SCENE II.

[Illustration: Philip Massinger]

_London, Published by John Murray. 1830._

THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER.

ADAPTED

FOR FAMILY READING, AND THE USE OF YOUNG PERSONS,

BY THE OMISSION OF OBJECTIONABLE PASSAGES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.

MDCCCXXX.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Old English Dramatists, the friends and co-temporaries of

Shakspeare, have contributed one of the most valuable portions to the

poetic literature of our country. But--abounding as they do in wit and

fancy, in force and copiousness of expression, in truth and variety of

character, in rapid change of incidents, in striking and interesting

situations, and, above all, in justice and elevation of

sentiment--their works are totally unknown to the generality of

readers, and are only found in the hands of an adventurous few, who

have deviated from the beaten paths of study to explore for themselves

less familiar and exhausted tracts of literary amusement. The neglect

of these authors, in an age so favourable to works of imagination as

the present, can only be ascribed to that occasional coarseness of

language which intermixes with and pollutes the beauty of their most

exquisite scenes. For what may be termed the licentiousness of the

stage, for immorality of principle, for that offence which was

transplanted from France to England with the court of Charles the

Second, our old dramatists do not require the aid of any apologist.

They are innocent of attempting to confound the notions of right and

wrong, or of seeking to influence the bad passions of our nature

against the first great principles of morals. These were the

corruptions of a later and more vicious age. With the earlier

play-writers, the bent of the story and the interest of the spectator

are always directed to the side of virtue; but the objection against

them is, that though they armed themselves in her cause, they were too

little scrupulous what kind of weapon they employed. The worst things

are always called by the worst names. Nothing is sacrificed to

delicacy. The grossest subjects are treated, whenever they happen to

occur--and no care is taken to avoid them--in the grossest terms. Vice

loses none of her enormity by any diminution of her coarseness. If the

wicked are introduced, they are painted with a perfect truth of

nature; they are represented as loathsome in language as they are

detestable in conduct; and are rendered as offensive to the reader of

cultivated taste and virtuous habits as they would be in the actual

intercourse of life. However well it may have suited the less

polished age of Elizabeth and James thus to inculcate purity by

exhibiting all the corruptions of the depraved, and to fortify the

moral principle by portraying wickedness, with all its hateful

accompaniments, as an object of disgust as well as abhorrence and

contempt, such strong pictures are no longer tolerable at the present

day, and the recurrence of them militates against that general

circulation and approval which is otherwise due to the great merit of

the works in which they occur. Under these circumstances, the Editors

of the Family Library have determined on publishing a selection from

the plays of Massinger, Beaumont, Fletcher, Ford, Shirley, Webster,

Middleton, and others, omitting all such scenes and passages as are

inconsistent with the delicacy and refinement of modern taste and

manners. Whenever it is possible, the play will be printed entire. If

there be a double plot, the one, as in the case of the Virgin-Martyr,

eminently beautiful, and the other as eminently offensive, the living

beauty will be separated from the dead weight of corruption to which

it is unnaturally joined, and be presented to the reader in a form

which may afford an unmixed and flowing enjoyment to his imagination.

When there is a radical evil in the groundwork of the play, only a

single act or a few scenes may be given; but, in such cases, care will

always be taken to preserve the interest of an entire and connected

story.

The work will be accompanied with short explanatory notes, and

occasional critical remarks.

CONTENTS.

Page

LIFE OF MASSINGER 1

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR 23

THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE 107

THE BONDMAN 205

THE MAID OF HONOUR 299

DIRECTION TO THE BINDER.

Portrait of Massinger to face the Title-page.

LIFE OF MASSINGER.

Very few materials exist for a life of Massinger beyond the entries of

the Parish Register or the College Books, and a few slender

intimations scattered here and there in the dedications to his plays.

From these scanty sources the following brief memoir is derived.

Our author was born at Salisbury[1] in the year 1584: he was the son

of Arthur Massinger, a gentleman in the service of Henry, the second

Earl of Pembroke[2]. We must not suppose, from his being thus attached

to the family of a nobleman, that the father of our poet was a person

of inferior birth and station. In those days the word servant carried

with it no sense of degradation. The great lords and officers of the

court numbered inferior nobles among their followers. We read, in

Cavendish's Life of Wolsey, that "my Lord Percy, the son and heir of

the Earl of Northumberland, attended upon and was servitor to the

lord-cardinal[3]:" and from the situation which Arthur Massinger held

in the household of so high and influential a person as the Earl of

Pembroke, we might be justly led to argue rather favourably than

unfavourably of his family and his connexions. "There were," says Mr.

Gifford, "many considerations which united to render this state of

dependance respectable and even honourable. The secretaries, clerks,

and assistants, of various departments, were not then, as now,

nominated by the government, but left to the choice of the person who

held the employment; and as no particular dwelling was officially set

apart for their residence, they were entertained in the house of their

principal. That communication, too, between noblemen of power and

trust, both of a public and private nature, which is now committed to

the post, was in those days managed by confidential servants, who were

despatched from one to the other, and even to the sovereign[4];" and,

indeed, the father of our poet himself was, we know, in one instance

thus employed as the bearer of communications from his patron to

Elizabeth. We read in The Sidney Letters[5], "Mr. Massinger is newly

come up from the Earl of Pembroke with letters to the queen for his

lordship's leave to be away this St. George's Day." This was an errand

which would not have been intrusted to the execution of any

inconsiderable person: unimportant as the occasion may appear to us,

it would not have been regarded in that light by Elizabeth; for no

monarch ever exacted from the nobility, and particularly from her

officers of state, a more rigid and scrupulous compliance with stated

order than this princess.

With regard to the early youth of Massinger, we possess no information

whatever. Mr. Gifford supposes that it might have been passed at

Wilton, a seat belonging to the Earl of Pembroke, in the neighbourhood

of Salisbury; but this mode of disposing of his early years rests on a

very improbable conjecture. It may occasionally have happened that the

child of a favourite dependant was admitted as the companion of the

younger branches of the patron's family, and allowed to receive his

education among them; but this was certainly not an ordinary case;

and, like Cavendish, a large majority of the great man's servants and

dependants "left wife and _children_, home and family, rest and

quietness, only to serve him[6]."--Massinger was most likely educated

at the grammar-school of Salisbury, where many distinguished

characters have received the rudiments of their education, among whom

the elegant and accomplished Addison is to be numbered. But wherever

the first years of our poet's life may have been spent, and whatever

may have been the nature of his education, we know that at the age of

eighteen (May 14, 1602) he was entered at the university of Oxford,

and became a commoner of St. Alban's Hall[7].

Massinger resided at Oxford about four years, and then abruptly left

it, without taking any degree. The cause of this sudden departure is

ascribed by Mr. Gifford to the death of his father, from whom his

supplies were derived: but Davies relates a very different story, and

asserts that the Earl of Pembroke, who had sent him to the university

and maintained him there, withdrew the necessary allowance in

consequence of his having misapplied the time demanded for severer

studies, in the pursuit of a more attractive but less profitable

description of literature. Each opinion is equally ungrounded on the

basis of any substantial evidence, and rests almost entirely on the

imagination of the biographer: what slight authority there is favours

the latter supposition, which, perhaps, on the whole, is most

consistent with the known circumstances of the case. Anthony Wood, who

was born, lived, and died at Oxford; who spent his time in collecting

and recording the gossip which circulated in the university respecting

the characters and conduct of its more distinguished sons; and whose

evidence, however indifferent it may be, is the best that can be

obtained upon the subject, confirms the representation of

Davies:--"Massinger," says Wood, "gave his mind more to poetry and

romance, for about four years or more, than to logic and philosophy,

which _he ought to have done, as he was patronised to that end_." This

passage corroborates the account of Davies so far as to intimate that

patronage was afforded to our author, and that cause of

dissatisfaction was given to the patron; but it goes no farther: it

does not even state to whom the poet was indebted for assistance, nor

that the misapplication of his academic hours was at all resented by

the friend from whom the assistance was received: but still Wood is

very probably correct in his information that other than his paternal

funds were depended upon for maintaining Massinger at the university;

and if such was the case, there can be no question from whose hands

they must have proceeded; while the simple fact of his having been

totally neglected, from the time of his father's death, by the whole

of the Pembroke family, till after the demise of the earl, carries

with it a strong suspicion that some offence was committed on the side

of the poet, and tenaciously remembered on the side of the peer.

Henry, the second Earl of Pembroke, died (1601) the year before

Massinger was admitted at Oxford; and William, the third earl, to whom

the father of Massinger continued attached during life, is universally

and justly considered one of the brightest ornaments of the courts of

Elizabeth and James. He was a man of generous and liberal disposition;

the distinguished patron of arts and learning; and a lover of poetry,

which he himself cultivated with some degree of success. It is not

probable--it is impossible--that such a man should have allowed the

highly talented son of an old and faithful servant of his family to be

checked in his course of study, and abandoned to maintain, through the

early years of life, a single-handed contest with adversity, for the

want of that pecuniary aid which he could have yielded and never

missed, unless some strong and decided cause of displeasure had

existed. Had Massinger been merely forced to leave the university, as

Mr. Gifford supposes, because the funds necessary to maintain him

there had failed with the life of his father, we impute an act of

illiberality to the Earl of Pembroke which is inconsistent with the

whole tenor of his life and character. From whatever source the

expenses of our author's education were originally defrayed, their

suddenly ceasing argues in favour of the account intimated by Wood and

detailed by Davies. If his father had, during his life, supported him

at the university, there must have been some reason for the earl's not

continuing that support when the father of Massinger was no more; and

perhaps the most honourable supposition for both parties is that which

represents the earl as offended by the bent of our author's studies

and pursuits. By adopting this view of the case we are saved from the

painful necessity of either assuming, on the one hand, that a nobleman

distinguished among the most amiable characters of his age allowed a

highly gifted and meritorious young man, a natural dependant of his

house, to languish in the want of that countenance and protection on

which he had an hereditary claim; or, on the other hand, that

Massinger had incurred the displeasure of his natural and hereditary

patron by the commission of some more crying offence.

Every, even the slightest, surmise of Mr. Gifford is deserving

attention and respect; but I cannot admit the supposition by which he

would account for the alienation that subsisted between the Earl of

Pembroke and our author. That distinguished critic has inferred, from

the religious sentiments contained in The Virgin Martyr, that

Massinger was a Roman catholic, and for that cause neglected by the

protector of his father. But if the intimations scattered through this

play and others should be received as sufficient evidence of the faith

of Massinger, we must, on similar evidence--the intimations contained

in Measure for Measure, for instance--conclude that the religion of

Shakspeare was the same; and then we are cast back upon our old

difficulty, and have to explain why William Earl of Pembroke, a

celebrated patron of literary men, and of dramatists in particular,

scorned to yield his notice to the catholic Massinger, while (to use

the expression of Heminge and Condell) he "prosequuted" the catholic

Shakspeare and "his works with so much favour[8]?" There are many

reasons for believing Shakspeare to have been a member of the church

of Rome; and the patronage afforded him by the Earl of Pembroke

proves, that that nobleman extended his liberality to men of genius

without any regard to distinctions of faith; but, on the other hand,

we have no just grounds for assuming that Massinger really did hold

the same opinions. The only evidence we have upon this point, that

afforded by the general tone of his writings, is of a most vague and

superficial description. What, in fact, can be inferred from it? We

may from such a source derive very satisfactory information respecting

the sentiments which would be favourably received by the audience, but

very little respecting those of the author. The truth is, that though

the national religion was reformed in its liturgy and articles, the

feelings, prejudices, and superstitions of the people were still

almost entirely catholic; and Massinger, like any other dramatic

author, writing for the amusement of the people, necessarily addressed

them in a language they would understand, and with sentiments that

accorded with their own. Besides, as a poet, he would never carry his

theological distinctions to his literary labours: Voltaire himself is

catholic in his tragedies; and Massinger naturally adopted the creed

which was most suitable to the purposes of poetry, and afforded the

most picturesque ceremonies and romantic situations. I feel inclined,

therefore, to dismiss entirely the theory suggested by Mr. Gifford,

for these two reasons; first, supposing our author to have been a

catholic, we have no reason for condemning the Earl of Pembroke as a

bigot and a persecutor, who would close his eyes to the merits of so

great an author, because his faith did not tally with his own; and,

secondly, we have no sufficient grounds for supposing him to have been

a catholic at all. But with regard to all such visionary conjectures,

thinking is literally a waste of thought.

Whatever may have been the nature of Massinger's studies at Oxford, it

is quite certain, from the general character of his works, that his

time could not have been wasted there; and his literary acquirements,

at the period of his leaving the university, appear to have been

multifarious and extensive. He was about two-and-twenty (1606) when he

arrived in London, where, as he more than once observes, he was driven

by his necessities, and somewhat inclined, perhaps, by the peculiar

bent of his talents, to dedicate himself to the service of the stage.

The theatre, when Massinger first took up his abode in the metropolis,

must have presented attractions of all others the most calculated to

excite the interest, and inspire the imagination, of a young man of

sensibility, taste, and education like our poet. No art ever attained

a more rapid maturity than the dramatic art in England. The people

had, indeed, been long accustomed to a species of exhibition, called

MIRACLES or MYSTERIES, founded on sacred subjects, and performed by

the ministers of religion themselves, on the holy festivals, in or

near the churches, and designed to instruct the ignorant in the

leading facts of sacred history[9]. From the occasional introduction

of allegorical characters, such as Faith, Death, Hope, or Sin, into

these religious dramas, representations of another kind, called

MORALITIES, had by degrees arisen, of which the plots were more

artificial, regular, and connected, and which were entirely formed of

such personifications: but the first rough draught of a regular

tragedy and comedy--Lord Sackville's Gorboduc, and Still's Gammer

Gurton's Needle[10]--were not produced till within the latter half of

the sixteenth century, and little more than twenty years before the

stage acquired its highest splendour in the productions of Shakspeare.

About the end of the sixteenth century, the attention of the public

began to be more generally directed to the drama; and it throve most

admirably beneath the cheering beams of popular favour. The theatrical

performances which in the early part of Elizabeth's reign had been

exhibited on temporary stages, erected in such halls or apartments as

the actors could procure, or, more generally, in the yards of the

larger inns, while the spectators surveyed them from the surrounding

windows and galleries, began to find more convenient and permanent

habitations. About the year 1569, a regular playhouse, under the

appropriate name of The Theatre, was erected. It is supposed to have

stood somewhere in Blackfriars; and, three years after the

commencement of this establishment, the queen, yielding to her own

inclination for such amusements, and disregarding the remonstrances of

the Puritans, granted licence and authority to the servants of the

Earl of Leicester ("for the recreation of her loving subjects, as for

her own solace and pleasure when she should think good to see them")

to exercise their occupation throughout the whole realm of England.

From this time the number of theatres increased with the increasing

demands of the people. Various noblemen had their respective companies

of performers, who were associated as their servants, and acted under

their protection; and when Massinger left Oxford, and commenced

dramatic author, there were no less than seven principal theatres open

in the metropolis.

With respect to the interior arrangements, there were very few points

of difference between our modern theatres and those of the days of

Massinger. The prices of admission, indeed, were considerably cheaper:

to the boxes the entrance was a shilling; to the pit and galleries

only sixpence. Sixpence also was the price paid for stools upon the

stage; and these seats, as we learn from Decker's Gull's Hornbook,

were particularly affected by the wits and critics of the time. The

conduct of the audience was less restrained by the sense of public

decorum, and smoking tobacco, playing at cards, eating and drinking,

were generally prevalent among them. The hours of performance were

also earlier: the play commencing at one o'clock. During the

representation a flag was unfurled at the top of the theatre; and the

stage, according to the universal practice of the age, was strewn with

rushes; but, in all other respects, the theatres of Elizabeth and

James's days seem to have borne a perfect resemblance to our own. They

had their pit, where the inferior class of spectators, _the

groundlings_, vented their clamorous censure or approbation; they had

their boxes--_rooms_ as they were called--to which the right of

exclusive admission was engaged by the night, for the more affluent

portion of the audience; and there were again the galleries, or

_scaffoldings_ above the boxes, for those who were content to purchase

less commodious situations at a cheaper rate. On the stage, in the

same manner, the appointments appear to have been nearly of the same

description as at present. The curtain divided the audience from the

actors, which, at the third sounding, not indeed of the _bell_, but of

the _trumpet_, was drawn for the commencement of the performance.

Malone, in his account of the ancient theatre, supposes that there

were no moveable scenes; that a permanent elevation of about nine feet

was raised at the back of the stage, from which, in many of the old

plays, part of the dialogue was spoken; and that there was a private

box on each side this platform. Such an arrangement would have

destroyed all theatrical illusion; and it seems extraordinary that any

spectators should desire to fix themselves in a station where they

could have seen nothing but the backs and trains of the performers;

but, as Malone himself acknowledges the spot to have been

inconvenient, and that "it is not very easy to ascertain the precise

situation where these boxes really were[11]", it may very reasonably

be presumed, that they were not placed in the position that the

historian of the English stage has supposed. As to the permanent

floor, or _upper stage_, of which he speaks, he may or may not be

correct in his statement. All that his quotations upon the subject

really establish is, that in the old, as in the modern theatre, when

the actor was to speak from a window, or balcony, or the walls of a

fortress, the requisite ingenuity was not wanting to contrive a

representation of the place. But with regard to the use of painted

moveable scenery, it is not possible, from the very circumstances of

the case, to believe him correct in his theory. Such a contrivance

could not have escaped our ancestors. All the materials were ready to

their hands. They had not to invent for themselves, but merely to

adapt an old invention to that peculiar purpose; and at a time when

every better-furnished apartment was adorned with tapestry; when even

the rooms of the commonest taverns were hung with painted cloths;

while all the materials were constantly before their eyes, we can

hardly believe our forefathers to have been so deficient in ingenuity,

as to have missed the simple contrivance of converting the common

ornaments of their walls into the decorations of their theatres. But,

in fact, the use of scenery was almost co-existent with the

introduction of dramatic representations in this country. In the

Chester Mysteries (1268), the most ancient and complete collection of

the kind which we possess, is found the following stage direction:

"Then Noe shall go into the arke with all his familye, his wife

excepte. _The arke must be boarded round about; and upon the boardes

all the beastes and fowles, hereafter rehearsed, must be painted_,

that their wordes may agree with their pictures[12]." In this passage

we have a clear reference to a painted scene. It is not likely that,

in the lapse of three centuries, while all other arts were in a state

of rapid improvement, and the art of dramatic writing, perhaps, more

rapidly and successfully improved than any other, the art of

theatrical decoration should have alone stood still. It is not

improbable that their scenes were few; and that they were varied, as

occasion might require, by the introduction of different pieces of

stage furniture. Mr. Gifford, who adheres to the opinions of Malone,

says, "A table with a pen and ink thrust in, signified that the stage

was a counting-house; if these were withdrawn and two stools put in

their place, it was then a tavern[13]." And this might be perfectly

satisfactory as long as the business of the play was supposed to be

passing within doors; but when it was removed to the open air, such

meagre devices would no longer be sufficient to guide the imagination

of the audience, and some new method must have been adopted to

indicate the place of action. After giving the subject very

considerable attention, I cannot help thinking that Steevens was right

in rejecting Malone's theory, and concluding that the spectators were,

as at the present day, assisted in following the progress of the story

by means of painted moveable scenery. This opinion is confirmed by

the ancient stage directions. In the folio Shakspeare, 1623, we read

"Enter Brutus _in his orchard_; Enter Timon _in the woods_; Enter

Timon _from the cave_." In Coriolanus, "Marcius follows them _to the

gates and is shut in_." Innumerable instances of the same kind might

be cited to prove that the ancient stage was not so defective in the

necessary decorations as some antiquaries of great authority would

represent. "It may be added," says Steevens, "that the dialogue of our

old dramatists has such perpetual reference to objects supposed

visible to the audience, that the want of scenery could not have

failed to render many of the descriptions absurd. Banquo examines the

outside of Inverness castle with such minuteness, that he

distinguishes even the nests which the martens had built under the

projecting part of its roof. Romeo, standing in a garden, points to

the tops of fruit-trees gilded by the moon. The prologue speaker to

the second part of Henry the Fourth expressly shows the spectators

'_This_ worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,' in which Northumberland was

lodged. Iachimo takes the most exact inventory of every article in

Imogen's bed-chamber, from the silk and silver of which her tapestry

was wrought, down to the Cupids that support her andirons. Had not the

inside of the apartment, with its proper furniture, been represented,

how ridiculous must the action of Iachimo have appeared! He must have

stood looking out of the room for the particulars supposed to be

visible within it." The works of Massinger would afford innumerable

instances of a similar kind to vindicate the opinion which Steevens

has asserted on the testimony of Shakspeare alone. But on this

subject there is one passage which appears to me quite conclusive.

