar'd "With his strong guard of pUchers. Pant. Ay marry, master ! Cook: All these are nothing : I'll make you a stubble goose Turn o' th' toe thrice, do a cross-point presently. And then sit down again, and cry, " Come eat me !" These are for mirth. Wow, sir, for matter of mourning, I'll bring you in the lady Loin-of-veal,. With the long love she bore the Prince of Orange. All. Thou boy, thou ! Cook. I have a trick for thee too. And a rare trick, and I have done it for thee. Yeo. What's that, good master ? Cook. 'Tis a sacrifice : A full vine bending, like an arch, and' under The blown god Bacchus, sitting on a hogshead, His altar here ; before that, a plump vintner Kneeling, and offering incense to his deity. Which shall be only this, red sprats and pilchers. may not have been derived from the trained canary bird, and its move- ments while singing ? Moth. Master, will you win your love with a Erench brawl ? [A kind of dance}. Armado. How mean'st thou ? brawling in French ? Moth. No, my complete master ; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with Your feet, humour'd with turning up your eye-lids ; sigh a note, and sing a note, &c. Jiov^s Labour Lost, Act iii. Sc. 1. Lachrymal A popular air by Dowland, the lute-master ol hi* time. King Eerring.'] The herring has been called the King of Fish from its supposed conquest of the whale, by going down his throat and choakiiig him. S36 THE BLOOBY BUOTEEB. But. This when the table's drawn, to draw the wine on. Cook. Thou hast it right ; and then comes thy song, butler. Font. This will be admirable ! Teo. Oh, sir, most admirable ! Cbok. If you will have the pasty speak, 'tis in my power ; I have fire enough to work it. Come, stand close. And now rehearse the song ; the drinking song. [2'Acy «J»^, soira. Brink to-day, and drown all sorrow. You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow. Best, while you have it, use your breath ; There is no drinking after death. Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit, There is no cure 'gainst age but it ; It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisic. And is for all diseases physic. Then let us swill, boys, for our health ; Who drinks well, loves the commonwealth ; And he that will to bed go sober. Falls with the leaf, still in October.' JBATBIOISE. Sollo, he Bloody Brother, joint Duke of Normandg, impatient iff hit brother Otto^s share in the sovereignty, hills him in presence of their mother, Sophia. SoEKB — The Mother^ s Private Boom in the Palace, where she, and her son Otto, her daughter Matilda, and Edith daughter of RolWs tutor Baldwin, have been conversing. Enter to them EoiLO, armed, and his favourite minister Latoeoh. Rollo. Perish all the world Ere I but lose one foot of possible empire, By sleights and colour used by slaves and wretches P ' Still in October^ This song appears to have become very popular. A variation of it, I believe, is not yet gone out of fashion among drixiking parties, I remember to have heard it in my youth, in Fletcher's uni- versity, roaring away at a good " witching time of night." ' By sleights and colour, &«.] Through the poor pretences and argu- ments in use with slavish minds. THB BLOODT BEOTHEE. 337 I am exempt by birth from both those curbs. And sit above them in all justice, since I sit above in power. Where power is given, Is aU the right suppos'd of earth and heaven. Lat. Prove both, sir ; see the traitor ! Otto. He comes arm'd ; See, mother, now your confidence ! Soph. What rage affects this monster ? Eollo. Give me way, or perish ! Soph. Make thy way, viper, if thou thus affect it ! Otto (embracing his mother). This is a treason like thee ! Rollo. Let her go ! Soph. Embrace me, wear me as thy shield, my son ; And through my breast let his rude weapon run To thy life's innocence ! Otto. Play not two parts, Treacher' and coward both, but yield a sword, And let thy arming thee' be odds enough Against my naked bosom ! Eollo. Loose his hold ! Matilda. Forbear, base murderer Rollo. Porsake our mother. Soph. Mother dost thou name me, And put off nature thus ? Rollo. Forsake her, traitor ; Or, by the spoil of nature, thorough hers. This leads unto thy heart ! Otto. Hold ! [Quits his mother. Soph. Hold me still. Otto (to his mother). For twenty hearts and hves, 1 will One drop of blood in yours. [not hazard Soph. Oh, thou art lost then ! Otto. Protect my innocence. Heaven ! Soph. Call out murder ! Mat. Be murder'd all, but save him ! Edith. Murder ! murder ! Rollo. Cannot I reach you yet ? Otto. No, fiend. \They wrestle. Eollo /ai^. ' Treacher.'] Traitor. ' Thi) arming iAee.] Thy wearing of armour. Z 338 THE BLOODY BBOTHER. Rollo. Latoreh, Eescue ! I'm down. Lat. Tip then ; your sword cools, sir : Ply it i' th' flatne, and work your ends out. Rollo. Ha! Have at you there, sir ! Enter Aubbet. Aub. Author of prodigies ! What sights are these ? Otto. Oh, give me a weapon, Aubrey ! \_He is atahbed. fioph. Oh, part 'em, part 'em ! Aub. For Heaven's aabe, no more ! Otto. No more resist his fury ; no rage can Add to his mischief done. \_Diea. Soph. Take spirit, my Otto ; Heaven wiU not see- thee die thus. Mat. He is dead,. And nothing \wea but death of every goodness. Soph. Oh, he hath slain his brother ; curse him, Heaven ! Rollo. Curse and' be curs'd'!' it is the fruit of cursing. — Latorch, take off here ; bring too of that blood To colour o'er my shirt ; then raise the court, And give it out how he attempted us. In our bed naked'. Shall the name of brother Porbid us to enlarge our state and powers ? Or place affects of blood above our reason, That tells- us, aU things good against another, Are good in the same Une against a brother ? Sollo, among his oth^r siaughteTS,.hamng ordered the death of hla tutor Baldvnn, « ituplored hy Hie latter' t daughter to spare it', an'/ cursed by her for being implored in vain. During her execrations he falls in love with her. Rollo. Go,. take this dotard here,. and take his head Off with a sword. Samond. Tour schoolmaster ? i2o;?o. Even he. [Bamatut » seitt Bald. For teaching thee no better ; 'tis the beat Of all thy damned justices !^— Away;. Captain ; I'll follow. THB BIiOODT BEOTHBE. 339 Edith. Oh, stay there, Duke; [Coming forward and kneelirig. And in the midst of all thy blood and fury Hear a poor maid's petitions^ hear a daughter; The only daughter of a wretched father ! Oh, stay your haste, as you shall need this mercy ! Rollo. Away with this fond woman ! Edith. You must hear me, If there be any spark of pity in you. If sweet humanity and mercy rule you ! I do confess you are a prince, your anger As great as you, your execution greater Rollo. Away with him ! Edith. Oh, captain, by thy manhood. By her soft soul that bare thee — ^I do confess, sir, Tour doom of justice on your foes most righteous- Good noble prince, look on me \ Rolhy. Take her from me ! Edith. A curse upon his life that hinders me ! May father's blessing never fall upon him. May Heaven ne'er hear his prayers ! I beseech you, Oh, sir, these tears beseech you, these chaste bauds woo That never yet were heav'd but to things- holy, [you, Things like yoursdf ! Tou are a god above us ; Ee as a god then, fuU of saying mercy J Mercy, oh, mercy, sir, for Bis sake mercy. That, when your stout heart weeps, shall give you pity ! Here I must grow. Rollo. By heaven, I'll strike thee, woman ! Edith. Most wiUingly ; let all' (thy anger seize me. All the most studied torments, so this good man, This old mim, and ibis innocent, escape thee 1 Rollo. Carry him away, I say ! Edith. Kow, blessing on thee ! Oh, sweet pity ! 1 see it in thy eyes. — I charge you, soldiers, Even by the prince's power, release my father ! The prince is merciful ; why do you hold him ? The prince forgets his fury ; why do you tug him ? He is old ; why do you hurt him ? Speak, oh, speak, sir ! Speak, as you are a man ! a man's me hangs, sir,, A friend's life, and a foster life, upon you. 340 THE BLOODY BEOTHEB. "Ks but a word, but mercy quickly spoke, sir. Oh, speak, prince, speak ! Rollo. Will no man here obey me ? Have I no rule yet ? As I live, he dies That does not execute my will, and suddenly ! Bald. All that thou canst do takes but one short hour from Rollo. Hew off her hands ! [me. Ham. Lady, hold off! Edith. No, hew 'em j Hew off my innocent hands, as he commands you I They'll hang the faster on for death's convulsion. — [Exit Baldwin with the G-uard. Thou seed of rocks, will nothing move thee then ? Are all my tears lost ? all my righteous prayers Drown' d in thy dninken wrath ? I stand up thus, then ; Thus boldly, bloody tyrant ; And to thy face, in Heaven's high name defy thee ! And may sweet mercy, when thy soul sighs for it, "When under thy black mischiefs thy flesh trembles. When neither strength, nor youth, nor friends, nor gold, Can stay one hour ; when thy most wretched conscience, Wak'd from her dream of death, like fire shall melt thee ; When all thy mother's tears, thy brother's wounds. Thy people's fears and curses, and my loss. My aged father's loss, shall stand before thee Rollo. Save him, I say ; run, save him, save her father ; Fly, and redeem his head ! \JExit Latoboh. Edith. May then that pity. That comfort thou expect' st from Heaven, that mercy, JBe loek'd up from thee, fly- thee ! bowlings find thee. Despair (oh, my sweet father !), storms of terrors, Blood till thou burst again ! Rollo. Oh, fair sweet anger ! Enter Latobch and Hamodn, with Baldwin's head. Lat. I came too late, sir, 'twas dispatch'd before ; His head is here. Rollo. And my heart there ! Go, bury him ; Gf-ivc him fair rites of funeral, decent honours. THE BLOODY BBOTHEE. 341 Edith. Wilt thou not take me, monster ? HighsBt Heaven, Oive him a punishment fit for his mischief ! [Falls doton. [" I scaicety know a more deeply tragic scene anywhere than that in Mollo, in which Edith pleads for her Other's life, and then, when she cannot prevail, rises up and imprecates vengeance on his murderer."