Must not all the humour of the mock play in The Midsummer Night's

Dream have been entirely lost, unless the audience before whom it was

performed were accustomed to all the embellishments requisite to give

effect to a dramatic representation, and could consequently estimate

the absurdity of those shallow contrivances and mean substitutes for

scenery devised by the ignorance of the clowns[14]?

In only one respect do I perceive any material difference between the

mode of representation at the time of Massinger and at present: in his

day, the female parts were performed by boys. This custom, which must

in many cases have materially injured the illusion of the scene, was

in others of considerable advantage: it furnished the stage with a

succession of youths, regularly educated for the art, to fill, in

every department of the drama, the characters suited to their age.

When the lad had become too tall for Juliet, he had acquired the

skill, and was most admirably fitted, both in age and appearance, for

performing the part which Garrick considered the most difficult on the

stage, because it needed "an old head upon young shoulders," the

ardent and arduous character of Romeo. When the voice had "the mannish

crack," that rendered the youth unfit to appear as the representative

of the gentle Imogen, the stage possessed in him the very person that

was wanting to do justice to the princely sentiments of Arviragus or

Guiderius[15].

Such was the state of the stage when Massinger arrived in the

metropolis, and dedicated his talents to its service. He joined a

splendid fraternity, for Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher,

Shirley, were then flourishing at the height of their reputation, and

the full vigour of their genius. Massinger came among them no unworthy

competitor for such honours and emoluments as the theatre could

afford. Of the honours, indeed, he seems to have reaped a very fair

and equitable portion; of the emoluments, the harvest was less

abundant. In those days, very little pecuniary reward was to be gained

by the dramatic poet, unless, as indeed was most frequently the case,

he added the profession of the actor to that of the author, and

recited the verses which he wrote. The distinguished performers of

that time, Alleyn, Burbage, Heminge, Condell, Shakspeare, all appear

to have died in independent, if not affluent, circumstances; but the

remuneration obtained by the poet was most miserably curtailed. The

price given at the theatre for a new play fluctuated between ten and

twenty pounds; the copyright, if the piece was printed, might produce

from six to ten pounds more; in addition to these sums, the

dedication-fee may be reckoned, the usual amount of which was forty

shillings. Our author appears to have produced about two or three

plays every year. Most of them were successful; but, even with this

industry and good fortune, his annual income would rarely have

exceeded fifty pounds: and we cannot, therefore, feel surprised at

finding him continually speaking of his necessities; or that the only

existing document connected with his life should be one that

represents him in a state of pecuniary embarrassment.

Among the papers of Dulwich College, the indefatigable Mr. Malone

discovered the following letter tripartite, which, coming from persons

of such deserved celebrity, cannot fail of interesting the reader.

"_To our most loving friend, Mr. Phillip Hinchlow, esquire,

these._

"Mr. Hinchlow,

"You understand our unfortunate extremitie, and I doe not thincke

you so void of Christianitie but that you would throw so much

money into the Thames as wee request now of you, rather than

endanger so many innocent lives. You know there is x_l._ more, at

least, to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to lend

us v_l._ of that, which shall be allowed to you; without which, we

cannot be bayled, nor _I play any more_ till this be dispatch'd.

It will lose you xx_l._ ere the end of the next weeke, besides the

hindrance of the next new play. Pray, sir, consider our cases with

humanity, and now give us cause to acknowledge you our true freind

in time of neede. Wee have entreated Mr. Davison to deliver this

note, as well to witness your love as our promises, and alwayes

acknowledgement to be ever

"Your most thankfull and loving friends,

"NAT. FIELD[16]."

"The money shall be abated out of the money remayns for the play

of Mr. Fletcher and ours.

"ROB. DABORNE[17]."

"I have ever found you a true loving friend to mee, and in soe

small a suite, it beinge honest, I hope you will not fail us.

"PHILIP MASSINGER."

_Indorsed._

"Received by mee, Robert Davison, of Mr. Hinchlow, for the use of

Mr. Daboerne, Mr. Feeld, Mr. Messenger, the sum of v_l._

"ROB. DAVISON[18]."

The occasion of the distress in which these three distinguished

persons were involved it is not possible to fathom. We may imagine a

thousand emergencies, either creditable or discreditable to the fame

of the writers, with which the letter would perfectly tally; but, on

such slight and vague intimations, no ingenuity could determine which

was most likely to be correct. But from the document a circumstance is

ascertained, which, before its discovery, had been called in question.

Sir Aston Cockayne, a friend of Massinger, had asserted in a volume of

poems, published in 1658, that our author had written in conjunction

with Fletcher; Davies doubted this report, but the above letter

establishes the fact beyond the possibility of dispute.

Massinger is known to have produced thirty-seven plays for the stage,

a list of which is given at the conclusion of this memoir. Sixteen

entire plays and the fragment of another, The Parliament of Love,

alone are extant. No less than eleven of his productions, in

manuscript, were in possession of Mr. Warburton (Somerset Herald), and

destroyed with the rest of that gentleman's invaluable collection by

his cook, who, ignorant of their worth, used them as waste paper for

the purposes of the kitchen.

The great and various merits of the works of Massinger will be better

seen in the following volumes than in any elaborate, critical

dissertation. If our author be compared with the other dramatic

writers of his age, we cannot long hesitate where to place him. More

natural in his characters and more poetical in his diction than Jonson

or Cartwright, more elevated and nervous than Fletcher, the only

writers who can be supposed to contest his pre-eminence, Massinger

ranks immediately under Shakspeare himself. Our poet excels, perhaps,

more in the description than in the expression of passion; this may

in some measure be ascribed to his attention to the fable: while his

scenes are managed with consummate skill, the lighter shades of

character and sentiment are lost in the tendency of each part to the

catastrophe. The melody, force, and variety of his versification are

always remarkable. The prevailing beauties of his productions are

dignity and elegance; their predominant fault is want of passion.

Massinger's last play--which is unfortunately lost--The Anchoress of

Pausilippo, was acted Jan. 26, 1640, about six weeks before his death,

which happened on the 17th of March, 1640. He went to bed in good

health, says Langbaine, and was found dead in the morning, in his own

house on the Bankside. He was buried in the churchyard of St.

Saviour's, and the comedians paid the last sad duty to his name, by

attending him to the grave.

It does not appear, though every stone and every fragment of a stone

has been carefully examined, that any monument or inscription of any

kind marked the place where his dust was deposited. "The memorial of

his mortality," says Gifford, "is given with a pathetic brevity, which

accords but too well with the obscure and humble passages of his life:

March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, A STRANGER."

Such is all the information that remains to us of this distinguished

poet. But though we are ignorant of every circumstance respecting him

but that he lived, wrote, and died, we may yet form some idea of his

personal character from the recommendatory poems prefixed to his

several plays, in which, as Mr. Gifford justly observes, the language

of his panegyrists, though warm, expresses an attachment apparently

derived not so much from his talents as his virtues: he is their

_beloved_, _much-esteemed_, _dear_, _worthy_, _deserving_, _honoured_,

_long-known_, and _long-loved friend_. All the writers of his life

represent him as a man of singular modesty, gentleness, candour, and

affability; nor does it appear that he ever made or found an enemy.

LIST OF MASSINGER'S PLAYS.

_Those marked * are extant. Those marked + were destroyed by Mr.

Warburton's servant._

+ The Forced Lady. T.

+ The Noble Choice. C.

+ The Wandering Lovers. C.

+ Philenzo and Hippolita. T. C.

+ Antonio and Vallia. C.

+ The Tyrant. T.

+ Fast and Welcome. C.

+ The Woman's Plot. C.

* The Old Law. C.

* The Virgin Martyr. T.

* The Unnatural Combat. T.

* The Duke of Milan. T.

* The Bondman. T. C.

* The Renegado. T. C.

* The Parliament of Love. C.

+ The Spanish Viceroy. C.

* The Roman Actor. T.

The Judge.

* The Great Duke of Florence.

The Honour of Women.

* The Maid of Honour. T.C.

* The Picture. T. C.

+ Minerva's Sacrifice. T.

* The Emperor of the East. T. C.

+ Believe as you List. C.

The Unfortunate Piety. T.

* The Fatal Dowry. T.

* A New Way to Pay Old Debts. C.

* The City Madam. C.

* The Guardian. C.

The Tragedy of Cleander.

* A very Woman. T. C.

The Orator.

* The Bashful Lover. T. C.

The King and the Subject.

Alexius, or the Chaste Lover.

The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The register of his birth is not to be found, but all writers of

his life agree in naming this city as the place of his nativity;

and their account is corroborated by the college entry, which

styles him _Salisburiensis_.

[2] Dedication to The Bondman.

[3] Singer's edition, p. 120.

[4] Introduction to the Works of Massinger, p. xxxviii.

[5] Vol. ii. p. 933.

[6] Life of Wolsey, p. 517.

[7] The entry in the college book styles him "Phillip Massinger,

_Salisburiensis, generosi filius_."

[8] Dedication to the folio edition of Shakspeare.

[9] Indulgences were granted to those who attended the representation

of them.

[10] Gorboduc appeared in 1562; Gammer Gurton, in 1566.

[11] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iii. p. 83, note 3.

[12] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iii. p. 15.

[13] Gifford's Massinger, vol. i. p. 103.

[14] This question ought to be set at rest, methinks, by the following

extract from the Book of Revels, the oldest that exists, in the

office of the auditors of the imprest: "Mrs. Dane, the lynnen

dealer, for _canvass to paynte for houses for the players, and

other properties_, as monsters, great hollow trees, and such other,

_twenty dozen ells_, 12_l._"--See Boswell's Shakspeare, vol. iii.

p. 364, et seq.

[15] The first woman who appeared in a regular drama, on a public

stage, played Desdemona, about the year 1660. Her name is unknown.

[16] Nat. Field. This celebrated actor played female parts. He was the

author of two comedies: A Woman's a Weathercock, 1612, and Amends

for Ladies, 1618. He also assisted Massinger in The Fatal Dowry.

[17] Robert Daborne was the author of two plays: The Christian turned

Turk, 1612, and The poor Man's Comfort, 1655. He was a gentleman

of liberal education, master of arts, and in holy orders. It is

supposed that he had preferment in Ireland. A sermon by him,

preached at Waterford, in 1618, is extant.

[18] Additions to Malone's Hist. Account of Eng. Stage, p. 488.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.] This very beautiful play, one of Massinger's

earliest and most popular works, was first printed in 1622, but we

have no account when it was first produced. In the composition of it

he was assisted by Decker, a dramatist of no mean reputation.

The plot of this tragedy is founded on the tenth and last general

persecution of the Christians, which broke out in the nineteenth year

of Dioclesian's reign with a fury hard to be expressed; the Christians

being every where, without distinction of age, sex, or condition,

dragged to execution, and subjected to the most exquisite torments

that rage, cruelty, and hatred could suggest.

In the construction of their play, Massinger and his associate Decker

appear to have conceived the idea of combining the prominent parts of

the old Mystery with the Morality, which was not yet obliterated from

the memories, nor perhaps from the affections, of many of the

spectators. Among the many instances of skill displayed by the authors

of The Virgin-Martyr in the management of their materials may be

remarked the dexterity and good taste with which they have avoided the

untimely concurrence of the good and evil spirit; an error into which

Tasso and others of greater name than Massinger have inadvertently

fallen.--Of the character of the heroine it is impossible to speak too

highly: her genuine and dignified piety, her unsullied innocence, her

unshaken constancy, her lofty pity for her persecutors, her calm

contempt of torture, and her heroic death, exalt the mind in no

ordinary degree. All the other parts are subordinate to her, and

require little observation. Antoninus is brave and generous, and we

sympathize with his genuine attachment for Dorothea. Calista and

Christeta, hasty, self-confident, readily promising for their

steadiness, soon forgetting their resolutions, and equally secure in

every change of opinion, are well contrasted with the heroine of the

piece, whose fixed principles always guard her against rashness, and

therefore preserve her from contradiction. Artemia's love for

Antoninus would be wholly without interest, if we were not moved for a

moment by her indignation at the rejection of her offer; and we see

her at length consigned to Maximinus with as little emotion as is

shown by themselves.

The introduction of a good and evil spirit disguised in human shapes

was not to be expected in a work aspiring to the reputation of a

regular tragedy: still, whatever be their departure from propriety, it

must be remembered that such representations had a most solemn origin,

and that the business in which the spirits are engaged has a

substantial conformity with the opinions of the early ages in which

the plot is laid. The opposition of the demons to the progress of the

faith, and the reasoning and raillery which Dorothea expresses, under

the influence of Angelo, against the pagan gods, are to be found in

Justin, Tatian, Arnobius, and others. The separate agency of the

spirits, and the consequence of their personal encounter, are also

described in a characteristic manner.

Apart from Angelo, Harpax seems to advance in his malignant work. When

the daughters of Theophilus express their zeal for paganism, he "grows

fat to see his labours prosper;" yet he cannot look forward to the

defeat of those labours in their approaching conversion, though on

some occasions we find he could "see a thousand leagues" in his

master's service. And this agrees with the doctrine, that when some

signal triumph of the faith was at hand, the evil spirits were

abridged of their usual powers. Again, when Harpax expects to meet

Angelo, he thus expresses the dread of his presence, and the effect

which it afterwards produced on him:

"--------I do so hate his sight,

That, should I look on him, I should sink down."

Act II. sc. 2.

And this, too, perfectly agrees with the power attributed to the

superior spirits of quelling the demons by those indications of their

quality which were not to be perceived by mortals: _per occultissimæ

signa præsentiæ, quæ angelicis sensibus etiam malignorum spirituum,

potius quam infirmitati hominum, possunt esse perspicua_. Civ. Dei,

lib. ix.

The tragedy is too full of horrors; but this is a fault of which our

ancestors were very tolerant.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DIOCLESIAN, }

MAXIMINUS, } _Emperors of Rome_.

KING OF PONTUS.

KING OF EPIRE.

KING OF MACEDON.

SAPRITIUS, _Governor of Cæsarea_.

THEOPHILUS, _a zealous persecutor of the Christians_.

SEMPRONIUS, _captain of_ SAPRITIUS' _guards_.

ANTONINUS, _son to_ SAPRITIUS.

MACRINUS, _friend to_ ANTONINUS.

HARPAX, _an evil spirit, following_ THEOPHILUS _in the shape

of a secretary_.

ANGELO, _a good spirit, serving_ DOROTHEA _in the habit of a page_.

JULIANUS, }

GETA, } _servants of_ THEOPHILUS.

PRIEST OF JUPITER.

BRITISH SLAVE.

ARTEMIA, _daughter to_ DIOCLESIAN.

CALISTA, }

CHRISTETA, } _daughters to_ THEOPHILUS.

DOROTHEA, _the Virgin-Martyr_.

_Officers and Executioners._

SCENE, Cæsarea.

THE VIRGIN-MARTYR.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_The Governor's Palace._

_Enter_ THEOPHILUS _and_ HARPAX.

_Theoph._ Come to Cæsarea to-night!

_Harp._ Most true, sir.

_Theoph._ The emperor in person!

_Harp._ Do I live?

_Theoph._ 'Tis wondrous strange! The marches of great princes,

Like to the motions of prodigious meteors,

Are step by step observed; and loud-tongued Fame

The harbinger to prepare their entertainment:

And, were it possible so great an army,

Though cover'd with the night, could be so near,

The governor cannot be so unfriended

Among the many that attend his person,

But, by some secret means, he should have notice

Of Cæsar's purpose;--in this, then, excuse me,

If I appear incredulous.

_Harp._ At your pleasure.

_Theoph._ Yet, when I call to mind you never fail'd me

In things more difficult, but have discover'd

Deeds that were done thousand leagues distant from me,

When neither woods, nor caves, nor secret vaults,

No, nor the Power they serve, could keep these Christians

Or from my reach or punishment, but thy magic

Still laid them open; I begin again

To be as confident as heretofore;

It is not possible thy powerful art

Should meet a check, or fail.

_Enter the Priest of Jupiter, bearing an Image, and followed by_

CALISTA _and_ CHRISTETA.

_Harp._ Look on the Vestals,

The holy pledges that the gods have given you,

Your chaste, fair daughters. Were 't not to upbraid

A service to a master not unthankful,

I could say these, in spite of your prevention,

Seduced by an imagined faith, not reason,

(Which is the strength of nature) quite forsaking

The Gentile gods, had yielded up themselves

To this new-found religion. This I cross'd,

Discover'd their intents, taught you to use,

With gentle words and mild persuasions,

The power and the authority of a father,

Set off with cruel threats; and so reclaim'd them:

And, whereas they with torment should have died,

(Hell's furies to me, had they undergone it!)

[Aside.

They are now votaries in great Jupiter's temple,

And, by his priest instructed, grown familiar

With all the mysteries, nay, the most abstruse ones,

Belonging to his deity.

_Theoph._ 'Twas a benefit,

For which I ever owe you.--Hail, Jove's flamen!

Have these my daughters reconciled themselves,

Abandoning for ever the Christian way,

To your opinion?

_Priest._ And are constant in it.

They teach their teachers with their depth of judgment,

And are with arguments able to convert

The enemies to our gods, and answer all

They can object against us.

_Theoph._ My dear daughters!

_Cal._ We dare dispute against this new-sprung sect,

In private or in public.

_Harp._ My best lady,

Perséver[19] in it.

_Chris._ And what we maintain, We will seal with our bloods.

_Harp._ Brave resolution!

I e'en grow fat to see my labours prosper.

_Theoph._ I young again. To your devotions.

_Harp._ Do--

My prayers be present with you.

[_Exeunt Priest_, CAL. _and_ CHRIS.

_Theoph._ O my Harpax!

Thou engine of my wishes, thou that steel'st

My bloody resolutions, thou that arm'st

My eyes 'gainst womanish tears and soft compassion,

Instructing me, without a sigh, to look on

Babes torn by violence from their mothers' breasts

To feed the fire, and with them make one flame;

Old men, as beasts, in beasts' skins torn by dogs;

Virgins and matrons tire the executioners;

Yet I, unsatisfied, think their torments easy--

_Harp._ And in that, just, not cruel.

_Theoph._ Were all sceptres

That grace the hands of kings made into one,

And offer'd me, all crowns laid at my feet,

I would contemn them all,--thus spit at them;

So I to all posterities might be call'd

The strongest champion of the Pagan gods,

And rooter out of Christians.

_Harp._ Oh, mine own,

Mine own dear lord! to further this great work,

I ever live thy slave.

_Enter_ SAPRITIUS _and_ SEMPRONIUS.

_Theoph._ No more--The governor.

_Sap._ Keep the ports close[20], and let the guards be doubled;

Disarm the Christians; call it death in any

To wear a sword, or in his house to have one.

_Semp._ I shall be careful, sir.

_Sap._ 'Twill well become you.

Such as refuse to offer sacrifice

To any of our gods, put to the torture.

Grub up this growing mischief by the roots;

And know, when we are merciful to them,

We to ourselves are cruel.

_Semp._ You pour oil

On fire that burns already at the height:

I know the emperor's edict, and my charge,

And they shall find no favour.

_Theoph._ My good lord,

This care is timely for the entertainment

Of our great master, who this night in person

Comes here to thank you.

_Sap._ Who! the emperor?

_Harp._ To clear your doubts, he doth return in triumph,

Kings lackeying[21] by his triumphant chariot;

And in this glorious victory, my lord,

You have an ample share: for know, your son,

The ne'er-enough commended Antoninus,

So well hath flesh'd his maiden sword[22], and dyed

His snowy plumes so deep in enemies' blood,

That, besides public grace beyond his hopes,

There are rewards propounded.

_Sap._ I would know

No mean in thine, could this be true.

_Harp._ My head

Answer the forfeit.

_Sap._ Of his victory

There was some rumour: but it was assured,

The army pass'd a full day's journey higher

Into the country.

_Harp._ It was so determined;

But, for the further honour of your son,

And to observe the government of the city,

And with what rigour, or remiss indulgence,

The Christians are pursued, he makes his stay here:

[_Trumpets._

For proof, his trumpets speak his near arrival.

_Sap._ Haste, good Sempronius, draw up our guards,

And with all ceremonious pomp receive

The conquering army. Let our garrison speak

Their welcome in loud shouts, the city show

Her state and wealth.

_Semp._ I'm gone. [_Exit._

_Sap._ O, I am ravish'd

With this great honour! cherish, good Theophilus,

This knowing scholar. Send for your fair daughters;

I will present them to the emperor,

And in their sweet conversion, as a mirror,

Express your zeal and duty.

_Theoph._ Fetch them, good Harpax.

[_Exit_ HARPAX.

_Enter_ SEMPRONIUS, _at the head of the guard, soldiers leading three

kings bound_; ANTONINUS _and_ MACRINUS _bearing the emperor's eagles_;

DIOCLESIAN _with a gilt laurel on his head, leading in_ ARTEMIA:

SAPRITIUS _kisses the emperor's hand, then embraces his son_; HARPAX

_brings in_ CALISTA _and_ CHRISTETA. _Loud shouts._

_Diocle._ So: at all parts I find Cæsarea

Completely govern'd: the licentious soldier

Confined in modest limits, and the people

Taught to obey, and not compell'd with rigour:

The ancient Roman discipline revived,

Which raised Rome to her greatness, and proclaim'd her

The glorious mistress of the conquer'd world;

But, above all, the service of the gods,

So zealously observed, that, good Sapritius,

In words to thank you for your care and duty,

Were much unworthy Dioclesian's honour,

Or his magnificence to his loyal servants.--

But I shall find a time with noble titles

To recompense your merits.

_Sap._ Mightiest Cæsar,

[23]Whose power upon this globe of earth is equal

To Jove's in heaven; whose victorious triumphs

On proud rebellious kings that stir against it,

Are perfect figures of his immortal trophies

Won in the Giants' war; whose conquering sword,

Guided by his strong arm, as deadly kills

As did his thunder! all that I have done,

Or, if my strength were centupled, could do,

Comes short of what my loyalty must challenge.

But, if in any thing I have deserved

Great Cæsar's smile, 'tis in my humble care

Still to preserve the honour of those gods,

That make him what he is: my zeal to them

I ever have express'd in my fell hate

Against the Christian sect that, with one blow,

(Ascribing all things to an unknown Power,)

Would strike down all their temples, and allows them

Nor sacrifice nor altars.

_Diocle._ Thou, in this,

Walk'st hand in hand with me: my will and power

Shall not alone confirm, but honour all

That are in this most forward.

_Sap._ Sacred Cæsar,

If your imperial majesty stand pleased

To shower your favours upon such as are

The boldest champions of our religion,

Look on this reverend man, [_points to Theophilus._] to whom the power

Of searching out, and punishing such delinquents,

Was by your choice committed; and, for proof,

He hath deserved the grace imposed upon him,

And with a fair and even hand proceeded,

Partial to none, not to himself, or those

Of equal nearness to himself; behold

This pair of virgins.

_Diocle._ What are these?

_Sap._ His daughters.

_Artem._ Now by your sacred fortune, they are fair ones,

Exceeding fair ones: would 'twere in my power

To make them mine!

_Theoph._ They are the gods', great lady,

They were most happy in your service else:

On these, when they fell from their father's faith,

I used a judge's power, entreaties failing

(They being seduced) to win them to adore

The holy Powers we worship; I put on

The scarlet robe of bold authority,

And, as they had been strangers to my blood,

Presented them in the most horrid form,

All kind of tortures; part of which they suffer'd

With Roman constancy.

_Artem._ And could you endure,

Being a father, to behold their limbs

Extended on the rack?

_Theoph._ I did; but must

Confess there was a strange contention in me,

Between the impartial office of a judge,

And pity of a father; to help justice

Religion stept in, under which odds

Compassion fell:--yet still I was a father.

For e'en then, when the flinty hangman's whips

Were worn with stripes spent on their tender limbs,

I kneel'd, and wept, and begg'd them, though they would

Be cruel to themselves, they would take pity

On my gray hairs; now note a sudden change,

Which I with joy remember; those, whom torture,

Nor fear of death could terrify, were o'ercome

By seeing of my sufferings; and so won,

Returning to the faith that they were born in,

I gave them to the gods. And be assured

I that used justice with a rigorous hand,

Upon such beauteous virgins, and mine own,

Will use no favour, where the cause commands me,

To any other; but, as rocks, be deaf

To all entreaties.

_Diocle._ Thou deserv'st thy place;

Still hold it, and with honour. Things thus order'd

Touching the gods, 'tis lawful to descend

To human cares, and exercise that power

Heaven has conferr'd upon me;--which that you,

Rebels and traitors to the power of Rome,

Should not with all extremities undergo,

What can you urge to qualify your crimes,

Or mitigate my anger?

[24]_K. of Epire._ We are now

Slaves to thy power, that yesterday were kings,

And had command o'er others; we confess

Our grandsires paid yours tribute, yet left us,

As their forefathers had, desire of freedom.

And, if you Romans hold it glorious honour,

Not only to defend what is your own,

But to enlarge your empire, (though our fortune

Denies that happiness,) who can accuse

The famish'd mouth, if it attempt to feed?

Or such, whose fetters eat into their freedoms,

If they desire to shake them off?

_K. of Pontus._ We stand

The last examples, to prove how uncertain

All human happiness is; and are prepared

To endure the worst.

_K. of Macedon._ That spoke, which now is highest

In Fortune's wheel, must, when she turns it next,

Decline as low as we are. This consider'd

Taught the Ægyptian Hercules, Sesostris,

That had his chariot drawn by captive kings,

To free them from that slavery;--but to hope

Such mercy from a Roman were mere madness:

We are familiar with what cruelty

Rome, since her infant greatness, ever used

Such as she triumph'd over; age nor sex

Exempted from her tyranny; scepter'd princes

Kept in her common dungeons, and their children,

In scorn train'd up in base mechanic arts,

For public bondmen. In the catalogue

Of those unfortunate men, we expect to have

Our names remember'd.

_Diocle._ In all growing empires,

Even cruelty is useful; some must suffer,

And be set up examples to strike terror

In others, though far off: but, when a state

Is raised to her perfection, and her bases

Too firm to shrink, or yield, we may use mercy,

And do 't with safety[25]: but to whom? not cowards,

Or such whose baseness shames the conqueror,

And robs him of his victory, as weak Perseus

Did great Æmilius[26]. Know, therefore, kings

Of Epire, Pontus, and of Macedon,

That I with courtesy can use my prisoners,

As well as make them mine by force, provided

That they are noble enemies: such I found you,

Before I made you mine; and, since you were so,

You have not lost the courages of princes,

Although the fortune. Had you born yourselves

Dejectedly, and base, no slavery

Had been too easy for you: but such is

The power of noble valour, that we love it

Even in our enemies, and taken with it,

Desire to make them friends, as I will you.

_K. of Epire._ Mock us not, Cæsar.

_Diocle._ By the gods, I do not.

Unloose their bonds:--I now as friends embrace you.

Give them their crowns again.

_K. of Pontus._ We are twice o'ercome;

By courage, and by courtesy.

_K. of Macedon._ But this latter

Shall teach us to live ever faithful vassals

To Dioclesian, and the power of Rome.

_K of Epire._ All kingdoms fall before her!

_K. of Pontus._ And all kings

Contend to honour Cæsar!

_Diocle._ I believe

Your tongues are the true trumpets of your hearts,

And in it I most happy. Queen of fate,

Imperious Fortune! mix some light disaster

With my so many joys, to season them,

And give them sweeter relish: I'm girt round

With true felicity; faithful subjects here,

Here bold commanders, here with new-made friends:

But, what's the crown of all, in thee, Artemia,

My only child, whose love to me and duty,

Strive to exceed each other!

_Artem._ I make payment

But of a debt, which I stand bound to tender

As a daughter and a subject.

_Diocle._ Which requires yet

A retribution from me, Artemia,

Tied by a father's care, how to bestow

A jewel, of all things to me most precious:

Nor will I therefore longer keep thee from

The chief joys of creation, marriage rites;

Which that thou may'st with greater pleasures taste of,

Thou shalt not like with mine eyes, but thine own.

Among these kings, forgetting they were captives;

Or those, remembering not they are my subjects,

Make choice of any: By Jove's dreadful thunder,

My will shall rank with thine.

_Artem._ It is a bounty

The daughters of great princes seldom meet with;

For they, to make up breaches in the state,

Or for some other public ends, are forced

To match where they affect not[27]. May my life

Deserve this favour!

_Diocle._ Speak; I long to know

The man thou wilt make happy.

_Artem._ If that titles,

Or the adored name of Queen could take me,

Here would I fix mine eyes, and look no further;

But these are baits to take a mean-born lady,

Not her that boldly may call Cæsar father:

In that I can bring honour unto any,

But from no king that lives receive addition:

To raise desert and virtue by my fortune,

Though in a low estate, were greater glory,

Than to mix greatness with a prince that owes[28]

No worth but that name only.

_Diocle._ I commend thee;

'Tis like myself.

_Artem._ If, then, of men beneath me,

My choice is to be made, where shall I seek,

But among those that best deserve from you?

That have served you most faithfully; that in dangers

Have stood next to you; that have interposed

Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the swords

Aim'd at your bosom; that have spent their blood

To crown your brows with laurel?

_Macr._ Cytherea,

Great Queen of Love, be now propitious to me!

_Harp._ [_to Sap._] Now mark what I foretold.

_Anton._ Her eye's on me.

Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart[29],

And, that she may hate me, transfix her with it;

Or, if thou needs wilt use a golden one,

Shoot it in the behalf of any other:

Thou know'st I am thy votary elsewhere. [_Aside._

_Artem._ [_advances to Anton._] Sir.

_Theoph._ How he blushes!

_Sap._ Welcome, fool, thy fortune.

Stand like a block when such an angel courts thee!

_Artem._ I am no object to divert your eye

From the beholding.

_Anton._ Rather a bright sun,

Too glorious for him to gaze upon,

That took not first flight from the eagle's aerie.

As I look on the temples, or the gods,

And with that reverence, lady, I behold you,

And shall do ever.

_Artem._ And it will become you,

While thus we stand at distance; but, if love,

Love born out of the assurance of your virtues,

Teach me to stoop so low--

_Anton._ O, rather take A higher flight.

_Artem._ Why, fear you to be raised?

Say I put off the dreadful awe that waits

On majesty, or with you share my beams,

Nay, make you to outshine me; change the name

Of Subject into Lord, rob you of service

That's due from you to me, and in me make it

Duty to honour you, would you refuse me?

_Anton._ Refuse you, madam! such a worm as I am

Refuse what kings upon their knees would sue for!

Call it, great lady, by another name;

An humble modesty, that would not match

A molehill with Olympus.

_Artem._ He that's famous

For honourable actions in the war,

As you are, Antoninus, a proved soldier,

Is fellow to a king.

_Anton._ If you love valour,

As 'tis a kingly virtue, seek it out,

And cherish it in a king; there it shines brightest,

And yields the bravest lustre. Look on Epire,

A prince, in whom it is incorporate;

And let it not disgrace him that he was

O'ercome by Cæsar; it was victory,

To stand so long against him: had you seen him,

How in one bloody scene he did discharge

The parts of a commander and a soldier,

Wise in direction, bold in execution;

You would have said, Great Cæsar's self excepted,

The world yields not his equal.

_Artem._ Yet I have heard,

Encountering him alone in the head of his troop,

You took him prisoner.

_K. of Epire._ 'Tis a truth, great princess:

I'll not detract from valour.

_Anton._ 'Twas mere fortune;

Courage had no hand in it.

_Theoph._ Did ever man

Strive so against his own good?

_Sap._ Spiritless villain!

How I am tortured! By the immortal gods,

I now could kill him.

_Diocle._ Hold, Sapritius, hold,

On our displeasure, hold!

_Harp._ Why, this would make

A father mad; 'tis not to be endured;

Your honour's tainted in 't.

_Sap._ By heaven, it is:

I shall think of it.

_Harp._ 'Tis not to be forgotten.

_Artem._ Nay, kneel not, sir; I am no ravisher,

Nor so far gone in fond affection to you,

But that I can retire, my honour safe:--

Yet say, hereafter, that thou hast neglected

What, but seen in possession of another,

Will make thee mad with envy.

_Anton._ In her looks

Revenge is written.

_Mac._ As you love your life,

Study to appease her.

_Anton._ Gracious madam, hear me.

_Artem._ And be again refused?

_Anton._ The tender of

My life, my service, or, since you vouchsafe it,

My love, my heart, my all: and pardon me,

Pardon, dread princess, that I made some scruple

To leave a valley of security,

To mount up to the hill of majesty,

On which, the nearer Jove, the nearer lightning.

What knew I, but your grace made trial of me;

Durst I presume to embrace, where but to touch

With an unmanner'd hand was death? The fox,

When he saw first the forest's king[30], the lion,

Was almost dead with fear; the second view

Only a little daunted him; the third,

He durst salute him boldly: pray you, apply this;

And you shall find a little time will teach me

To look with more familiar eyes upon you,

Than duty yet allows me.

_Sap._ Well excused.

_Artem._ You may redeem all yet.

_Diocle._ And, that he may

Have means and opportunity to do so,

Artemia, I leave you my substitute

In fair Cæsarea.

_Sap._ And here, as yourself,

We will obey and serve her.

_Diocle._ Antoninus,

So you prove hers, I wish no other heir;

Think on 't:--be careful of your charge, Theophilus;

Sapritius, be you my daughter's guardian.

Your company I wish, confederate princes,

In our Dalmatian wars: which finished

With victory I hope, and Maximinus,

Our brother and copartner in the empire,

At my request won to confirm as much,

The kingdoms I took from you we'll restore,

And make you greater than you were before.

[_Exeunt all but_ ANTONINUS _and_ MACRINUS.

_Anton._ Oh, I am lost for ever! lost, Macrinus!

The anchor of the wretched, hope, forsakes me,

And with one blast of Fortune all my light

Of happiness is put out.

_Mac._ You are like to those

That are ill only, 'cause they are too well;

That, surfeiting in the excess of blessings,

Call their abundance want. What could you wish,

That is not fall'n upon you? honour, greatness,

Respect, wealth, favour, the whole world for a dower;

And with a princess, whose excelling form

Exceeds her fortune.

_Anton._ Yet poison still is poison,

Though drunk in gold; and all these flattering glories

To me, ready to starve, a painted banquet,

And no essential food. When I am scorch'd

With fire, can flames in any other quench me?

What is her love to me, greatness, or empire,

That am slave to another, who alone

Can give me ease or freedom?

_Mac._ Sir, you point at

Your dotage on the scornful Dorothea:

Is she, though fair, the same day to be named

With best Artemia? In all their courses,

Wise men purpose their ends: with sweet Artemia,

There comes along pleasure, security,

Usher'd by all that in this life is precious:

With Dorothea (though her birth be noble,

The daughter to a senator of Rome,

By him left rich, yet with a private wealth,

And far inferior to yours) arrives

The emperor's frown, which, like a mortal plague,

Speaks death is near; the princess' heavy scorn,

Under which you will shrink; your father's fury,

Which to resist even piety forbids:--

And but remember that she stands suspected

A favourer of the Christian sect; she brings

Not danger, but assured destruction with her.

This truly weigh'd one smile of great Artemia

Is to be cherish'd, and preferr'd before

All joys in Dorothea: therefore leave her.

_Anton._ In what thou think'st thou art most wise, thou art

Grossly abused, Macrinus, and most foolish.

For any man to match above his rank,

Is but to sell his liberty. With Artemia

I still must live a servant; but enjoying

Divinest Dorothea, I shall rule,

Rule as becomes a husband: for the _danger_,

Or call it, if you will, _assured destruction_,

I slight it thus.--If, then, thou art my friend,

As I dare swear thou art, and wilt not take

A governor's place upon thee[31], be my helper.

_Mac._ You know I dare, and will do any thing;

Put me unto the test.

_Anton._ Go, then, Macrinus,

To Dorothea; tell her I have worn,

In all the battles I have fought, her figure,

Her figure in my heart, which, like a deity,

Hath still protected me. Thou canst speak well;

And of thy choicest language spare a little,

To make her understand how much I love her,

And how I languish for her. Bear these jewels,

Sent in the way of sacrifice, not service,

As to my goddess: all lets[32] thrown behind me,

Or fears that may deter me, say, this morning

I mean to visit her by the name of friendship:--

No words to contradict this.

_Mac._ I am yours:

And, if my travail this way be ill spent,

Judge not my readier will by the event. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Perséver.] So this word was anciently written and pronounced: thus

the king, in _Hamlet_:

----_but to_ perséver

_In obstinate condolement_.

GIFFORD.

[20] Sap. _Keep the_ ports _close._] This word, which is directly from

the Latin, is so frequently used by Massinger and the writers of

his time for the _gates of a town_, that it appears superfluous to

produce any examples of it.--GIFFORD.

[21] _Kings_ lackeying _by his triumphant chariot._] Running by the

side of it like _lackeys_ or foot-boys.--GIFFORD.