^ — CoiiEBmaE. Most pathetic is all the pleading of Sdith, particularly the remon- Etrances with the soldiers in the speech begiiming " Now, blessing on thee." We love also the &UehoodB and flatteries which she uses towards the scoundrel before her ; and hear, with the tears in our eyes, her poor voice speaMng fondly to him in her convulsed and agonising throat.] SoHo, while iruHdng love to Edith, and toucMng her leith pity, ia alain iy his captain of the guard, Hamond, leith her encouragement. SOElTB — A Room in BALDTVUf's House, with a banquet set out. Enter Edith. Edith {speaking to herself). Now for thy father's murder and the ruin AH chastity shall suffer if he reign ! [-Ereeefe. Thou blessed soul, look down, and steel thy daughter ! Look on the sacrifice she comes to send thee. And through the bloody clouds behold my piety ! Take from my cold heart fear, from my sei pity, And as I wipe these tears off, shed for thee, So aU remembrance may I lose of mercy I GKve me a woman's anger bent to blood, The wildness of the winds to drown his prayers ! Storm-like may my destruction fall upon him, My rage, like roving biUows as they rise, Pour'd on his soul to siok it ! Give me flattery (For yet my constant soul ne'er knew dissembling]^ Elattery the food of fools, that I may rock hiin And lull him in the down of his desires ; That in the height of aU. his hopes and wishes, His Heaven forgot, and all his lusts upon him. My harid, like thunder from a cloud, may seize him ! — 243 TUT! BLOODY buotfee. Enter Eollo. Rollo. What bright star, taking Beauty's form upon her, In aU the happy lustre of Heaven's glory, Has dropp'd down from the sty to comfort rae ? Wonder of nature, let it not prophane thee My rude hand touch thy beauty ; nor this kiss, The g«nt!e sacrifice of love and service. Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness. Edith. My gracious lord, no deity dwells here, Nor nothing of that virtue, out obedience ; The servant to your will affects no flattery. Rotto. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes Are Love's eternal iaflips he fires all hearts with ? That tongue the smart string to his bow ? those sigha The deadly shafts he sends into our souls ? Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty ! Edith. Tour grace is full of game. RoUo. By heaven, my Edith, Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee. Edith (aside). And thine on brambles, that have prick'd her heart ,out ! Rollo. The sweetness of the Arabian wind, still blowing Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices. In aU their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress ! Edith. Will't please you sit, sir ? Bollo. So you please sit by me. \They stt. Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee ; The excellency that appears upon thee Ties up my tongue ! Pray speak to me. Edith. Of what, sir ? Rollo. Of anything ; anything is excellent. Will you take my directions ? Speak of love then ; Speak of thy fair self, Edith ; and while thou speak' st, Let me, thus languishing, give up myself, wench. Edith (aside'). He has a strange cunning tongue. — Why do you sigh, sir ? — How ELasterly he turns himself to catch me ! Rollo. The way to Paradise, my gentle maid, Is hard and crooked, scarce repentance finding, THE BLOODT BEOTHEB. 34!3 With all her holy helps, the door to enter. Give me thy hand : what dost thou feel ! Edith. Your tears, sir ; [justice ! — Tou weep extremely. — (Aside.") Strengthen me now, "Why are these sorrows, sir ? Bollo. Thou wUt never love me If I should tell thee ; yet there's no way left Ever to purchase this bless' d Paradise, But swimming thither ia these tears. Edith. I stagger ! Rollo. Are they not drops of blood ? Edith. No. Bollo. They are for blood then, Tor guiltless blood ! and they must drop, my Edith, They must thus drop, till I have drown' d my mischiefs. Edith (aside). If this be true, I have no strength to touch Bollo. I pr'ythee look upon me ; turn not from me ! [him. Alas, I do confess I'm made of mischief. Begot with aU men's miseries upon me ; But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou, Wbose only sweetest sacrifice is softness. Whose true condition tenderness of nature ■ Edith (aside). My anger melts; oh, I shall lose my justice Bollo. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty. As- 1 have done ; to murder with thy eyes. Those blessed eyes, as I have done with malice. When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn (Ai I deserve it, lady) for my true love, When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever. Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I suffer. Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror, Pursue thee not ; no time shall tell thy griefs then, "Not shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties. Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father ; As I was smear'd in blood, do thou not hate me ; But thus, in whiteness of my wash'd repentance, In my heart's tears and truth of love to Edith, In my fair life hereafter Edith (aside). He will fool me ! Bollo. Oh, with thine angel-eyes behold and bless me t 344 THE BLOOBT BBOTHIIB. Of Heaven we call for mercy, and obtain it ; To Justice for our right on earth, and have it ; Of thee I beg for love ; save me, and give it ! Hdith (aside). Now, Heaven, thy help, or I am gone for His tongue has tum'd me into melting pity ! [ever ; Enter 'Hamoso and Guard. Ham. Keep the doors safe ; and, upon pain of death. Let no man enter till I give the word. Guard. "We shall, sir. Ham. Here he is, in all hia pleasure : I have my wish. Rollo. How now P why dost thou stare so ? Edith. A help, I hope ! Rolla. "What dost thou here P who sent thee ? Ham. My brother, and the base malicious office Thou mad'st me do to Aubrey. Pray ! Rollo. Pray? Ham.. Pray ! Pray, if thou canst pray ! I shall kill thy soul else ! Pray suddenly I Rollo. Thou canst not be so traitorous ! Ham. It is a justice. — Stay, lady ! For I perceive your end : a woman's hand Must not rob me of vengeance. Edith. 