[22] _Flesh'd his maiden sword._] These words are from Shakspeare, of

whose works Massinger appears to have been a great reader.

[23] _Whose power_, &c.] An imitation of the well-known line, _Divisum

imperium cum Jove Cæsar habet_.--GIFFORD.

[24] K. of Epire. _We are now

Slaves to thy power_, &c.] I have observed several imitations of

Massinger in the dramas of Mason: there is, for instance, a

striking similarity between this spirited speech, and the indignant

exclamation of the brave but unfortunate Caractacus:

----"Soldier, I had arms,

Had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars,

Had wealth, dominions: dost thou wonder, Roman,

I fought to save them? What if Cæsar aims

To lord it universal o'er the world,

Shall the world tamely crouch to Cæsar's footstool?"

GIFFORD.

[25] _And do 't with safety._] This is admirably expressed: the maxim,

however, though just, is of the most dangerous nature; for what

ambitious chief will ever allow the state to be "raised to her

perfection," or that the time for using "mercy with safety" is

arrived? Even Dioclesian has his exceptions,--strong ones too! for

Rome was old enough in his time. There is an allusion to Virgil, in

the opening of this speech:

_Res dura, et novitas regni me talia cogunt

Moliri, &c._

GIFFORD.

[26] --------_as weak Perseus

Did great Æmilius._] It is said that Perseus sent to desire Paulus

Æmilius not to exhibit him as a spectacle to the Romans, and to

spare him the indignity of being led in triumph. Æmilius replied

coldly: _The favour he asks of me is in his own power; he can

procure it for himself_.--COXETER.

[27] _To match where they affect not._] This does better for modern

than Roman practice; and, indeed, the author was thinking more of

Hamlet than Dioclesian, in this part of the dialogue.--GIFFORD.

[28] _Owes_.] i. e. _owns_.

[29] _Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart._] The idea of this

double effect, to which Massinger has more than one allusion, is

from Ovid:

_Filius huic Veneris; figat tuus omnia, Phoebe,

Te meus arcus, ait:--Parnassi constitit arce,

Eque sagittifera promsit duo tela pharetra

Diversorum operum; fugat hoc, facit illud amorem.

Quod facit, auratum est, et cuspide fulget acuta;

Quod fugat, obtusum est, et habet sub arundine plumbum._

Met. lib. i. 470.

GIFFORD.

[30] --------_The fox,

When he saw first the forest's king_, &c.] The fable is from the

Greek. In a preceding line there is an allusion to the proverb,

_Procul a Jove, sed procul a fulmine_.--GIFFORD.

[31] _A governor's place upon thee._] From the Latin: _ne sis mihi

tutor_.--GIFFORD.

[32] ----_All lets._] i. e. _All impediments._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ DOROTHEA'_s House_.

_Enter_ DOROTHEA, _followed by_ ANGELO _with a book and taper_.

_Dor._ My book and taper.

_Ang._ Here, most holy mistress.

_Dor._ Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never

Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.

Were every servant in the world like thee,

So full of goodness, angels would come down

To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,

And like that name thou art; get thee to rest,

Thy youth with too much watching is opprest.

_Ang._ No, my dear lady, I could weary stars,

And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,

By my late watching, but to wait on you.

When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,

Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,

So blest I hold me in your company:

Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid

Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence;

For then you break his heart.

_Dor._ Be nigh me still, then:

In golden letters down I'll set that day,

Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope

To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,

This little, pretty body; when I, coming

Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,

My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,

Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand!--

And, when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom,

Methought, was fill'd with no hot wanton fire,

But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,

On wings of cherubins, than it did before.

_Ang._ Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye

So likes so poor a servant.

_Dor._ I have offer'd

Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents.

I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some,

To dwell with thy good father; for, the son

Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,

He that begot him must do 't ten times more.

I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents;

Be not ashamed.

_Ang._ I am not: I did never

Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace,

Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you,

And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,

My father is in heaven: and, pretty mistress,

If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand,

No worse than yet it does; upon my life,

You and I both shall meet my father there,

And he shall bid you welcome.

_Dor._ A blessed day!

We all long to be there, but lose the way. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A Street, near_ DOROTHEA'_s House_.

_Enter_ MACRINUS, _met by_ THEOPHILUS _and_ HARPAX.

_Theoph._ The Sun, god of the day, guide thee, Macrinus!

_Mac._ And thee, Theophilus!

_Theoph._ Glad'st thou in such scorn[33]?

I call my wish back.

_Mac._ I'm in haste.

_Theoph._ One word,

Take the least hand[34] of time up:--stay.

_Mac._ Be brief.

_Theoph._ As thought: I prithee tell me, good Macrinus,

How health and our fair princess lay together

This night, for you can tell; courtiers have flies[35],

That buzz all news unto them.

_Mac._ She slept but ill.

_Theoph._ Double thy courtesy; how does Antoninus?

_Mac._ Ill, well, straight, crooked,--I know not how.

_Theoph._ Once more;

--Thy head is full of windmills:--when doth the princess

Bestow herself on noble Antoninus?

_Mac._ I know not.

_Theoph._ No! thou art the manuscript,

Where Antoninus writes down all his secrets:

Honest Macrinus, tell me.

_Mac._ Fare you well, sir. [_Exit._

_Harp._ Honesty is some fiend, and frights him hence;

A many courtiers love it not.

_Theoph._ What piece

Of this state-wheel, which winds up Antoninus,

Is broke, it runs so jarringly? the man

Is from himself divided: O thou, the eye,

By which I wonders see, tell me, my Harpax,

What gad-fly tickles this Macrinus so,

That, flinging up the tail, he breaks thus from me.

_Harp._ Oh, sir, his brain-pan is a bed of snakes,

Whose stings shoot through his eye-balls, whose poisonous spawn

Ingenders such a fry of speckled villanies,

That, unless charms more strong than adamant

Be used, the Roman angel's[36] wings shall melt,

And Cæsar's diadem be from his head

Spurn'd by base feet; the laurel which he wears,

Returning victor, be enforced to kiss

That which it hates, the fire. And can this ram,

This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready

To so much mischief, keep a steady motion?--

His eyes and feet, you see, give strange assaults.

_Theoph._ I'm turn'd a marble statue at thy language,

Which printed is in such crabb'd characters,

It puzzles all my reading: what, in the name

Of Pluto, now is hatching?

_Harp._ This Macrinus,

The line is[37], upon which love-errands run

'Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women,

The bloodless Dorothea; who in prayer

And meditation, mocking all your gods,

Drinks up her ruby colour: yet Antoninus

Plays the Endymion to this pale-faced Moon,

Courts, seeks to catch her eyes--

_Theoph._ And what of this?

_Harp._ These are but creeping billows,

Not got to shore yet: but if Dorothea

Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love,

(Your coldest women do so),--had you ink

Brew'd from the infernal Styx, not all that blackness

Can make a thing so foul, as the dishonours,

Disgraces, buffetings, and most base affronts

Upon the bright Artemia, star o' the court,

Great Cæsar's daughter.

_Theoph._ I now conster[38] thee.

_Harp._ Nay, more; a firmament of clouds, being fill'd

With Jove's artillery, shot down at once,

To pash[39] your gods in pieces, cannot give,

With all those thunderbolts, so deep a blow

To the religion there, and pagan lore,

As this; for Dorothea hates your gods,

And, if she once blast Antoninus' soul,

Making it foul like hers, Oh! the example--

_Theoph._ Eats through Cæsarea's heart like liquid poison.

Have I invented tortures to tear Christians,

To see but which, could all that feel hell's torments

Have leave to stand aloof here on earth's stage,

They would be mad till they again descended,

Holding the pains most horrid of such souls,

May-games to those of mine; has this my hand

Set down a Christian's execution

In such dire postures, that the very hangman

Fell at my foot dead, hearing but their figures;

And shall Macrinus and his fellow-masquer

Strangle me in a dance?

_Harp._ No:--on; I hug thee,

For drilling thy quick brains in this rich plot

Of tortures 'gainst these Christians: on; I hug thee!

_Theoph._ Both hug and holy me: to this Dorothea,

Fly thou and I in thunder.

_Harp._ Not for kingdoms

Piled upon kingdoms: there's a villain page

Waits on her, whom I would not for the world

Hold traffic with; I do so hate his sight,

That, should I look on him, I must sink down.

_Theoph._ I will not lose thee then, her to confound:

None but this head with glories shall be crown'd.

_Harp._ Oh! mine own as I would wish thee!

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[33] _Theoph._ Glad'st _thou in such scorn_?] Theophilus, who is

represented as a furious zealot for paganism, is mortified at the

indifference with which Macrinus returns the happiness he had

wished him by his god. Mr. M. Mason reads, Gaddest _thou in such

scorn_? He may be right; for Macrinus is evidently anxious to pass

on: the reading of the text, however, is that of all the old

copies.--GIFFORD.

[34] _Hand_,] here used for _inch_, _moment_. We often meet the phrase

_of his hands_, for _of his inches_.

[35] ----_flies_.] This word is used by Ben Jonson, a close and

devoted imitator of the ancients, for _a domestic parasite_, _a

familiar_, &c. and from him, probably, Decker adopted it in the

present sense.--GIFFORD.

[36] _Roman angels_,] i. e. the _Roman eagle_, the well-known military

ensign. _Angel_ in the sense of _bird_ is frequently met with among

our old writers. Jonson beautifully calls the nightingale "The dear

good angel of the spring." And if this should be thought, as it

probably is, a Grecism; yet we have the same term in another

passage, which will admit of no dispute:

"Not an _angel_ of the air,

_Bird_ melodious, or _bird_ fair," &c.

_Two Noble Kinsmen._

GIFFORD.

[37] Harp. _This Macrinus,

The_ line _is_, &c] The allusion is to the rude fire-works of our

ancestors. So, in the _Fawne_, by Marston:

"_Page._ There be squibs, sir, running upon _lines_, like some of

our gawdy gallants," &c.--GIFFORD.

[38] _Conster_,] i. e. _understand_. This word (a corruption of

_construe_), so frequently heard among the common people, has not

found a place in any dictionary that I have met with.

[39] _Pash_,] i. e. _to strike a thing with such force as to dash it

to pieces_. The word is now obsolete; which is to be regretted, as

we have none that can adequately supply its place: it is used in

its proper sense by Dryden, which is the latest instance I

recollect:

"Thy cunning engines have with labour raised

My heavy anger, like a mighty weight,

To fall and _pash_ thee."

GIFFORD.

SCENE III.

_A Hall in_ DOROTHEA'_s House, with a gallery above_.

_Enter_ DOROTHEA, MACRINUS, _and_ ANGELO.

_Dor._ My trusty Angelo, with that curious eye

Of thine, which ever waits upon my business,

I prithee watch those my still-negligent servants,

That they perform my will, in what's enjoined them

To the good of others. Be careful, my dear boy.

_Ang._ Yes, my sweetest mistress. [_Exit._

_Dor._ Now, sir, you may go on.

_Mac._ I then must study

A new arithmetic, to sum up the virtues

Which Antoninus gracefully become.

There is in him so much man, so much goodness,

So much of honour, and of all things else,

Which make our being excellent, that from his store

He can enough lend others; yet, much ta'en from him,

The want shall be as little, as when seas

Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness

Of needy rivers.

_Dor._ Sir, he is more indebted

To you for praise, than you to him that owes[40] it.

_Mac._ If queens, viewing his presents paid to the whiteness

Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious

But to be parted[41] in their numerous shares;

This he counts nothing: could you see main armies

Make battles in the quarrel of his valour,

That 'tis the best, the truest; this were nothing:

The greatness of his state, his father's voice,

And arm, awing Cæsarea, he ne'er boasts of;

The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him

Shine there but as in water, and gild him

Not with one spot of pride: no, dearest beauty,

All these, heap'd up together in one scale,

Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you,

Being put into the other.

_Dor._ Could gold buy you

To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy

Of more than I will number; and this your language

Hath power to win upon another woman,

'Top of whose heart the feathers of this world

Are gaily stuck: but all which first you named,

And now this last, his love, to me are nothing.

_Mac._ You make me a sad messenger;--but himself

_Enter_ ANTONINUS.

Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you

Music more pleasing.

_Anton._ Has your ear, Macrinus,

Heard none, then?

_Mac._ None I like.

_Anton._ But can there be

In such a noble casket, wherein lie

Beauty and chastity in their full perfections,

A rocky heart, killing with cruelty

A life that's prostrated beneath your feet?

_Dor._ I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew,

Thus to hold parley with you;--pray, sir, pardon.

[_Going._

_Anton._ Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall go:

Be but so merciful, before your wounding me

With such a mortal weapon as Farewell,

To let me murmur to your virgin ear,

What I was loth to lay on any tongue

But this mine own.

_Dor._ If one immodest accent

Fly out, I hate you everlastingly.

_Anton._ My true love dares not do it.

_Mac._ Hermes inspire thee!

_Enter, in the gallery above_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, _and_ THEOPHILUS.

_Anton._ Come, let me tune you:--glaze not thus your eyes

With self-love of a vow'd virginity;

All men desire your sweet society,

But if you bar me from it, you do kill me,

And of my blood are guilty.

_Artem._ O base villain!

_Sap._ Bridle your rage, sweet princess.

_Anton._ Could not my fortunes,

Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you,

Methinks my dear affection makes you mine.

_Dor._ Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines of gold,

He that I love is richer; and for worth,

You are to him lower than any slave

Is to a monarch.

_Sap._ So insolent, base Christian!

_Dor._ Can I, with wearing out my knees before him,

Get you but be his servant, you shall boast

You're equal to a king.

_Sap._ Confusion on thee,

For playing thus the lying sorceress!

_Anton._ Your mocks are great ones; none beneath the sun

Will I be servant to.--On my knees I beg it,

Pity me, wondrous maid.

_Sap._ I curse thy baseness.

_Theoph._ Listen to more.

_Dor._ O kneel not, sir, to me.

_Anton._ This knee is emblem of an humbled heart:

That heart which tortured is with your disdain,

Justly for scorning others, even this heart,

To which for pity such a princess sues,

As in her hand offers me all the world,

Great Cæsar's daughter.

_Artem._ Slave, thou liest.

_Anton._ Yet this

Is adamant to her, that melts to you

In drops of blood.

_Theoph._ A very dog!

_Anton._ Perhaps

'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow;

Yet be you mine, and ever be your own:

I ne'er will screw your conscience from that Power,

On which you Christians lean.

_Sap._ I can no longer

Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain.

Sirrah! [_Aloud._

Would, ere thy birth, the mighty Thunderer's hand

Had struck thee in the womb!

_Mac._ We are betray'd.

_Artem._ Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to,

Trampling upon my beauty?

_Theoph._ Sirrah, bandog[42]!

Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter

For her? our Mars for her? our Sol for her?

_Artem._ Threaten not, but strike: quick vengeance flies

Into my bosom; caitiff! here all love dies.

[_Exeunt above._

_Anton._ O! I am thunderstruck! We are both o'erwhelm'd----

_Mac._ With one high-raging billow.

_Dor._ You a soldier,

And sink beneath the violence of a woman!

_Anton._ A woman! a wrong'd princess. From such a star

Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for,

But tragical events? my life is now

The subject of her tyranny.

_Dor._ That fear is base,

Of death, when that death doth but life displace

Out of her house of earth; you only dread

The stroke, and not what follows when you're dead;

There's the great fear, indeed: come, let your eyes

Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies.

_Re-enter below_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, THEOPHILUS, _a guard_; ANGELO

_comes and stands close by_ DOROTHEA.

_Artem._ My father's nerves put vigour in mine arm,

And I his strength must use. Because I once

Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion,

Play'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my heart,

I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey,

By lingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown,

Kill thee:--hence with them all to execution.

Seize him; but let even death itself be weary

In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to shrieks;

Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom:

In pieces rack that pander. [_Points to_ MACR.

_Sap._ Albeit the reverence

I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom,

Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd

From saving this young man; yet, when I see

What face death gives him, and that a thing within me

Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man,

And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg.

_Artem._ And I deny.

_Anton._ Sir, you dishonour me,

To sue for that which I disclaim to have.

I shall more glory in my sufferings gain,

Than you in giving judgment, since I offer

My blood up to your anger; nor do I kneel

To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin:

Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is,

And Cæsar never went in greater triumph,

Than I shall to the scaffold.

_Artem._ Are you so brave, sir?

Set forward to his triumph, and let those two

Go cursing along with him.

_Dor._ No, but pitying,

For my part, I, that you lose ten times more

By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures:

Through all the army of my sins, I have even

Labour'd to break, and cope with death to the face.

The visage of a hangman frights not me;

The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires,

Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up

To an eternal habitation.

_Theoph._ Cæsar's imperial daughter, hear me speak.

Let not this Christian thing in this her pageantry

Of proud deriding both our gods and Cæsar,

Build to herself a kingdom in her death,

Going laughing from us: no; her bitterest torment

Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down;

The bravery of her resolution lie

Batter'd, by argument, into such pieces,

That she again in penitence shall creep

To kiss the pavements of our paynim gods.

_Artem._ How to be done?

_Theoph._ I'll send my daughters to her,

And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax;

Else spit at me, let me be made your slave,

And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave.

_Artem._ Thy prisoner let her be, then; and, Sapritius,

Your son and that[43], be yours: death shall be sent

To him that suffers them, by voice or letters,

To greet each other. Rifle her estate;

Christians to beggary brought grow desperate.

_Dor._ Still on the bread of poverty let me feed.

_Ang._ O! my admired mistress, quench not out

The holy fires within you, though temptations

Shower down upon you: Clasp thine armour on,

Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars,

Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[40] _Owes_,] i. e. _owns_.

[41] _Parted_,] i. e. _endowed with a part_.

[42] _Bandog!_] A _bandog_, as the name imports, was a dog so fierce,

as to require to be chained up. Bandogs are frequently mentioned by

our old writers (indeed the word occurs three times in this play)

and always with a reference to their savage nature. If the term was

appropriated to a species, it probably meant a large dog, of the

mastiff kind, which, though no longer met with here, is still

common in many parts of Germany: it was familiar to Snyders, and is

found in most of his hunting-pieces.

In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with the decline

of that sport, perhaps, the animal fell into disuse, as he was too

ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr. Gilchrist has furnished me

with a curious passage from Laneham, which renders any further

details on the subject unnecessary. "On the syxth day of her

Majestyes cumming, a great sort of _bandogs_ whear thear tyed in

the utter coourt, and thyrteen bears in the inner. Whoosoever made

the pannel, thear wear enoow for a queast, and one for a challenge

and need wear. A wight of great wisdoom and gravitie seemed their

foreman to be, had it cum to a jury: but it fell oout that they

wear causd to appeer thear upon no such matter, but onlie too

onswear too an _auncient quarrele between them and the bandogs_,"

&c. _Queen Elizabeth's Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle, in

1575_.--GIFFORD.

[43] _Your son and_ that.] Macrinus, whom before she had called a

pander. M. MASON.

ACT III. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ DOROTHEA'_s House_.

_Enter_ SAPRITIUS, THEOPHILUS, _Priest_, CALISTA, _and_ CHRISTETA.

_Sap._ Sick to the death, I fear.

_Theoph_. I meet your sorrow,

With my true feeling of it.

_Sap._ She's a witch,

A sorceress, Theophilus; my son

Is charm'd by her enchanting eyes; and, like

An image made of wax, her beams of beauty

Melt him to nothing: all my hopes in him,

And all his gotten honours, find their grave

In his strange dotage on her. Would, when first

He saw and loved her, that the earth had open'd,

And swallow'd both alive!

_Theoph._ There's hope left yet.

_Sap._ Not any: though the princess were appeased,

All title in her love surrender'd up;

Yet this coy Christian is so transported

With her religion, that unless my son

(But let him perish first!) drink the same potion,

And be of her belief, she'll not vouchsafe

To be his lawful wife.

_Priest._ But, once removed

From her opinion, as I rest assured

The reasons of these holy maids will win her,

You'll find her tractable to any thing,

For your content or his.

_Theoph._ If she refuse it,

The Stygian damps, breeding infectious airs,

The mandrake's shrieks, the basilisk's killing eye,

The dreadful lightning that does crush the bones,

And never singe the skin, shall not appear

Less fatal to her, than my zeal made hot

With love unto my gods. I have deferr'd it,

In hopes to draw back this apostata,

Which will be greater honour than her death,

Unto her father's faith; and, to that end,

Have brought my daughters hither.

_Cal._ And we doubt not

To do what you desire.

_Sap._ Let her be sent for.

Prosper in your good work; and were I not

To attend the princess, I would see and hear

How you succeed.

_Theoph._ I am commanded too,

I'll bear you company.

_Sap._ Give them your ring,

To lead her as in triumph, if they win her,

Before her highness. [_Exit._

_Theoph._ Spare no promises,

Persuasions, or threats, I do conjure you:

If you prevail, 'tis the most glorious work

You ever undertook.

_Enter_ DOROTHEA _and_ ANGELO.

_Priest._ She comes.

_Theoph._ We leave you;

Be constant, and be careful.

[_Exeunt_ THEOPH. _and Priest_.

_Cal._ We are sorry

To meet you under guard.

_Dor._ But I more grieved

You are at liberty. So well I love you,

That I could wish, for such a cause as mine,

You were my fellow-prisoners: Prithee, Angelo,

Reach us some chairs. Please you sit----

_Cal._ We thank you:

Our visit is for love, love to your safety.

_Christ._ Our conference must be private; pray you, therefore,

Command your boy to leave us.

_Dor._ You may trust him

With any secret that concerns my life;

Falsehood and he are strangers: had you, ladies,

Been bless'd with such a servant, you had never

Forsook that way, your journey even half ended,

That leads to joys eternal. In the place

Of loose lascivious mirth, he would have stirr'd you

To holy meditations; and so far

He is from flattery, that he would have told you,

Your pride being at the height, how miserable

And wretched things you were, that, for an hour

Of pleasure here, have made a desperate sale

Of all your right in happiness hereafter.

He must not leave me; without him I fall:

In this life he's my servant, in the other

A wish'd companion.

_Ang._ 'Tis not in the devil,

Nor all his wicked arts, to shake such goodness.

_Dor._ But you were speaking, lady.

_Cal._ As a friend

And lover of your safety, and I pray you

So to receive it; and, if you remember

How near in love our parents were, that we,

Even from the cradle, were brought up together,

Our amity increasing with our years,

We cannot stand suspected.

_Dor._ To the purpose.

_Cal._ We come, then, as good angels, Dorothea,

To make you happy; and the means so easy,

That, be not you an enemy to yourself,

Already you enjoy it.

_Christ._ Look on us,

Ruin'd as you are, once, and brought unto it,

By your persuasion.

_Cal._ But what follow'd, lady?

Leaving those blessings which our gods gave freely,

And shower'd upon us with a prodigal hand,

As to be noble born, youth, beauty, wealth,

And the free use of these without control,

Check, curb, or stop, such is our law's indulgence!

All happiness forsook us; bonds and fetters,

For amorous twines; the rack and hangman's whips,

In place of choice delights; our parents' curses

Instead of blessings; scorn, neglect, contempt,

Fell thick upon us.

_Christ._ This consider'd wisely,

We made a fair retreat; and reconciled

To our forsaken gods, we live again

In all prosperity.

_Cal._ By our example,

Bequeathing misery to such as love it,

Learn to be happy. The Christian yoke's too heavy

For such a dainty neck; it was framed rather

To be the shrine of Venus, or a pillar,

More precious than crystal, to support

Our Cupid's image: our religion, lady,

Is but a varied pleasure; yours a toil

Slaves would shrink under.

_Dor._ Have you not cloven feet? are you not devils?

Dare any say so much, or dare I hear it

Without a virtuous and religious anger?

Now to put on a virgin modesty,

Or maiden silence, when His power is question'd

That is omnipotent, were a greater crime,

Than in a bad cause to be impudent.

Your gods! your temples! brothel-houses rather,

Or wicked actions of the worst of men,

Pursued and practised. Your religious rites!

Oh! call them rather juggling mysteries,

The baits and nets of hell: your souls the prey

For which the devil angles; your false pleasures

A steep descent, by which you headlong fall

Into eternal torments.

_Cal._ Do not tempt

Our powerful gods.

_Dor._ Which of your powerful gods?

Your gold, your silver, brass, or wooden ones,

That can nor do me hurt, nor protect you?

Most pitied women! will you sacrifice

To such,--or call them gods or goddesses,

Your parents would disdain to be the same,

Or you yourselves? O blinded ignorance!

Tell me, Calista, by thy truth, I charge you,

Or any thing you hold more dear, would you,

To have him deified to posterity,

Desire your father an adulterer,

A ravisher, almost a parricide,

A vile incestuous wretch?

_Cal._ That, piety

And duty answer for me.

_Dor._ Or you, Christeta,

To be hereafter register'd a goddess,

Give your chaste body up to the embraces

Of wicked passion? have it writ on your forehead,

"This is the mistress in the art of sin.

Knows every trick, and labyrinth of desires

That are immodest?"

_Christ._ You judge better of me,

Or my affection is ill placed on you.

Shall I turn wanton?

_Dor._ No, I think you would not.

Yet, such was Venus, whom you worship; such

Flora, the foundress of the public stews,

And has, for that, her sacrifice; your Jupiter,

A loose adulterer:--read ye but those

That have canonized them, you'll find them worse

Than, in chaste language, I can speak them to you.

Are they immortal, then, that did partake

Of human weakness, and had ample share

In men's most base affections; subject to

Unchaste loves, anger, bondage, wounds, as men are?

Here, Jupiter, to serve his lust, turn'd bull,

The shape, indeed, in which he stole Europa;

Neptune, for gain, builds up the walls of Troy,

As a day-labourer; Apollo keeps

Admetus' sheep for bread; the Lemnian smith

Sweats at the forge for hire; Prometheus here,

With his still-growing liver, feeds the vulture;

Saturn bound fast in hell with adamant chains;

And thousands more, on whom abused error

Bestows a deity. Will you then, dear sisters,

For I would have you such, pay your devotions

To things of less power than yourselves?

_Cal._ We worship

Their good deeds in their images.

_Dor._ By whom fashion'd?

By sinful men. I'll tell you a short tale[44],

Nor can you but confess it is a true one:

A king of Egypt, being to erect

The image of Osiris, whom they honour,

Took from the matrons' necks the richest jewels,

And purest gold, as the materials

To finish up his work; which perfected,

With all solemnity he set it up,

To be adored, and served himself his idol;

Desiring it to give him victory

Against his enemies: but, being overthrown,

Enraged against his god, (these are fine gods,

Subject to human fury!) he took down

The senseless thing, and melting it again,

He made a bason, in which eunuchs wash'd

His concubine's feet; and for this sordid use,

Some months it served: his mistress proving false,

As most indeed do so, and grace concluded

Between him and the priests, of the same bason

He made his god again!--Think, think, of this,

And then consider, if all worldly honours,

Or pleasures that do leave sharp stings behind them,

Have power to win such as have reasonable souls,

To put their trust in dross.

_Cal._ Oh, that I had been born

Without a father!

_Christ._ Piety to him

Hath ruin'd us for ever.

_Dor._ Think not so;

You may repair all yet: the attribute

That speaks his Godhead most, is merciful:

Revenge is proper to the fiends you worship,

Yet cannot strike without his leave.--You weep,--

Oh, 'tis a heavenly shower! celestial balm

To cure your wounded conscience! let it fall,

Fall thick upon it; and, when that is spent,

I'll help it with another of my tears:

And may your true repentance prove the child

Of my true sorrow, never mother had

A birth so happy!

_Cal._ We are caught ourselves,

That came to take you; and, assured of conquest,

We are your captives.

_Dor._ And in that you triumph:

Your victory had been eternal loss,

And this your loss immortal gain. Fix here,

And you shall feel yourselves inwardly arm'd

'Gainst tortures, death, and hell:--but, take heed, sisters,

That, or through weakness, threats, or mild persuasions,

Though of a father, you fall not into

A second and a worse apostasy.

_Cal._ Never, oh never! steel'd by your example,

We dare the worst of tyranny.

_Christ._ Here's our warrant,

You shall along and witness it.

_Dor._ Be confirm'd then;

And rest assured, the more you suffer here,

The more your glory, you to heaven more dear.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[44] ----_I'll tell you a_ short tale, &c.] I once thought that I had

read this _short tale_ in Arnobius, from whom, and from Augustin,

much of the preceding speech is taken; but, upon looking him over

again, I can scarcely find a trace of it. Herodotus has, indeed,

a story of a king of Egypt (Amasis), which bears a distant

resemblance to it; but the application is altogether

different:--there is a _bason of gold_ in which he and his guests

were accustomed to spit, _wash their feet_, &c. which is formed

_into a god_; but whether this furnished the poet with any hints I

cannot undertake to say.--GIFFORD.

SCENE II.

_The_ GOVERNOR'S _Palace_.

_Enter_ ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, THEOPHILUS, _and_ HARPAX.

_Artem._ Sapritius, though your son deserve no pity,

We grieve his sickness: his contempt of us

We cast behind us, and look back upon

His service done to Cæsar, that weighs down

Our just displeasure. If his malady

Have growth from his restraint, or that you think

His liberty can cure him, let him have it:

Say, we forgive him freely.

_Sap._ Your grace binds us

Ever your humblest vassals.

_Artem._ Use all means

For his recovery; though yet I love him,

I will not force affection. If the Christian,

Whose beauty hath out-rivall'd me, be won

To be of our belief, then let him wed her;

That all may know, when the cause wills, I can

Command my own affections.

_Theoph._ Be happy then,

My lord Sapritius: I am confident,

Such eloquence and sweet persuasion dwell

Upon my daughters' tongues, that they will work her

To any thing they please.

_Sap._ I wish they may!

Yet 'tis no easy task to undertake,

To alter a perverse and obstinate woman.

[_A shout within: loud music._

_Artem._ What means this shout?

_Sap._ It is seconded with music,

Triumphant music.--Ha!

_Enter_ SEMPRONIUS.

_Semp._ My lord, your daughters,

The pillars of our faith[45], having converted,

For so report gives out, the Christian lady,

The image of great Jupiter born before them,

Sue for access.

_Theoph._ My soul divined as much.

Blest be the time when first they saw this light!

Their mother, when she bore them to support

My feeble age, fill'd not my longing heart

With so much joy, as they in this good work

Have thrown upon me.

_Enter priest with the Image of Jupiter, incense and censers: followed

by_ CALISTA _and_ CHRISTETA, _leading_ DOROTHEA.

Welcome, oh, thrice welcome,

Daughters, both of my body and my mind!

Let me embrace in you my bliss, my comfort;

And, Dorothea, now more welcome too,

Than if you never had fallen off! I am ravish'd

With the excess of joy:--speak, happy daughters,

The blest event.

_Cal._ We never gain'd so much

By any undertaking.

_Theoph._ O my dear girl,

Our gods reward thee!

_Dor._ Nor was ever time,

On my part, better spent.

_Christ._ We are all now

Of one opinion.

_Theoph._ My best Christeta!

Madam, if ever you did grace to worth,

Vouchsafe your princely hands.

_Artem._ Most willingly----

Do you refuse it?

_Cal._ Let us first deserve it.

_Theoph._ My own child still! here set our god; prepare

The incense quickly: Come, fair Dorothea,

I will myself support you;--now kneel down,

And pay your vows to Jupiter.

_Dor._ I shall do it

Better by their example.

_Theoph._ They shall guide you;

They are familiar with the sacrifice.

Forward, my twins of comfort, and, to teach her,

Make a joint offering.

_Christ._ Thus---- [_they both spit at the image._

_Cal._ And thus---- [_throw it down, and spurn it._

_Harp._ Profane,

And impious! stand you now like a statue?

Are you the champion of the gods? where is

Your holy zeal, your anger?

_Theoph._ I am blasted;

And, as my feet were rooted here, I find

I have no motion; I would I had no sight too!

Or if my eyes can serve to any use,

Give me, thou injured power! a sea of tears,

To expiate this madness in my daughters;

For, being themselves, they would have trembled at

So blasphemous a deed in any other:----

For my sake, hold awhile thy dreadful thunder,

And give me patience to demand a reason

For this accursed act.

_Dor._ 'Twas bravely done.

_Theoph._ Peace, damn'd enchantress, peace!--I should look on you

With eyes made red with fury, and my hand,

That shakes with rage, should much outstrip my tongue,

And seal my vengeance on your hearts;--but nature,

To you that have fallen once, bids me again

To be a father. Oh! how durst you tempt

The anger of great Jove?

_Dor._ Alack, poor Jove!

He is no swaggerer; how still he stands!

He'll take a kick, or any thing.

_Sap._ Stop her mouth.

_Dor._ It is the patient'st godling! do not fear him;

He would not hurt the thief that stole away

Two of his golden locks; indeed he could not:

And still 'tis the same quiet thing.

_Theoph._ Blasphemer!

Ingenious cruelty shall punish this:

Thou art past hope: but for you yet, dear daughters,

Again bewitch'd, the dew of mild forgiveness

May gently fall, provided you deserve it,

With true contrition: be yourselves again;

Sue to the offended deity.

_Christ._ Not to be

The mistress of the earth.

_Cal._ I will not offer

A grain of incense to it, much less kneel,

Nor look on it but with contempt and scorn,

To have a thousand years conferr'd upon me

Of worldly blessings. We profess ourselves

To be, like Dorothea, Christians;

And owe her for that happiness.

_Theoph._ My ears

Receive, in hearing this, all deadly charms,

Powerful to make man wretched.

_Artem._ Are these they

You bragg'd could convert others!

_Sap._ That want strength

To stand themselves!

_Harp._ Your honour is engaged,

The credit of your cause depends upon it;

Something you must do suddenly.

_Theoph._ And I will.

_Harp._ They merit death; but, falling by your hand,

'Twill be recorded for a just revenge,

And holy fury in you.

_Theoph._ Do not blow

The furnace of a wrath thrice hot already;

Ætna is in my breast, wildfire burns here,

Which only blood must quench. Incensed Power!

Which from my infancy I have adored,

Look down with favourable beams upon

The sacrifice, though not allow'd thy priest,

Which I will offer to thee; and be pleased,

My fiery zeal inciting me to act,

To call that justice others may style murder.

Come, you accursed, thus by the hair I drag you

Before this holy altar; thus look on you,

Less pitiful than tigers to their prey:

And thus, with mine own hand, I take that life

Which I gave to you. [_Kills them._

_Dor._ O most cruel butcher!

_Theoph._ My anger ends not here: hell's dreadful porter,

Receive into thy ever-open gates

Their damned souls, and let the Furies' whips

On them alone be wasted; and, when death

Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me

To hear their shrieks and howlings. Make me, Pluto,

Thy instrument to furnish thee with souls

Of that accursed sect; nor let me fall,

Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all.

[_Exit, with_ HARPAX.

_Artem._ 'Tis a brave zeal.

_Enter_ ANGELO, _smiling_.

_Dor._ Oh, call him back again,

Call back your hangman! here's one prisoner left

To be the subject of his knife.

_Artem._ Not so;

We are not so near reconciled unto thee;

Thou shalt not perish such an easy way.

Be she your charge, Sapritius, now; and suffer

None to come near her, till we have found out

Some torments worthy of her.

_Ang._ Courage, mistress;

These martyrs but prepare your glorious fate:

You shall exceed them, and not imitate. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[45] _The pillars of our_ faith, &c.] Here, as in many other places,

the language of Christianity and paganism is confounded: _faith_

was always the distinctive term for the former, in opposition to

heathenism.--GIFFORD.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_The Governor's Palace._

ANTONINUS _on a couch, asleep, with Doctors about him_; SAPRITIUS

_and_ MACRINUS.

_Sap._ O you, that are half gods, lengthen that life

Their deities lend us; turn o'er all the volumes

Of your mysterious Æsculapian science,

T' increase the number of this young man's days:

And, for each minute of his time prolong'd,

Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold

With Cæsar's stamp, such as he sends his captains

When in the wars they earn well: do but save him,

And, as he's half myself, be you all mine.

_1 Doct._ What art can do, we promise; physic's hand

As apt is to destroy as to preserve,

If heaven make not the med'cine: all this while,

Our skill hath combat held with his disease;

But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy,

To be such in part with death, we are in fear

The grave must mock our labours.

_Mac._ I have been

His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes

As I have seen my mother watch o'er me.

Stand by his pillow, and, in his broken slumbers,

Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea;

And, when his arms fly open to catch her,

Closing together, he falls fast asleep,

Pleased with embracings of her airy form.

Physicians but torment him; his disease

Laughs at their gibberish language: let him hear

The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name,

He starts up with high colour in his face:

She, or none, cures him; and how that can be,

The princess' strict command barring that happiness,

To me impossible seems.

_Sap._ To me it shall not;

I'll be no subject to the greatest Cæsar

Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease

To be a father. [_Exit._

_Mac._ Silence, sir; he wakes.

_Anton._ Thou kill'st me, Dorothea; oh, Dorothea!

_Mac._ She's here

_Anton._ Here! Where? Why do you mock me, sir?

Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet,

Yet I'm an old man, a fond doting fool

Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty,

(In truth I am bewitch'd) offer my life,

And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers:

Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out

A hand of pity.

_1 Doct._ Let him have some music.

_Anton._ Hell on your fiddling!

[_Starting from his couch._

_1 Doct._ Take again your bed, sir;

Sleep is a sovereign physic.

_Anton._ Confusion on your fooleries! Where's the rest

Thy pills and base apothecary drugs

Threaten'd to bring unto me? Out, you impostors!

Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill

Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill.

_Mac._ Oh, be yourself, dear friend.

_Anton._ Myself, Macrinus!

How can I be myself, when I am mangled

Into a thousand pieces? here moves my head,

But where's my heart? wherever--that lies dead.

_Re-enter_ SAPRITIUS, _dragging in_ DOROTHEA _by the hair_, ANGELO

_following_.

_Sap._ Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress! Call up thy spirits,

And, if they can, now let them from my hand

Untwine these witching hairs.

_Anton._ I am that spirit:

Or, if I be not, were you not my father,

One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces,

That so defaces this sweet monument

Of my love's beauty.

_Sap._ Art thou sick?

_Anton._ To death.

_Sap._ Would'st thou recover?

_Anton._ Would I live in bliss!

_Sap._ And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that man

That brings thee health?

_Anton._ It is not in the world.

_Sap._ It's here.

_Anton._ To treasure, by enchantment lock'd

In caves as deep as hell, am I as near.