'Tis my glory ! [Eollo, Ham. 'Tis miae ; stay, and share with me. — By the gods, There is no way to save thy life ! Rollo. No? Ham. No: It is so monstrous, no repentance cures it ! Rollo. Why then, thou shalt kill her first ; and what this blood [Seizes Edith. Will cast upon thy cursed head Ham. Poor guard, sir ! Edith. Spare not, brave captain ! Rollo. Fear, or the devil have thee ! Ham. Such fear, sir, as you gave your honour'd mother, When your most virtuous brother shield-like heJd her. Such I'll give you. Put her away. THE BLOODY BEOTHEE. 345 tloUo. I win not ; I will not die so tamely. Hara, Murderous viUaiQ, WUt thou draw seas of blood upon thee ? Edith. Fear not ; Kill him, good captain ! any way dispatch him ! My body's honour'd with that sword that through me Sends his black soul to hell ! Oh, but for one Imnd ! Ham. Shake him off bravely. Edith. He is too strong. ^Strike him ! Hora. (They struggle, Bollo seizes Edith's dagger.) Oh, am I with you, sir ? Now keep you from him ! What, has he got a knife ? Edith. Look to him, captain ; For now he will be mischievous. Ham. Do you smile, sir ? Does it so tickle you ? Have at you once more ! Edith. Oh, bravely thrust ! Take heed he come not in, sir, To him again ; you give him too much respite. Rollo. Tet wilt thou save my life ? and I'll forgive thee, And give thee all ; all honours, all advancements ; Call thee my friend ! Edith. Strike,' strike, and hear him not ! His tongue will tempt a saint. lollo. Oh, for my soul sake ! Hdith. Save nothing of him ! Ham. Now for your farewell ! Are you so wary ? take you that ! [Stabs him. Rollo. Thou that too ! [Stabs him. Oh, thou hast kill'd me basely, basely, basely ! \IHes, Edith. The just reward of murder falls upon thee ! How do you, sir t has he not hurt you ? TIam. No; T feel not any Lhing. Aub. (within). I charge you let us pass ! Guard (within)-. Tou cannot yet, sir. Aub. I'll make way then. Guard. We are sworn to our captain : And, till he give the word Ham. Now let them in there. 346 THE BLOODY BBOTUEB. Enter Sophia, Matilda, ArBEET, Lords, and Attendants. Soph. Oh, there he lies ! Sorrow on sorrow seeks me ! Oh, in his blood he lies ! Aub. Had you spoke sooner. This might hare been prevented. Take the ducliess. And lead her off; this is no sight for her eyes. [Sophia led out. Mat. Oh, bravely done, wench ! Edith. There stands the noble doer. Mat. May honour ever seek thee for thy justice ! Oh, 'twas a deed of high and brave adventure, A justice even for Heaven to envy at ! Aarewell, my sorrows, and my tears take truce ; My wishes are come round ! Oh, bloody brother, Till tJiis hour never beauteous ; till thy life, Like a full sacrifice for all thy mischiefs, riow'd from thee in these rivers, never righteous ! Oh, how my eyes are quarried with their joys now ! My longing heart even leaping out for lightness ! But, die thy black sins with thee ; I forgive thee ! Aub. "Who did this deed ? Ham. I, and I'll answer it ! \_Dies. Edith. He faints ! Oh, that same cursed knife has kill'd Aub. HowP [him'. Edith. He snatch'd it from my hand for whom I bore it ; And as they grappled Ajiib. Justice is ever equal ! Had it not been on him, thou faadst died too honest. Did you know of his death P Edith. Tes, and rejoice in't. Aub. I am sorry for your youth then, for though the strictness Of law shall not fall on you, that of life Must presently. Go, to a cloister carry her ; And there for ever lead jour life in penitence. Edith. Best father to my soul, 1 give you thanks, sir ! And now my fair revenges have their ends, My vows shall be my km, my prayers my fiiends 1 [I have inserted the scene between Edith and Bollo out of respect to the judgment of Lamb, who has put it in his Dramatic Specimens, JSut THE QTJEEK OF COErSTH. 347 I confess I do not lite it ; I do not take its truthfulness to nature for granted, whatever mixed feelings it may imply, or whatever Shakspearean shrewdness be supposed -to emulate ; and I think it casts a blot on the beautiful scene preceding it in this volume. There are women, of course, and there are men, who may be flattered into any unworthiness ; but the first Edith, in this instance, is not fashioned to become the second ; and such conduct, be the poet who he may that implies otherwise, is a libel on the sex in general.] THE QUEEN OF COEIUTH. TBITE GENEEOSITT. Beliza^ a rich and noble-minded lady, welcomes her .poor hut equally generous Lover from the wars. Enter Ecphaitbs. Bel. Could I im one word speak a thousand weleomes, And hearty ones, you have 'em. Py ! my hand ? 'We stand at no such distance. By my Hfe, The parting kiss you took before your travel Is yet a virgin on my lips, preserv'd With as much care as I would do my fame, To entertain your wish'd return. Euph. Best lady, That I do honour you, and with as much reason As ever man did virtue, — that 1 love you, Yet look upon you with that reverence As holy men behold the sun, the stare. The temples, and their gods, — they all can witness ; And that you have deserved this duty from me, The life, and means of life, for which I owe you, Commands me to profess it, since my fortune Affords no other payment. Bel. I had thought, That for the t riflin g courtesies, as I call them (Though you give them another name), you had Made ample satisfaction in the acceptance ; And therefore did presume you had brought home Some other language. 348 THE QTHSEK CF COEIKTH. Euph. No one I have learn' d Yields words sufficient to express jour goodness ; Nor can I ever chuse another theme, And not be thought unthankful. Bel. Pray you no more, As you respect me. Euph. That charm is too powerful For me to disobw it. 'Tis your pleasure, And not my boldmess, madam. Bel. Good Euphanes, Believe I am not one of those weak ladies. That (barren of all inward worth) are proud Of what they cannot truly call their own, Their birth or fortune, which are things without them : Nor in this will I imitate the world. Whose greater part of men think, when they give. They purchase bondmen, not make worthy mends. By all that's good I swear, I never thought My great estate was an addition to me, Or that your wants took from you. Euph. There are few So truly understanding, or themselveB, Or what they do possess. Bel. Good Euphanes, where benefits Axe iU conferr'd, as on unworthy men, That turn them to bad uses, the bestower, Por wanting judgment how and on whom to place them, Is partly guilty : but when we do favours To such as make them grounds on which they bmld Their noble actions, there we improve our fortunes To the most fair advantage. If I speak Too much, though I confess I speak well, Pr'ythee remember 'tis a woman's weakness, And then thou wilt forgive it. Euph. You speak nothing But what would well become the wisest man : And that by you deliver' d ia so pleasing That I could hear you ever. Bel. Fly not from THE QTJEEN Or COEnTTH. 349 Tour word, for I arrest it, and will now Express myself a little more, and prove That whereas you profess yourself my debtor, That I am, yours. Euph. Tour ladyship then must use Some sophistry I ne'er heard of. Bel. By plain reasons ; For, look you, had you never sunk beneath Your wants, or if those wants had found supply From Crates, your unkind and covetous brother. Or any other man, I then had miss'd A subject upon wtiich I worthily Might exercise my bounty : whereas now. By having happy opportunity To furnish you before, and in your travels, "With all conveniences that you thought useful, That gold which would have rusted in my coffers, Being thus employ' d, has render'd me a partner In all your glorious actions. And whereas, Had you not been, I should have died a thing Scarce known, or soon forgotten, there's no trophy In which Euphanes for his worth is mention' d, But there you have been careful to remember. That all the good you did came from Beliza. Euph. That was but thaiikfulness. Bel. 'Twas such an honour. And such a large return for thp poor trash I ventured with you, that, if I should part With all that I possess, and myaelt too. In satisfaction for it, 'twere still shorb Of your deservings. Euph. Tou o'erprize them, madam. Bel. The queen herself hath given me gracious thanks In your behalf ; for she hath heard, Euphanes, How gallantly you have maintain'd her honour In all the courts of Greece. And rest assur'd (Though yet unknown), when I present you to hor, "Which I will do this evening, you shall find That she intends good to you. Euph. "Worthiest lady, 860 THE MAID IS TUE MILL, Since all you labour for is the advaneeitient Of him that ■will live ever your poor servant, He must not contradict it. ETJIOOT FUOM A QTJBElf IN lOVB. Well, thou'rt the composition of a god : My lion, lamb, my eaglet, and my dove, "Whose soul runs clearer than Diana's foimt T Nature pick'd several flowers from her choice baniis, A&d bound them, up in thee, sending thee forth A posy for the bosom of a queen. SONG- OF CONSOLATION Foa StTBTTTOBS OP THE DEAD. Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone ; Yiolets pluck' d the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again ; Trim thy locks, look chearfully, Pate's hidden ends eyes cannot see. Joys as winged dreams fly fast. Why should sadness longer \aeii ? Chief is but a wound to woe ; CKflitlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. APEIL. An April day, In which the sun and west-wind play together^ Stanving to catch and drink the balmy drops. THE MAID m 'IHE MILL. A LITTLE CHAEMEE. Antonio ararf Maetine. Jnt. Peace, heretic ! " Placet which pale pastiou loves."] Beaumont, while writing this Terse, perhaps the finest in the poem, probably had in Jiis memory that nil Marloire, in his description of Tambmrlaine — ' Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion.* " Imagination and Famy, p. 219. 