_1 Doct._ Shall the boy stay, sir?

_Sap._ No matter for the boy.

[_Exeunt_ SAP. MAC. _and Doct._

_Dor._ O, guard me, angels!

What tragedy must begin now?

_Anton._ When a tiger

Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws,

Being hunger-starved, what tragedy then begins?

_Dor._ Death; I am happy so: you, hitherto,

Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes;

Let not that orb be broken.

_Ang._ Fear not, mistress;

If he dare offer violence, we two

Are strong enough for such a sickly man.

_Dor._ What is your horrid purpose, sir? your eye

Bears danger in it.

_Anton._ I must----

_Dor._ Oh, kill me, [_Kneels._

And heaven will take it as a sacrifice;

But, if you play the ravisher, there is

A hell to swallow you.

_Anton._ Rise:--for the Roman empire, Dorothea,

I would not wound thine honour. My father's will

Would have me seize upon you, as my prey;

Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin

The villany of man did ever act.

[SAPRITIUS _breaks in with_ MACRINUS.

_Dor._ Die happy for this language!

_Sap._ Die a slave,

A blockish idiot!

_Mac._ Dear sir, vex him not.

_Sap._ Yes, and vex thee too: where's this lamia[46]?

_Dor._ I'm here; do what you please.

_Sap._ Spurn her to the bar.

_Dor._ Come, boy, being there, more near to heaven we are.

_Sap._ Kick harder; go out, witch! [_Exeunt._

_Anton._ O bloody hangmen! Thine own gods give thee breath!

Each of thy tortures is my several death. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTE:

[46] _Lamia_,] i. e. _sorceress_, _hag_. The word is pure Latin.

SCENE II.[47]

_The Place of Execution. A scaffold, block, &c._

_Enter_ ANTONINUS, _supported by_ MACRINUS, _and Servants_.

_Anton._ Is this the place, where virtue is to suffer,

And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth,

To make a glad return from whence it came?

Is it, Macrinus?

_Mac._ By this preparation,

You well may rest assured that Dorothea

This hour is to die here.

_Anton._ Then with her dies

The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman!

Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand

Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once

Take my last leave both of this light and her:

For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself

To me's Cimmerian darkness.

_Mac._ Strange affection[48]!

Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death,

And kills, instead of giving life.

_Anton._ Nay, weep not;

Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm,

On me they're cast away. It is decreed

That I must die with her; our clue of life

Was spun together.

_Mac._ Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder,

That you, who, hearing only what she suffers,

Partake of all her tortures, yet will be,

To add to your calamity, an eyewitness

Of her last tragic scene, which must pierce deeper,

And make the wound more desperate.

_Anton._ Oh, Macrinus!

'Twould linger out my torments else, not kill me,

Which is the end I aim at: being to die too,

What instrument more glorious can I wish for,

Than what is made sharp by my constant love

And true affection? It may be, the duty

And loyal service, with which I pursued her,

And seal'd it with my death, will be remember'd

Among her blessed actions; and what honour

Can I desire beyond it?

_Enter a Guard bringing in_ DOROTHEA, _a Headsman before her; followed

by_ THEOPHILUS, SAPRITIUS, _and_ HARPAX.

See, she comes;

How sweet her innocence appears! more like

To heaven itself, than any sacrifice

That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes

Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful

In my belief; nor can I think our gods

Are good, or to be served, that take delight

In offerings of this kind: that, to maintain

Their power, deface the master-piece of nature,

Which they themselves come short of. She ascends,

And every step raises her nearer heaven.

_Sap._ You are to blame

To let him come abroad.

_Mac._ It was his will;

And we were left to serve him, not command him.

_Anton._ Good sir, be not offended; nor deny

My last of pleasures in this happy object,

That I shall e'er be blest with.

_Theoph._ Now, proud contemner

Of us, and of our gods, tremble to think,

It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee.

Not all the riches of the sea, increased

By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines,

(Mammon's unknown exchequer), shall redeem thee:

And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd

What 'tis to die, and to die young; to part with

All pleasures and delights; lastly, to go

Where all antipathies to comfort dwell,

Furies behind, about thee, and before thee;

And, to add to affliction, the remembrance

Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted,

Hadst thou not turn'd apostata[49] to those gods

That so reward their servants; let despair

Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this scaffold

Make thy first entrance into hell.

_Anton._ She smiles,

Unmoved, by Mars! as if she were assured

Death, looking on her constancy, would forget

The use of his inevitable hand.

_Theoph._ Derided too! despatch, I say.

_Dor._ Thou fool!

That gloriest in having power to ravish

A trifle from me I am weary of,

What is this life to me? not worth a thought;

Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it

To win a better: even thy malice serves

To me but as a ladder to mount up

To such a height of happiness, where I shall

Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world;

Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above

The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory

To think at what an easy price I bought it.

There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth:

No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat,

Famine, nor age, have any being there.

Forget, for shame, your Tempe; bury in

Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards:--

The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon,

Which did require a Hercules to get[50] it,

Compared with what grows in all plenty there,

Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve

Laughs at your happy Araby, or the

Elysian shades; for he hath made his bowers

Better in deed, than you can fancy yours.

_Anton._ O, take me thither with you!

_Dor._ Trace my steps, And be assured you shall.

_Sap._ With my own hands

I'll rather stop that little breath is left thee,

And rob thy killing fever.

_Theoph._ By no means;

Let him go with her: do, seduced young man,

And wait upon thy saint in death; do, do:

And, when you come to that imagined place,

That place of all delights--pray you, observe me,

And meet those cursed things I once call'd Daughters,

Whom I have sent as harbingers before you;

If there be any truth in your religion,

In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten

Your journey thither, pray you send me some

Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of.

_Anton._ Grant that I may go with her, and I will.

_Sap._ Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself?

_Theoph._ The gates to hell are open.

_Dor._ Know, thou tyrant,

Thou agent for the devil, thy great master,

Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it,

I can, and will.

_Enter_ ANGELO, _in the Angel's habit_[51].

_Harp._ Oh! mountains fall upon me,

Or hide me in the bottom of the deep,

Where light may never find me!

_Theoph._ What's the matter?

_Sap._ This is prodigious, and confirms her witchcraft.

_Theoph._ Harpax, my Harpax, speak!

_Harp._ I dare not stay:

Should I but hear her once more, I were lost.

Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place,

To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,)

Hell's torments are sweet slumbers! [_Exit._

_Sap._ Follow him.

_Theoph._ He is distracted, and I must not lose him.

Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch,

Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die,

Till my return. [_Exeunt_ SAP. _and_ THEOPH.

_Anton._ She minds him not; what object

Is her eye fix'd on?

_Mac._ I see nothing.

_Anton._ Mark her.

_Dor._ Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve!

(For thou art more than mortal,) is 't for me,

Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave

Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest,

Though glorified, to take my servant's habit?--

For, put off thy divinity, so look'd

My lovely Angelo.

_Ang._ Know, I am the same;

And still the servant to your piety.

Your zealous prayers and pious deeds first won me

(But 'twas by His command to whom you sent them)

To guide your steps. I tried your charity,

When in a beggar's shape you took me up,

And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed,

As you believed, my famish'd mouth. Learn all,

By your example, to look on the poor

With gentle eyes! for in such habits, often,

Angels desire an alms[52]. I never left you,

Nor will I now; for I am sent to carry

Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal,

Your martyrdom once suffer'd; and before it,

Ask any thing from me, and rest assured,

You shall obtain it.

_Dor._ I am largely paid

For all my torments. Since I find such grace,

Grant that the love of this young man to me,

In which he languisheth to death, may be

Changed to the love of heaven.

_Ang._ I will perform it;

And in that instant when the sword sets free

Your happy soul, his shall have liberty.

Is there aught else?

_Dor._ For proof that I forgive

My persecutor, who in scorn desired

To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to;

After my death, as sent from me, be pleased

To give him of it.

_Ang._ Willingly, dear mistress.

_Mac._ I am amazed.

_Anton._ I feel a holy fire,

That yields a comfortable heat within me;

I am quite alter'd from the thing I was.

See! I can stand, and go alone; thus kneel

To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand

With a religious kiss. [_Kneels._

_Re-enter_ SAPRITIUS _and_ THEOPHILUS.

_Sap._ He is well now,

But will not be drawn back.

_Theoph._ It matters not,

We can discharge this work without his help.

But see your son.

_Sap._ Villain!

_Anton._ Sir, I beseech you,

Being so near our ends, divorce us not.

_Theoph._ I'll quickly make a separation of them:

Hast thou aught else to say?

_Dor._ Nothing, but to blame

Thy tardiness in sending me to rest;

My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul

Begins to take her flight: strike, O! strike quickly;

And, though you are unmoved to see my death,

Hereafter, when my story shall be read,

As they were present now, the hearers shall

Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes,

"She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies."

[_Her head is struck off._

_Anton._ O, take my soul along, to wait on thine!

_Mac._ Your son sinks too. [_Antoninus falls._

_Sap._ Already dead!

_Theoph._ Die all

That are, or favour this accursed sect:

I triumph in their ends, and will raise up

A hill of their dead carcasses, to o'erlook

The Pyrenean hills, but I'll root out

These superstitious fools, and leave the world

No name of Christian.

[_Loud music: Exit_ ANGELO, _having first laid

his hand upon the mouths of_ ANTON. _and_ DOR.

_Sap._ Ha! heavenly music!

_Mac._ 'Tis in the air.

_Theoph._ Illusions of the devil,

Wrought by some witch of her religion,

That fain would make her death a miracle;

It frights not me. Because he is your son,

Let him have burial; but let her body

Be cast forth with contempt in some highway,

And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. [_Exeunt._

THEOPHILUS _discovered sitting in his Study: books about him_[53].

_Theoph._ Is 't holiday, O Cæsar, that thy servant,

Thy provost, to see execution done

On these base Christians in Cæsarea,

Should now want work? Sleep these idolaters,

That none are stirring?--As a curious painter,

When he has made some honourable piece,

Stands off, and with a searching eye examines

Each colour, how 'tis sweeten'd; and then hugs

Himself for his rare workmanship--so here,

Will I my drolleries, and bloody landscapes,

Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry

With shadows, now I want the substances.

My muster-book of hell-hounds. Were the Christians,

Whose names stand here, alive and arm'd, not Rome

Could move upon her hinges. What I've done,

Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate

To poor tormented wretches[54]; no, I'm carried

With violence of zeal, and streams of service

I owe our Roman gods. This Christian maid was well,

_Enter_ ANGELO _with a basket filled with fruit and flowers_.

A pretty one; but let such horror follow

The next I feed with torments, that when Rome

Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound

May feel an earthquake. How now? [_Music._

_Ang._ Are you amazed, sir?

So great a Roman spirit--and doth it tremble!

_Theoph._ How cam'st thou in? to whom thy business?

_Ang._ To you:

I had a mistress, late sent hence by you

Upon a bloody errand; you entreated,

That, when she came into that blessed garden

Whither she knew she went, and where, now happy,

She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you

Some of that garden fruit and flowers; which here,

To have her promise saved, are brought by me.

_Theoph._ Cannot I see this garden?

_Ang._ Yes, if the master

Will give you entrance. [_He vanishes._

_Theoph._ 'Tis a tempting fruit,

And the most bright-cheek'd child I ever view'd;

Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these?

In Dioclesian's gardens, the most beauteous,

Compared with these, are weeds: is it not February,

The second day she died? frost, ice, and snow,

Hang on the beard of winter: where's the sun

That gilds this summer? pretty, sweet boy, say,

In what country shall a man find this garden?--

My delicate boy,--gone! vanish'd! within there,

Julianus! Geta!--

_Enter_ JULIANUS _and_ GETA.

_Both._ My lord.

_Theoph._ Are my gates shut?

_Geta._ And guarded.

_Theoph._ Saw you not

A boy?

_Jul._ Where?

_Theoph._ Here he enter'd; a young lad;

A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes:

A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this basket.

_Geta._ No, sir!

_Theoph._ Away--but be in reach, if my voice calls you.

[_Exeunt_ JUL. _and_ GETA.

No!--vanish'd, and not seen!--Be thou a spirit,

Sent from that witch to mock me, I am sure

This is essential, and, howe'er it grows,

Will taste it. [_Eats of the fruit._

_Harp._ [_within._] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Theoph._ So good I'll have some more, sure.

_Harp._ Ha, ha, ha, ha! great liquorish fool!

_Theoph._ What art thou?

_Harp._ A fisherman.

_Theoph._ What dost thou catch?

_Harp._ Souls, souls; a fish call'd souls.

_Theoph._ Geta!

_Re-enter_ GETA.

_Geta._ My lord.

_Harp._ [_within._] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Theoph._ What insolent slave is this, dares laugh at me?

Or what is 't the dog grins at so?

_Geta._ I neither know, my lord, at what, nor

whom; for there is none without, but my fellow

Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter.

_Theoph._ Jupiter! all within me is not well;

And yet not sick.

_Harp._ [_within._] Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Theoph._ What's thy name, slave?

_Harp._ [_at one end of the room._] Go look.

_Geta._ 'Tis Harpax' voice.

_Theoph._ Harpax! go, drag the caitiff to my foot,

That I may stamp upon him.

_Harp._ [_at the other end._] Fool, thou liest!

_Geta._ He's yonder, now, my lord.

_Theoph._ Watch thou that end,

Whilst I make good this.

_Harp._ [_in the middle._] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Theoph._ Search for him. [_Exit_ GETA.] All

this ground, methinks, is bloody,

And paved with thousands of those Christians' eyes

Whom I have tortured; and they stare upon me.

What was this apparition? sure it had

A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled,

And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore

A pair of glorious wings; yes, they were wings;

And hence he flew:----'tis vanish'd! Jupiter,

For all my sacrifices done to him,

Never once gave me smile.--How can stone smile?

Or wooden image laugh? [_music._] Ha! I remember,

Such music gave a welcome to mine ear,

When the fair youth came to me:--'tis in the air,

Or from some better place; a Power divine,

Through my dark ignorance, on my soul does shine,

And makes me see a conscience all stain'd o'er,

Nay, drown'd and damn'd for ever in Christian gore.

_Harp._ [_within._] Ha, ha, ha!

_Theoph._ Again!--What dainty relish on my tongue

This fruit hath left! some angel hath me fed:

If so toothful, I will be banqueted. [_Eats again._

_Enter_ HARPAX, _in a fearful shape, fire flashing out of the Study_.

_Harp._ Hold!

_Theoph._ Not for Cæsar.

_Harp._ But for me thou shalt.

_Theoph._ Thou art no twin to him that last was here.

Ye Powers, whom my soul bids me reverence, guard me!

What art thou?

_Harp._ I am thy master.

_Theoph._ Mine!

_Harp._ And thou my everlasting slave: that Harpax,

Who hand in hand hath led thee to thy hell,

Am I.

_Theoph._ Avaunt!

_Harp._ I will not; cast thou down

That basket with the things in 't, and fetch up

What thou hast swallow'd, and then take a drink,

Which I shall give thee, and I'm gone.

_Theoph._ My fruit!

Does this offend thee? see! [_Eats again._

_Harp._ Spit it to the earth,

And tread upon it, or I'll piecemeal tear thee.

_Theoph._ Art thou with this affrighted? see, here's more.

[_Pulls out a handful of flowers._

_Harp._ Fling them away, I'll take thee else, and hang thee

In a contorted chain of icicles,

In the frigid zone: down with them!

_Theoph._ At the bottom

One thing I found not yet. See!

[_Holds up a cross of flowers._

_Harp._ Oh! I am tortured.

_Theoph._ Can this do 't? hence, thou fiend infernal, hence!

_Harp._ Clasp Jupiter's image, and away with that.

_Theoph._ At thee I'll fling that Jupiter; for, methinks,

I serve a better master: he now checks me

For murdering my two daughters, put on[55] by thee.

By thy damn'd rhetoric did I hunt the life

Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr.

She is not angry with the axe, nor me,

But sends these presents to me; and I'll travel

O'er worlds to find her, and from her white hand

Beg a forgiveness.

_Harp._ No; I'll bind thee here.

_Theoph._ I serve a strength above thine; this small weapon[56],

Methinks, is armour hard enough.

_Harp._ Keep from me. [_Sinks a little._

_Theoph._ Art posting to thy centre? down, hell-hound! down!

Me thou hast lost. That arm, which hurls thee hence,

[_Harpax disappears._

Save me, and set me up, the strong defence

In the fair Christian quarrel!

_Enter_ ANGELO.

_Ang._ Fix thy foot there,

Nor be thou shaken with a Cæsar's voice,

Though thousand deaths were in it; and I then

Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash

Thy bloody hands clean and more white than snow;

And to that garden where these blest things grow,

And to that martyr'd virgin, who hath sent

That heavenly token to thee: spread this brave wing,

And serve, than Cæsar, a far greater king. [_Exit._

_Theoph._ It is, it is, some angel. Vanish'd again!

Oh, come back, ravishing boy! bright messenger!

Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix'd on thy beauty,

Illumined all my soul. Now look I back

On my black tyrannies, which, as they did

Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that lead'st me,

Teach me what I must do, and, to do well,

That my last act the best may parallel[57]. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[47] Speaking of the remainder of this act, Gifford says, "there may

be (and probably are) finer passages in our dramatic poets, but I

am not acquainted with them."

[48] Mac. _Strange affection!

Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death,

And kills, instead of giving life._] This is a beautiful allusion

to a little poem among the _Elegies_ of Secundus. Cupid and Death

unite in the destruction of a lover, and in endeavouring to recover

their weapons from the body of the victim, commit a mutual mistake,

each plucking out the "shafts" of the other. The consequences of

this are prettily described:

_Missa peregrinis sparguntur vulnera nervis,

Et manus ignoto sævit utrinque malo.

Irrita Mors arcus validi molimina damnat,

Plorat Amor teneras tam valuisse manus;

Foedabant juvenes primus in pulvere malas

Oscula quas, heu, ad blanda vocabat Amor.

Canicies vernis florebat multa corollis

Persephone crinem vulserat unde sibi.

Quid facerent? falsas procul abjecere sagittas,

De pharetra jaculum prompsit uterque novum.

Res bona! sed virus pueri penetravit in arcum;

Ex illo miseros tot dedit ille neci._ Lib. ii. Eleg. 6.

The fable, however, is very ancient.--GIFFORD.

[49] _Apostata._] Our old writers usually said, _apostata, statua_,

&c. where we now say, _apostate, statue_.

[50] _Which did require a Hercules to get it._] This beautiful

description of Elysium, as Mr. Gilchrist observes to me, has been

imitated by Nabbes, in that very poetic rhapsody, _Microcosmus_:

some of the lines may be given:

"Cold there compels no use of rugged furs,

Nor makes the mountains barren; there's no dog

To rage, and scorch the land. Spring's always there,

And paints the valleys; whilst a temperate air

Sweeps their embroider'd face with his curl'd gales,

And breathes perfumes:--there night doth never spread

Her ebon wings: but daylight's always there,

And one blest season crowns the eternal year."

GIFFORD.

[51] _Enter_ ANGELO, _in the Angel's_ habit, &c.] It appears that

Angelo was not meant to be seen or heard by any of the people

present, but Dorothea. In the inventory of the Lord Admiral's

properties, given by Mr. Malone, is, "a roobe for to goe

invisibell." It was probably of a light gauzy texture, and afforded

a sufficient hint to our ancestors, not to see the person invested

with it; or rather, to understand that some of the characters on

the stage were not to see him.--GIFFORD.