356 THE mCE TALOTJE, Moon-light walks, when all the fowls Are waimlj housed, save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan L These are the sounas we feed upon ; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Ncfthing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. [Tradition has given these Terses to Beaumont, though they appeared after his death, and perhaps after Fletcher's, in a play in which the former has been thought to have had no share. Indeed, the Nice Valouf, or Passionate Madman, with its poor plot and fantastical characters, is not a production worthy of the best reputation of either, with the ex- ception of the scene given in this volume, and the present exquisite song. The song answers completely to the idea one entertains of the graver genius of Beaumont ; and the probabiUty is, that it was left by him in the hands of his friend, and inserted in the Ifice Valour by some playwright who made use of other fragments of theirs, 'and so " got up" the whole drama. " I cannot help thinking that a couplet has been lost after the words ' bats and owls.' It is true the four verses ending with those words might be made to belong to the preceding four, as among the things ' welcomed j' but the junction would be forced, and the modulation in- jured. They may remain, too, where they are, as combining to suggest the ' sounds ' wMch the melancholy man feeds upon ; ' fountain-heads ' being audible, 'groves' whispering, and the 'moonlight walks' being attended by the hooting owl (and the 'short shrill, shriek' of the bat). They also modulate beautifully in this case. Tet these intima- tions themselves appear a little forced ; whereas, supposing a couplet to be supplied, there would be a distinct reference to melancholy sights as well as sounds. " The conclusion is divine. Indeed, the whole poem, as Hazlitt says, is the ' perfection of this kind of writing.' Orpheus might have hung it, like a pearl, in the ear of Proserpina. It has naturally been thought to have suggested the Penseroso to Milton, and is worthy to have done so ; for, fine as that is, it is still finer. It is the concentration of a hundred melancholies." — Imaginaiion and Fancy, p. 211.] MTSCELIiAItBOTJS POEMS OP BEATTitONT. 35? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OP BEAUMONT. ON THE TOUBS IN WE8TMIN8TEE ABBEY. Mortality, behold and fear, What a change of flesh is here ! Think how many royal bones Sleep withiQ this heap of stones ; Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want help to stir their hands ; Where, from their pulpits, seal'd with dust. They preach, "In greatness is no trust !" Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal' st seed That the earth did e'er suck in. Since the first man died for sin : Here the bones of birth have cried, " Though gods they were, as men they died :" Here are sands, igno ble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fat«.' ' Dtttt, once dead iyfateJ] This is a very forced and not very intelli- ^ble ezpression. "Wliat is the meaning of " Buried in dust, once dead by fate ?" Does it mean that kings are buried in dust, when they are. dead P If so, what is the meaning of the phrase ? Or does it mean that the dust was once dead — that is, killed — by fate ? and if so, what is the meaning of that ? Why, too, dead " by fate ?" By what else could they supposed to be dead P I cannot but think there is some mistake of the press. May not the author have written, " once dread like &te p" that is to say, G^iey hare now undergone the £ite of all men, and are dust ; although this dust itself was once dreaded like fete. Or, to come closer to a printer's error, may dead iyfate have been, in the manuscript, deadly fate ? so that an I was merely substituted tor ^hf The meaning would still be similar to the one just mentioned ; namely, that this dust, now dead, was once^ itself, a deadly fate ; that is to say, could give death to others. But the expression, in this case, would not he so unforced. 858 MIBOELLAFEOUS FOXUS OP BEAITMOirr. THE MEBMAID lATEBK. (Firom a Letter to Ben Joiuon.) The Bun (wMch doth the greatest comfort bring To absent Mends, because the self-same thing They know they see, however absent) is Here our best hay-maker (forgive me this ! It is our country's style.) In this warm shine I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. Oh, we have water miz'd with claret lees, Drink apt to bring in drier heresies Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain. With fiistmn metaphors to stuiFthe brain : I think, with one draught man's invention &des : Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliads. 'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliffs wit,' Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet. MU'd with such moisture, in most greivous qualms. Did Eobert Wisdoms write his singing psalms. And so must I do this. And jet I think It is a potion sent us down to dnnk. By special Providence, keeps us from fights. Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. "Ha this that keeps our minds fit for our states, A medicine to obey our magistrates : For we do live more free than you ; no hate, "No envy at one another's happy state, Moves us ; we are all equal : every whit Of land that God gives men here is their wit, If we consider fully ; for our best And gravest man wiU with his main house jest * Sutclift tuii.'] Matthew Sutcliffe, Dean of Exeter, s oontrover- . eialist of the day, who, though a zealous Frotestant, and founder of Chelsea College (on its first pun, as a school of polemics), was at one time out of favour with the court, — ^perhaps at we date of this letter. An investigation of his writings would probably show us the reason of Beaumont's dislike of him ; but the commentators appear to have been afraid of encountering them. s Robert WUdom.'] A contributor to the Ftabnt of Steruhold and Hopkins. SasCELLAITEOUS POUIliS OF BHATTMOHT. 859 Scarce please you ; we want subtilty to do The city-tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too : Here are none that can bear a painted show, Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow ; "Who, like nulls, set the right way for to grind, Can make their gains alike with every wind : Ordy some fellows, with the subtlest pate Amongst us, may perchance equivocate At selling of a horse, and that's the most. Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest Held up at tenuis, which men do the beat With the best gamesters. What things have we seea Done at the Mermaid !' heard words that have been So nimble, and so fuU of subtile flame. As if that Isvery one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest^ And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his duU life ; then when there hath been thrown Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past ; wit that might warrant be for the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancell'd ; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Bight witty ; though but downright fools, mere wise. TO MT I'BIEDD MB. JOHN TLISTCHEB, TPOlf HIS EAITHriTL SHEPHEBDESS. I know too well, that, no more than the man, That travels through the burning desarts, can, ' Done at the Mermaid.'] This celebrated taTern, funous for a club which is said to have uumbered among its associates others of the great- est wits and poets of the time, Sbakspeaie included, was first supposed to have been in ComhUl, then in Friday Street, and now, upon the strength of a passage in Ben J onsen, is concluded to have been in Breai Street. Bnt as the passage in Ben Jonson speaks of it simply as " the Bread Street Mermaid," and does not associate it with the club, directly orindiiectlv, the conclusion appears to have been hasty. The specification of the tarem as " the Bread Street Mermaid" might even luive been intended to distinguish it from a greater namesake. 860 HIBCELLAITEOUS FOEMB Of BEAHMOKT. When he is beaten with the raging sun, Half-smother'd with the dust, have power to run Prom a cool river, which himself doth find, Ere ho be slaked ; no more can he, whose mind . Joys in the Muses, hold from that delight. When Nature and his fuU thoughts bid him write. Yet wish I those, whom I for friends have known, To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own. Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain. Upon the public stage present his vein, And make a thousand men in judgment sit, To call ia question his undoubted wit. Scarce two of which can understand the laws Which they should judge by, nor the party's cause ? Among the rout, there is not one that hath In his own censure an explicit faith ; • One company, knowing they judgment lack, Ground their belief on the next man in black ; Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute ; Some like, as he does in the fairest suit ; He, as his mistress doth ; and she, by chance ; Nor want there those, who, as the boy doth dance Between the acts, wiU censure the whole play : Some like if the wax- lights be new that day : But multitudes there are, whose judgment goes Headlong according to the actors' clothes. For this, these public things and I agree So iU, that, but to do a right to thee, I had not been persuaded to have hurl'd These few ill-spoken lines into the world, Both to be read and censur'd of by those Whose very reading makes verse senseless prose ; Such as must spend above an hour to spell A challenge on a post, to know it well ; But since it was thy hap to throw away Much wit, for which the people did not pay Because they saw it not, I not dislike This second publication, which may strike Their consciences, to see the thing they scom'd. To be with so much wit and art adorn' d. MI8CE1LAKE0US POEMS OB FLETOGLEB. 361 Besides, one 'vantage more in this I see ; Tour censurers must have the quality Of reading ; which I am afraid is more Than half your- shrewdest judges had before. [2He Faithful Shepherdess, on its first appearance, was damned, — ^ catastrophe which the poet spA. his friends attrihuted partly to the habitual ignorance of the audience, and partly to their disappoint' ment at finding it a work of elegance, instead of a vulgar clap-trap full of clownish pastimes and drollery. But after what the poets themselves had led audiences to expect by the sort of writing with which they were in the habit of indul^ng them, it was hardly fair to demand of the public a sudden appreciation of their idealisms ; nor is it certain that refinement itself, and even common sense, did not take a part in the con- demnation of the piece ; for Schlegel has called it an " unchaste eulogiunc of chastity ;" and w:hat was to be thought by anybody, refined or vulgar, of the Shepherdes^s iantastical lover, who passionately desires what it would grieve tiiTti to obtain, and adores her because she will not have him ? Besides the beauties, however, which this pastoral drama contains, its very damnation was a gain to posterity ; &r it produced us these ex- cellent verses of Beaumont, and a like enthusiastic " adhesion" &om Ben Jonson, ending with one of his happiest assumptions of the right of sovereign arbitration : — " I that am glad thy innocence was thy guilt [He attributes the damnation to the absence of ribaldry] So crown thy mvrder'd poem ; which shall rise A glorified work to time, when fire. Or moths shall eat what all these fools admire."] MISCELLAITEOFS POEMS OF FIETCHEE. From the verses entitled " Upon an Honest Man's Fortune," that were printed at the end of the play so called. Tou that can look through heaven, and tell the stars. Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars ; Find out new lights, and give them where you please, To those men honours, pleasures, to those ease ; You that are God's surveyors, and can show How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow ; Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder, And when it will shoot over, or fall under ; 962 MISCELXAITEOVB POEMS OF FLIilCH^B. Tell me, by all your art I conjure ye, Yes, and by truth, what shall become of mo ? Find out my star, if eaeh one, as you say, Have his peculiar angel, and his way j Observe my fate, next fall into your dreams, Sweep clean your houses,' and new-line your seams,' Then say your worst ! Or have I none at all ? Or, is it burnt out lately ? or did fall ? Or, am I poor ? not able, no full flame ? My star, like me, unworthy of a name ? Is it, your art can only work on those That deal with dangers, dignities, and clothes ? JTith love, or new opinions ? You all lie ! A fish- wife hath a fate, and so have I. Man is his own star, and the soul that can Bender an honest and a perfect man. Commands all light, all influence, all fate ; I^othing to him falls early, or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or HI, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. O man ! thou image of thy Maker's good, What canst thou fear, when breath'd into thy blood His spirit is, that built thee ? what dull sense Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence, Who made the morning, aiid who placed the light Ghiide to thy labours ; who call'd up the night. And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers In holloTV murmurs, to lock up thy powers ; WLo gave thee knowledge ; who so trusted thee, To let thee grow so near himself, the tree ? Must he then be distrusted P shall his frame Discourse with him, why thus and thus I am F He made tha angels thine, thy fellows all. Nay, even thy servants, when devotions call. Oh, canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, To seek a saving influence, and lose him ? Can stars protect thee ? or can poverty 1 Eoiua.2 A. teim in astrology for the places occupied by the planets. ' Seanu.'] I know not what tins means, unless it be the junctures of the planets. UIBCEKUlTEOTrS P0EH3 07 ITLETCHJEIB. 363 Which is the light to Heaven, put out his eye ? He is my star ; — in him all truth I find. All influence, all fate ! — and when my mind Is furnish'd with his fulness, my poor story Shall out-live all their age, and all their glory ! The hand of danger cannot fall amiss. When I Tcnow what, and in whose power it is : Nor wont, the curse of man, shall make me groan ; A holy hermit is' a mind alone. Doth not experience teach us aQ we can, To work ourselves into a glorious man P Affliction, when I know it is but this, — A deep allay, whereby man tougher is To bear the hammer, a^id, the deeper still, We still arise more image of his will ; — Sickness, an humorous cloud 'twist us and light,— And death, at longest, but another night. Man is his own star, and that soul that can Be honest, is the only perfect man. XEE EITD. LONDON : FEINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWBB AND SONS. LIMITED. STAMBOBD BTBBBT AKD OHABINO OEOM. CATALOGUE OF BONN'S LIBRARIES. 741 Volumes, £iS^ iS-^- The Publishers are now issuing the Libraries in a NE W AND MORE ATTRACTIVE STYLE OF BINDING. No volumes •will be supplied in the old style after January ist, 1893. New Volumes of Standard Works in the various branches of Literature are constantly being added to this Series, which is already unsurpassed in respect to the number, variety, and cheapness of the Works contained in it. The Publishers beg to announce the following Volumes as recently issued or now in preparation : — Goethe's Faust. Part I. The Original Text, with Hayward's Translation and Notes, carefully revised, with an Introduction, by C. A. Buchheim, Ph.D., Pro- fessor of German Language and Literature at King's College, London. \SeeJt. 17. Arthur Young's Tour in Ireland. Edited by A. \V. 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