[52] ------------_Learn all,

By your example_, &c.] "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers;

for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Heb. c. xiii.

v. 2. Here is also a beautiful allusion to the parting speech of

the "sociable archangel," to Tobit and his son.--GIFFORD.

[53] The whole of this scene Gifford ascribes to Decker.

[54] ------------_is not out of hate

To poor tormented wretches_, &c.] This is said to distinguish his

character from that of Sapritius, whose zeal is influenced by

motives of interest, and by many other considerations, which appear

to weigh nothing with Theophilus.--GIFFORD.

[55] _Put on_,] i. e. _instigated_.

[56] ----_this small weapon._] Meaning the "cross of flowers," which

he had just found. The language and ideas of this play are purely

catholic.--GIFFORD.

[57] _That my last act the best may parallel._] Thus far Decker; what

follows, I apprehend, was written by Massinger. In pathos,

strength, and harmony, it is not surpassed by any passage of equal

length in the English language.--GIFFORD.

SCENE II.

DIOCLESIAN'_s Palace_.

_Enter_ DIOCLESIAN, MAXIMINUS, _the Kings of Epire, Pontus, and

Macedon, meeting_ ARTEMIA; _Attendants_.

_Artem._ Glory and conquest still attend upon

Triumphant Cæsar!

_Diocle._ Let thy wish, fair daughter,

Be equally divided; and hereafter

Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus,

Whose power, with mine united, makes one Cæsar.

_Max._ But that I fear 'twould be held flattery,

The bonds consider'd in which we stand tied,

As love and empire, I should say, till now

I ne'er had seen a lady I thought worthy

To be my mistress.

_Artem._ Sir, you show yourself

Both courtier and soldier; but take heed,

Take heed, my lord, though my dull-pointed beauty,

Stain'd by a harsh refusal in my servant,

Cannot dart forth such beams as may inflame you,

You may encounter such a powerful one,

That with a pleasing heat will thaw your heart,

Though bound in ribs of ice. Love still is Love;

His bow and arrows are the same: Great Julius,

That to his successors left the name of Cæsar,

Whom war could never tame, that with dry eyes

Beheld the large plains of Pharsalia cover'd

With the dead carcases of senators,

And citizens of Rome; when the world knew

No other lord but him, struck deep in years too,

(And men gray-hair'd forget the loves of youth,)

After all this, meeting fair Cleopatra,

A suppliant too, the magic of her eye,

Even in his pride of conquest, took him captive:

Nor are you more secure.

_Max._ Were you deform'd,

(But, by the gods, you are most excellent,)

Your gravity and discretion would o'ercome me;

And I should be more proud in being prisoner

To your fair virtues, than of all the honours,

Wealth, title, empire, that my sword hath purchased.

_Diocle._ This meets my wishes. Welcome it, Artemia,

With outstretch'd arms, and study to forget

That Antoninus ever was: thy fate

Reserved thee for this better choice; embrace it.

_Max._ This happy match brings new nerves to give strength

To our continued league.

_Diocle._ Hymen himself

Will bless this marriage, which we'll solemnize

In the presence of these kings.

_K. of Pontus._ Who rest most happy,

To be eye-witnesses of a match that brings

Peace to the empire.

Diocle. We much thank your loves:

But where's Sapritius, our governor,

And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus?

If ever prince were blest in a true servant,

Or could the gods be debtors to a man,

Both they and we stand far engaged to cherish

His piety and service.

_Artem._ Sir, the governor

Brooks sadly his son's loss, although he turn'd

Apostata in death; but bold Theophilus,

Who for the same cause, in my presence, seal'd

His holy anger on his daughters' hearts;

Having with tortures first tried to convert her,

Dragg'd the bewitching Christian to the scaffold,

And saw her lose her head.

_Diocle._ He is all worthy:

And from his own mouth I would gladly hear

The manner how she suffer'd.

_Artem._ 'Twill be deliver'd

With such contempt and scorn, (I know his nature,)

That rather 'twill beget your highness' laughter,

Than the least pity.

_Diocle._ To that end I would hear it.

_Enter_ THEOPHILUS, SAPRITIUS, _and_ MACRINUS.

_Artem._ He comes; with him the governor.

_Diocle._ O, Sapritius,

I am to chide you for your tenderness;

But yet, remembering that you are a father,

I will forget it. Good Theophilus,

I'll speak with you anon.--Nearer, your ear.

[_To_ SAPRITIUS.

_Theoph._ [_aside to_ MACRINUS.] By Antoninus' soul, I do conjure you,

And though not for religion, for his friendship,

Without demanding what's the cause that moves me,

Receive my signet:--By the power of this,

Go to my prisons, and release all Christians,

That are in fetters there by my command.

_Mac._ But what shall follow?

_Theoph._ Haste then to the port;

You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg'd,

In which embark the poor distressed souls,

And bear them from the reach of tyranny.

Enquire not whither you are bound: the Deity

That they adore will give you prosperous winds,

And make your voyage such, and largely pay for

Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here;

There is a scene that I must act alone:

Haste, good Macrinus; and the great God guide you!

_Mac._ I'll undertake 't; there's something prompts me to it;

'Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act:

And to be merciful has never been

By moral men themselves esteem'd a sin. [_Exit._

_Diocle._ You know your charge?

_Sap._ And will with care observe it.

_Diocle._ For I profess he is not Cæsar's friend,

That sheds a tear for any torture that

A Christian suffers. Welcome, my best servant,

My careful, zealous provost! thou hast toil'd

To satisfy my will, though in extremes:

I love thee for 't; thou art firm rock, no changeling.

Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it,

Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs,

Before my brother and these kings, how took

The Christian her death?

_Theoph._ And such a presence,

Though every private head in this large room

Were circled round with an imperial crown,

Her story will deserve, it is so full

Of excellence and wonder.

_Diocle._ Ha! how is this?

_Theoph._ O! mark it, therefore, and with that attention,

As you would hear an embassy from heaven

By a wing'd legate; for the truth deliver'd,

Both how, and what, this blessed virgin suffer'd,

And Dorothea but hereafter named,

You will rise up with reverence, and no more,

As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember

What the canonized Spartan ladies were,

Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own matrons,

Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep

As holy relics, in her history

Will find a second urn: Gracchus' Cornelia,

Paulina, that in death desired to follow

Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus' Portia,

That swallow'd burning coals to overtake him,

Though all their several worths were given to one,

With this is to be mention'd.

_Max._ Is he mad?

_Diocle._ Why, they did die, Theophilus, and boldly;

This did no more.

_Theoph._ They, out of desperation,

Or for vain glory of an after-name,

Parted with life: this had not mutinous sons,

As the rash Gracchi were; nor was this saint

A doting mother, as Cornelia was.

This lost no husband, in whose overthrow

Her wealth and honour sunk; no fear of want

Did make her being tedious; but, aiming

At an immortal crown, and in His cause

Who only can bestow it; who sent down

Legions of ministering angels to bear up

Her spotless soul to heaven, who entertain'd it

With choice celestial music, equal to

The motion of the spheres; she, uncompell'd,

Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius,

You were present at her death; did you e'er hear

Such ravishing sounds?

_Sap._ Yet you said then 'twas witchcraft,

And devilish illusions.

_Theoph._ I then heard it

With sinful ears, and belch'd out blasphemous words

Against his Deity, which then I knew not,

Nor did believe in him.

_Diocle._ Why, dost thou now?

Or dar'st thou, in our hearing----

_Theoph._ Were my voice

As loud as is His thunder, to be heard

Through all the world, all potentates on earth

Ready to burst with rage, should they but hear it;

Though hell, to aid their malice, lent her furies,

Yet I would speak, and speak again, and boldly:

I am a Christian; and the Powers you worship,

But dreams of fools and madmen.

_Max._ Lay hands on him.

_Diocle._ Thou twice a child! for doting age so makes thee,

Thou couldst not else, thy pilgrimage of life

Being almost past through, in this last moment

Destroy whate'er thou hast done good or great--

Thy youth did promise much; and, grown a man,

Thou mad'st it good, and, with increase of years,

Thy actions still better'd: as the sun,

Thou didst rise gloriously, kept'st a constant course

In all thy journey; and now, in the evening,

When thou shouldst pass with honour to thy rest,

Wilt thou fall like a meteor?

_Sap._ Yet confess

That thou art mad, and that thy tongue and heart

Had no agreement.

_Max._ Do; no way is left, else,

To save thy life, Theophilus.

_Diocle._ But, refuse it,

Destruction as horrid, and as sudden,

Shall fall upon thee, as if hell stood open,

And thou wert sinking thither.

_Theoph._ Hear me, yet;

Hear, for my service past.

_Artem._ What will he say?

_Theoph._ As ever I deserved your favour, hear me,

And grant one boon; 'tis not for life I sue for;

Nor is it fit that I, that ne'er knew pity

To any Christian, being one myself,

Should look for any; no, I rather beg

The utmost of your cruelty. I stand

Accomptable for thousand Christians' deaths;

And, were it possible that I could die

A day for every one, then live again

To be again tormented, 'twere to me

An easy penance, and I should pass through

A gentle cleansing fire; but, that denied me,

It being beyond the strength of feeble nature,

My suit is, you would have no pity on me.

In mine own house there are a thousand engines

Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare

For miserable Christians; let me feel,

As the Sicilian did his brazen bull[58],

The horrid'st you can find; and I will say,

In death, that you are merciful.

_Diocle._ Despair not;

In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither:

[_Exit some of the Guard._

Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once,

And so appear before thee; racks, and whips!----

Thy flesh, with burning pincers torn, shall feed

The fire that heats them; and what's wanting to

The torture of thy body, I'll supply

In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians

That are in hold; and here, before his face,

Cut them in pieces.

_Theoph._ 'Tis not in thy power:

It was the first good deed I ever did.

They are removed out of thy reach; howe'er,

I was determined for my sins to die,

I first took order for their liberty;

And still I dare thy worst.

_Re-enter Guard with racks and other instruments of torture._

_Diocle._ Bind him, I say;

Make every artery and sinew crack:

The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek,

Shall have ten thousand drachmas: wretch! I'll force thee

To curse the Power thou worship'st.

_Theoph._ Never, never:

No breath of mine shall e'er be spent on Him,

[_They torment him._

But what shall speak His majesty or mercy.

I'm honour'd in my sufferings. Weak tormentors,

More tortures, more:--alas! you are unskilful--

For heaven's sake more; my breast is yet untorn:

Here purchase the reward that was propounded.

The irons cool,--here are arms yet, and thighs;

Spare no part of me.

_Max._ He endures beyond

The sufferance of a man.

_Sap._ No sigh nor groan,

To witness he hath feeling.

_Diocle._ Harder, villains!

_Enter_ HARPAX.

_Harp._ Unless that he blaspheme, he's lost for ever.

If torments ever could bring forth despair,

Let these compel him to it:--Oh me!

My ancient enemies again! [_Falls down._

_Enter_ DOROTHEA _in a white robe, a crown upon her head, led in by_

ANGELO; ANTONINUS, CALISTA, _and_ CHRISTETA _following, all in white,

but less glorious_; ANGELO _holds out a crown to_ THEOPHILUS.

_Theoph._ Most glorious vision!--

Did e'er so hard a bed yield man a dream

So heavenly as this? I am confirm'd,

Confirm'd, you blessed spirits, and make haste

To take that crown of immortality

You offer to me. Death! till this blest minute,

I never thought thee slow-paced; nor would I

Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer,

But that thou keep'st me from a glorious wreath,

Which through this stormy way I would creep to,

And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it.

Oh! now I feel thee:--blessed spirits! I come;

And, witness for me all these wounds and scars,

I die a soldier in the Christian wars. [_Dies._

_Sap._ I have seen thousands tortured, but ne'er yet

A constancy like this.

_Harp._ I am twice damn'd.

_Ang._ Haste to thy place appointed, cursed fiend!

[HARPAX _sinks with thunder and lightning_.

In spite of hell, this soldier's not thy prey;

'Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day.

[_Exit with_ DOR. _&c._

_Diocle._ I think the centre of the earth be crack'd--

Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on:

The persecution that is here begun,

Through all the world with violence shall run.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[58] _As the Sicilian did his brazen bull._] The brazen bull, an

ingenious instrument of torture, invented by Perillus, and

presented to Phalaris, the tyrant of Agrigentum, was fatal both to

its author and its owner. Phalaris made the first experiment of its

powers upon Perillus; and when the people, exasperated by his

cruelties, eventually rose against him, the tyrant suffered death

by its means himself.

THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.

THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.] This play, under the title of The Great

Duke, was licensed by Sir Henry Herbert, July 5th, 1627. The plot is

raised on those slight materials afforded by our old chroniclers in

the life of Edgar, which Mason has since worked up into the beautiful

drama of Elfrida.

The first edition of this play was published 1636, when it was

preceded by two commendatory copies of verses by G. Donne and J. Ford.

Though highly and most deservedly popular, it was not reprinted. This

may be attributed, in some measure, to the growing discontent of the

times, which perversely turned aside from scenes like these, to dwell

with fearful anxiety on those of turbulence and blood.--It is

impossible not to be charmed with the manner in which this play is

written. The style is worthy of the most polished stage. An easy

elevation and a mild dignity are preserved throughout, which afford an

excellent model for the transaction of dramatic business between

persons of high rank and refined education. As to the subject, it is

of itself of no great importance; but this is somewhat compensated by

the interest the principal characters take in it, and the connexion of

love with the views of state.--The scenes between Giovanni and Lidia

present a most beautiful picture of artless attachment, and of that

unreserved innocence and tender simplicity which Massinger describes

in so eminently happy a manner. Were it not for the scene of low

buffoonery in the fourth act, where Petronella assumes the dress and

character of her mistress, The Great Duke of Florence would have been

a perfect and unrivalled production.

TO

THE TRULY HONOURED, AND MY NOBLE FAVOURER,

SIR ROBERT WISEMAN, KNT.[59]

OF THORRELL'S HALL, IN ESSEX.

SIR,

As I dare not be ungrateful for the many benefits you have

heretofore conferred upon me, so I have just reason to fear that

my attempting this way to make satisfaction (in some measure) for

so due a debt, will further engage me. However, examples

encourage me. The most able in my poor quality have made use of

dedications in this nature, to make the world take notice (as far

as in them lay) who and what they were that gave supportment and

protection to their studies; being more willing to publish the

doer, than receive a benefit in a corner. For myself, I will

freely, and with a zealous thankfulness, acknowledge, that for

many years I had but faintly subsisted, if I had not often tasted

of your bounty. But it is above my strength and faculties to

celebrate to the desert your noble inclination, and that made

actual, to raise up, or, to speak more properly, to rebuild the

ruins of demolished poesie. But that is a work reserved, and will

be, no doubt, undertaken, and finished, by one that can to the

life express it. Accept, I beseech you, the tender of my service;

and in the list of those you have obliged to you, contemn not the

name of

Your true and faithful honourer,

PHILIP MASSINGER.

FOOTNOTE:

[59] Sir Robert Wiseman was the eldest son of Richard Wiseman, a

merchant of London, who, having acquired an ample fortune, retired

into Essex, in which county he possessed considerable estates,

where he died in 1618, and was succeeded by Sir Robert. The friend

of Massinger was the oldest of fourteen children, and a man of an

amiable character. He died unmarried the 11th May, 1641, in his

sixty-fifth year.--GILCHRIST.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

COZIMO, _Duke of Florence_.

GIOVANNI, _nephew to the duke_.

SANAZARRO, _the duke's favourite_.

CAROLO CHAROMONTE, GIOVANNI'_s tutor_.

CONTARINO, _secretary to the duke_.

ALPHONSO, }

HIPPOLITO, } _counsellors of state_.

HIERONIMO, }

CALANDRINO, _a merry fellow, servant to_ GIOVANNI.

BERNARDO, }

CAPONI, } _servants to_ CHAROMONTE.

PETRUCHIO, }

_A Gentleman._

FIORINDA, _Duchess of Urbin_.

LIDIA, _daughter to_ CHAROMONTE.

CALAMINTA, _servant to_ FIORINDA.

PETRONELLA, _a foolish servant to_ LIDIA.

_Attendants, Servants, &c._

SCENE, partly in Florence, and partly at the residence of CHAROMONTE

in the country.

THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_The Country. A Room in_ CHAROMONTE'_s House_.

_Enter_ CHAROMONTE _and_ CONTARINO.

_Char._ You bring your welcome with you.

_Cont._ Sir, I find it

In every circumstance.

_Char._ Again most welcome.

Yet, give me leave to wish (and pray you excuse me,

For I must use the freedom I was born with)

The great duke's pleasure had commanded you

To my poor house upon some other service;

Not this you are design'd to: but his will

Must be obey'd, howe'er it ravish from me

The happy conversation of one

As dear to me as the old Romans held

Their household Lars, whom they believed had power

To bless and guard their families.

_Cont._ 'Tis received so

On my part, signior; nor can the duke

But promise to himself as much as may

Be hoped for from a nephew. And 'twere weakness

In any man to doubt, that Giovanni[60],

Train'd up by your experience and care

In all those arts peculiar and proper

To future greatness, of necessity

Must in his actions, being grown a man,

Make good the princely education

Which he derived from you.

_Char._ I have discharged,

To the utmost of my power, the trust the duke

Committed to me, and with joy perceive

The seed of my endeavours was not sown

Upon the barren sands, but fruitful glebe,

Which yields a large increase: my noble charge,

By his sharp wit, and pregnant apprehension,

Instructing those that teach him; making use,

Not in a vulgar and pedantic form,

Of what's read to him, but 'tis straight digested,

And truly made his own. His grave discourse,

In one no more indebted unto years,

Amazes such as hear him: horsemanship,

And skill to use his weapon, are by practice

Familiar to him: as for knowledge in

Music, he needs it not, it being born with him;

All that he speaks being with such grace deliver'd,

That it makes perfect harmony.

_Cont._ You describe

A wonder to me.

_Char._ Sir, he is no less;

And that there may be nothing wanting that

May render him complete, the sweetness of

His disposition so wins on all

Appointed to attend him, that they are

Rivals, even in the coarsest office, who

Shall get precedency to do him service;

Which they esteem a greater happiness

Than if they had been fashion'd and built up

To hold command o'er others.

_Cont._ And what place

Does he now bless with his presence?

_Char._ He is now

Running at the ring[61], at which he's excellent.

He does allot for every exercise

A several hour; for sloth, the nurse of vices,

And rust of action, is a stranger to him.

But I fear I am tedious; let us pass,

If you please, to some other subject, though I cannot

Deliver him as he deserves.

_Cont._ You have given him

A noble character.

_Char._ And how, I pray you,

(For we, that never look beyond our villas,

Must be inquisitive,) are state affairs

Carried in court?

_Cont._ There's little alteration:

Some rise, and others fall, as it stands with

The pleasure of the duke, their great disposer.

_Char._ Does Lodovico Sanazarro hold

Weight and grace with him?

_Cont._ Every day new honours

Are shower'd upon him, and without the envy

Of such as are good men; since all confess

The service done our master in his wars

'Gainst Pisa and Sienna may with justice

Claim what's conferr'd upon him.

_Char._ 'Tis said nobly;

For princes never more make known their wisdom,

Than when they cherish goodness where they find it:

They being men, and not gods, Contarino,

They can give wealth and titles, but no virtues;

That is without their power. When they advance,

Not out of judgment, but deceiving fancy,

An undeserving man, howe'er set off

With all the trim of greatness, state, and power,

And of a creature even grown terrible

To him from whom he took his giant form,

This thing is still a comet, no true star;

And when the bounties feeding his false fire

Begin to fail, will of itself go out,

And what was dreadful proves ridiculous.

But in our Sanazarro 'tis not so,

He being pure and tried gold; and any stamp

Of grace, to make him current to the world,

The duke is pleased to give him, will add honour

To the great bestower; for he, though allow'd

Companion to his master, still preserves

His majesty in full lustre.

_Cont._ He, indeed,

At no part does take from it, but becomes

A partner of his cares, and eases him,

With willing shoulders, of a burden which

He should alone sustain.

_Char._ Is he yet married?

_Cont._ No, signior, still a bachelor; howe'er

It is apparent that the choicest virgin

For beauty, bravery, and wealth, in Florence,

Would, with her parents' glad consent, be won,

Were his affection and intent but known

To be at his devotion.

_Char._ So I think too.

But break we off--here comes my princely charge.

_Enter_ GIOVANNI _and_ CALANDRINO.

Make your approaches boldly; you will find

A courteous entertainment. [CONT. _kneels_.

_Giov._ Pray you, forbear

My hand, good signior; 'tis a ceremony

Not due to me. 'Tis fit we should embrace

With mutual arms.

_Cont._ It is a favour, sir,

I grieve to be denied.

_Giov._ You shall o'ercome:

But 'tis your pleasure, not my pride, that grants it.

Nay, pray you, guardian, and good sir, put on:

How ill it shows to have that reverend head

Uncover'd to a boy!

_Char._ Your excellence

Must give me liberty to observe the distance

And duty that I owe you.

_Giov._ Owe me duty!

I do profess (and when I do deny it,

Good fortune leave me!) you have been to me

A second father, and may justly challenge,

For training up my youth in arts and arms,

As much respect and service as was due

To him that gave me life. And did you know, sir,

Or will believe from me, how many sleeps

Good Charomonte hath broken, in his care

To build me up a man, you must confess

Chiron, the tutor to the great Achilles,

Compared with him, deserves not to be named.

And if my gracious uncle, the great duke,

Still holds me worthy his consideration,

Or finds in me aught worthy to be loved,

That little rivulet flow'd from this spring;

And so from me report him.

_Cont._ Fame already

Hath fill'd his highness' ears with the true story

Of what you are, and how much better'd by him;

And 'tis his purpose to reward the travail

Of this grave sir with a magnificent hand:

For though his tenderness hardly could consent

To have you one hour absent from his sight,

For full three years he did deny himself

The pleasure he took in you, that you, here,

From this great master, might arrive unto

The theory of those high mysteries

Which you, by action, must make plain in court.

'Tis, therefore, his request, (and that, from him,

Your excellence must grant a strict command,)

That instantly (it being not five hours' riding)

You should take horse and visit him. These his letters

Will yield you further reasons. [_Delivers a packet._

_Cal._ To the court!

Farewell the flower, then, of the country's garland.

This is our sun, and when he's set we must not

Expect or spring or summer, but resolve

For a perpetual winter.

_Char._ Pray you, observe [GIOVANNI _reading the letters_.

The frequent changes in his face.

_Cont._ As if

His much unwillingness to leave your house

Contended with his duty.

_Char._ Now he appears

Collected and resolved.

_Giov._ It is the duke!

The duke, upon whose favour all my hopes

And fortunes do depend; nor must I check

At his commands for any private motives

That do invite my stay here, though they are

Almost not to be master'd. My obedience,

In my departing suddenly, shall confirm

I am his highness' creature; yet I hope

A little stay to take a solemn farewell

Of all those ravishing pleasures I have tasted

In this my sweet retirement, from my guardian

And his incomparable daughter, cannot meet

An ill construction.

_Cont._ I will answer that:

Use your own will.

_Giov._ I would speak to you, sir,

In such a phrase as might express the thanks

My heart would gladly pay; but----

_Char._ I conceive you:

And something I would say; but I must do it

In that dumb rhetoric which you make use of;

For I do wish you all----I know not how,

My toughness melts, and, spite of my discretion,

I must turn woman. [_Embraces_ GIOVANNI.

_Cont._ What a sympathy

There is between them!

_Cal._ Were I on the rack,

I could not shed a tear. But I am mad,

And, ten to one, shall hang myself for sorrow

Before I shift my shirt. But hear you, sir,

(I'll separate you), when you are gone, what will

Become of me?

_Giov._ Why, thou shalt to court with me.

[_Takes_ CHAR. _aside_.

_Cal._ To see you worried?

_Cont._ Worried, Calandrino!

_Cal._ Yes, sir: for, bring this sweet face to the court,

There will be such a longing 'mong the madams,

Who shall engross it first, nay, fight and scratch for 't,

That, if they be not stopp'd----So much for him.

There's something else that troubles me.

_Cont._ What's that?

_Cal._ Why, how to behave myself in court, and tightly.

I have been told the very place transforms men,

And that not one of a thousand, that before

Lived honestly in the country on plain salads,

But bring him thither, mark me that, and feed him

But a month or two with custards and court cake-bread,

And he turns knave immediately.--I'd be honest;

But I must follow the fashion, or die a beggar.

_Giov._ And, if I ever reach my hopes, believe it,

We will share fortunes.

_Char._ This acknowledgment

_Enter_ LIDIA.

Binds me your debtor ever.--Here comes one

In whose sad looks you easily may read

What her heart suffers, in that she is forced

To take her last leave of you.

_Cont._ As I live,

A beauty without parallel!

_Lid._ Must you go, then,

So suddenly?

_Giov._ There's no evasion, Lidia,

To gain the least delay, though I would buy it

At any rate. Greatness, with private men

Esteem'd a blessing, is to me a curse;

And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude

The only freemen, are the only slaves.

Happy the golden mean! Had I been born

In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up

With expectation to command a court,

I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,

Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not,

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

Or to lie groveling on the earth, or raised

So high upon the pinnacles of state,

That I must either keep my height with danger,

Or fall with certain ruin.

_Lid._ Your own goodness

Will be your faithful guard.

_Giov._ O, Lidia!----

_Cont._ So passionate[62]! [_Aside._

_Giov._ For, had I been your equal,

I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes,

And not, as now, with others'; I might still,

And without observation or envy,

As I have done, continued my delights

With you, that are alone, in my esteem,

The abstract of society: we might walk

In solitary groves, or in choice gardens;

From the variety of curious flowers

Contemplate nature's workmanship and wonders:

And then, for change, near to the murmur of

Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,

And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue,

In my imagination conceive

With what melodious harmony a quire

Of angels sing above their Maker's praises:

And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd,

Imp[63] feathers to the broken wings of time:--

And all this I must part from.

_Cont._ You forget

The haste imposed upon us.

_Giov._ One word more,

And then I come. And after this, when, with

Continued innocence of love and service,

I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys,

Embracing you, but with a lawful flame,

I might have been your husband.

_Lid._ Sir, I was,

And ever am, your servant; but it was,

And 'tis, far from me in a thought to cherish

Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir

Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to,

At my best you had deserved me; as I am,

Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal

I wish you, as a partner of your bed,

A princess equal to you; such a one

That may make it the study of her life,

With all the obedience of a wife, to please you.

May you have happy issue, and I live

To be their humblest handmaid!

_Giov._ I am dumb,

And can make no reply.

_Cont._ Your excellence

Will be benighted.

_Giov._ This kiss, bathed in tears,

May learn you what I should say.

_Lid._ Give me leave

To wait on you to your horse.

_Char._ And me to bring you

To the one half of your journey.

_Giov._ Your love puts

Your age to too much trouble.

_Char._ I grow young,

When most I serve you.

_Cont._ Sir, the duke shall thank you. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[60] _Giovanni._] This word is used as a quadrisyllable. This is

incorrect, and shows that Massinger had studied the language in

books only: no Italian would or could pronounce it in this manner.

He makes the same mistake in the name of the duchess:--Fiorinda is

a trisyllable; yet he adopts the division of poor Calandrino, and

constantly pronounces it Fi-o-rin-da.--GIFFORD.

[61] _Running at the ring._] This amusement made a part of nearly all

those magnificent spectacles which used to be given on public

occasions. A ring of a very small diameter was suspended by a

string from a kind of gibbet, of which the horizontal beam moved on

a swivel. At this the competitors ran with their spears couched,

with loose reins, and, as the public regulations have it, "as much

speed as the horses have." The object was to carry off the ring on

the point of the spear, which was light, taper, and adapted to the

purpose. It was of difficult attainment; for, from an account of a

match made by King Edward the Sixth, seventeen against seventeen,

of which he has left a description, it appears, that "in one

hundred and twenty courses the ring was carried off but three

times."--_King Edward's Journal, p. 26._ The victor was usually

rewarded with a ring set with precious stones, and bestowed by the

lady of the day.

[62] _So passionate!_] i. e. _so deeply affected_. In this sense the

word perpetually occurs in our old writers.

[63] _To imp._] i. e. _to insert a new feather into the wing of a hawk

in the place of a broken one_.--These lines are perhaps the most

beautiful of a scene eminently graceful and elegant.

SCENE II.

_Florence. A Room in the Palace._

_Enter_ ALPHONSO, HIPPOLITO, _and_ HIERONIMO.

_Alph._ His highness cannot take it ill.

_Hip._ However,

We with our duties shall express our care

For the safety of his dukedom.

_Hier._ And our loves

_Enter_ COZIMO.

To his person.--Here he comes: present it boldly.

[_They kneel_: ALPHONSO _tenders a paper_.

_Coz._ What needs this form? We are not grown so proud

As to disdain familiar conference

With such as are to counsel and direct us.

This kind of adoration show'd not well

In the old Roman emperors, who, forgetting

That they were flesh and blood, would be styled gods:

In us to suffer it were worse. Pray you, rise.

[_Reads._

Still the old suit! With too much curiousness

You have too often search'd this wound, which yields

Security and rest, not trouble, to me.

For here you grieve that my firm resolution

Continues me a widower; and that

My want of issue to succeed me in

My government, when I am dead, may breed

Distraction in the state, and make the name

And family of the Medici, now admired,

Contemptible.

_Hip._ And with strong reasons, sir.

_Alph._ For were you old, and past hope to beget

The model of yourself, we should be silent.

_Hier._ But being in your height and pride of years,

As you are now, great sir; and having, too,

In your possession the daughter of

The deceased Duke of Urbin, and his heir,

Whose guardian you are made; were you but pleased

To think her worthy of you, besides children,

The dukedom she brings with her for a dower

Will yield a large increase of strength and power

To those fair territories which already

Acknowledge you their absolute lord.

_Coz._ You press us

With solid arguments, we grant; and, though

We stand not bound to yield account to any

Why we do this or that, (the full consent

Of our subjects being included in our will,)

We, out of our free bounties, will deliver

The motives that divert[64] us. You well know

That, three years since, to our much grief, we lost

Our duchess; such a duchess, that the world,

In her whole course of life[65], yields not a lady

That can with imitation deserve

To be her second; in her grave we buried

All thoughts of woman: let this satisfy

For any second marriage. Now, whereas

You name the heir of Urbin, as a princess

Of great revenues, 'tis confess'd she is so:

But for some causes, private to ourself,

We have disposed her otherwise. Yet despair not;

For you, ere long, with joy shall understand,

That in our princely care we have provided

One worthy to succeed us.

_Enter_ SANAZARRO.

_Hip._ We submit,

And hold the counsels of great Cozimo

Oraculous.

_Coz._ My Sanazarro!--Nay,

Forbear all ceremony. You look sprightly, friend,

And promise in your clear aspect some novel

That may delight us.

_Sanaz._ O sir, I would not be

The harbinger of aught that might distaste you;

And therefore know (for 'twere a sin to torture

Your highness' expectation) your vice-admiral,

By my directions, hath surprised the galleys

Appointed to transport the Asian tribute

Of the great Turk. A richer prize was never

Brought into Florence.

_Coz._ Still my nightingale,

That with sweet accents dost assure me that

My spring of happiness comes fast upon me!

Embrace me boldly. I pronounce that wretch

An enemy to brave and thriving action,

That dares believe but in a thought, we are

Too prodigal in our favours to this man,

Whose merits, though with him we should divide

Our dukedom, still continue us his debtor.

_Hip._ 'Tis far from me.

_Alph._ We all applaud it.

_Coz._ Nay, blush not, Sanazarro; we are proud

Of what we build up in thee; nor can our

Election be disparaged, since we have not

Received into our bosom and our grace

A glorious[66] lazy drone, grown fat with feeding

On others' toil, but an industrious bee,

That crops the sweet flowers of our enemies,

And every happy evening returns

Loaden with wax and honey to our hive.

_Sanaz._ My best endeavours never can discharge

The service I should pay.

_Coz._ Thou art too modest;

But we will study how to give, and when,

_Enter_ GIOVANNI _and_ CONTARINO.

Before it be demanded.----Giovanni!

My nephew! let me eye thee better, boy.

In thee, methinks, my sister lives again;

For her love I will be a father to thee,

For thou art my adopted son.

_Giov._ Your servant,

And humblest subject.

_Coz._ Thy hard travel, nephew,

Requires soft rest, and therefore we forbear,

For the present, an account how thou hast spent

Thy absent hours. See, signiors, see, our care,

Without a second bed, provides you of

A hopeful prince. Carry him to his lodgings,

And, for his further honour, Sanazarro,

With the rest, do you attend him.

_Giov._ All true pleasures

Circle your highness!

_Sanaz._ As the rising sun,

We do receive you.

_Giov._ May this never set,

But shine upon you ever!

[_Exeunt_ GIOVANNI, SANAZARRO, HIERONIMO, ALPHONSO, _and_ HIPPOLITO.

_Coz._ Contarino!

_Cont._ My gracious lord.

_Coz._ What entertainment found you

From Carolo de Charomonte?

_Cont._ Free,

And bountiful. He's ever like himself,

Noble and hospitable.

_Coz._ But did my nephew

Depart thence willingly?

_Cont._ He obey'd your summons

As did become him. Yet it was apparent,

But that he durst not cross your will, he would

Have sojourn'd longer there, he ever finding

Variety of sweetest entertainment.

But there was something else; nor can I blame

His youth, though with some trouble he took leave

Of such a sweet companion.

_Coz._ Who was it?

_Cont._ The daughter, sir, of signior Carolo,

Fair Lidia, a virgin, at all parts,

But in her birth and fortunes, equal to him.

The rarest beauties Italy can make boast of

Are but mere shadows to her, she the substance

Of all perfection. And what increases

The wonder, sir, her body's matchless form

Is better'd by the pureness of her soul.

Such sweet discourse, such ravishing behaviour,

Such charming language, such enchanting manners,

With a simplicity that shames all courtship[67],

Flow hourly from her, that I do believe

Had Circe or Calypso her sweet graces,

Wandering Ulysses never had remember'd

Penelope, or Ithaca.

_Coz._ Be not rapt so.

_Cont._ Your excellence would be so, had you seen her.

_Coz._ Take up, take up[68].--But did your observation

Note any passage of affection

Between her and my nephew?

_Cont._ How it should

Be otherwise between them, is beyond

My best imagination. Cupid's arrows

Were useless there; for of necessity,

Their years and dispositions do accord so,

They must wound one another.

_Coz._ Umph! Thou art

My secretary, Contarino, and more skill'd

In politic designs of state, than in

Thy judgment of a beauty; give me leave,

In this, to doubt it.--Here. Go to my cabinet,

You shall find there letters newly received,

Touching the state of Urbin.

Pray you, with care peruse them: leave the search

Of this to us.

_Cont._ I do obey in all things. [_Exit._

_Coz._ Lidia! a diamond so long conceal'd,

And never worn in court! of such sweet feature!

And he on whom I fix my dukedom's hopes

Made captive to it! Umph! 'tis somewhat strange.

Our eyes are every where, and we will make

A strict inquiry.--Sanazarro!

_Re-enter_ SANAZARRO.

_Sanaz._ Sir.

_Coz._ Is my nephew at his rest?

_Sanaz._ I saw him in bed, sir.

_Coz._ 'Tis well; and does the princess Fiorinda,

Nay, do not blush, she is rich Urbin's heir,

Continue constant in her favours to you?

_Sanaz._ Dread sir, she may dispense them as she pleases;

But I look up to her as on a princess

I dare not be ambitious of, and hope

Her prodigal graces shall not render me

Offender to your highness.

_Coz._ Not a scruple.

He whom I favour, as I do my friend,

May take all lawful graces that become him:

But touching this hereafter. I have now

(And though perhaps it may appear a trifle)

Serious employment for thee.

_Sanaz._ I stand ready

For any act you please.

_Coz._ I know it, friend.

Have you ne'er heard of Lidia, the daughter

Of Carolo Charomonte?

_Sanaz._ Him I know, sir,

For a noble gentleman, and my worthy friend;

But never heard of her.

_Coz._ She is deliver'd,

And feelingly to us, by Contarino,

For a masterpiece in nature. I would have you

Ride suddenly thither to behold this wonder,

But not as sent by us; that's our first caution:

The second is, and carefully observe it,

That, though you are a bachelor, and endow'd with

All those perfections that may take a virgin,

On forfeit of our favour do not tempt her:

It may be her fair graces do concern us.

Pretend what business you think fit, to gain

Access unto her father's house, and, there,

Make full discovery of her, and return me

A true relation:--I have some ends in it,

With which we will acquaint you.

_Sanaz._ This is, sir,

An easy task.

_Coz._ Yet one that must exact

Your secrecy and diligence. Let not

Your stay be long.

_Sanaz._ It shall not, sir.

_Coz._ Farewell,

And be, as you would keep our favour, careful.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[64] _Divert us._] i. e. _turn us aside_ from following your advice.

[65] ------------_that the world,

In her whole course of life_, &c.] This is awkwardly expressed, a

circumstance most unusual with Massinger; but seems to mean, in her

various excellences and virtues.--GIFFORD.

[66] _Glorious_,] i. e. _vain_, _empty_, _vaunting_.

[67] _All courtship_,] i. e. _all court breeding_.

[68] _Take up, take up._] i. e. _stop, check yourself_.

ACT II. SCENE I.

_The same. A Room in_ FIORINDA'_s House_.

_Enter_ FIORINDA _and_ CALAMINTA.

_Fior._ How does this dressing show?

_Calam._ 'Tis of itself

Curious and rare; but, borrowing ornament,

As it does from your grace, that deigns to wear it,

Incomparable.

_Fior._ Thou flatter'st me.

_Calam._ I cannot,

Your excellence is above it.

_Fior._ Were we less perfect,

Yet, being as we are, an absolute princess,

We of necessity must be chaste, wise, fair,

By our prerogative!--yet all these fail

To move where I would have them. How received

Count Sanazarro the rich scarf I sent him

For his last visit?

_Calam._ With much reverence,

I dare not say affection. He express'd

More ceremony in his humble thanks,

Than feeling of the favour; and appear'd

Wilfully ignorant, in my opinion,

Of what it did invite him to.

_Fior._ No matter;

He's blind with too much light[69]. Have you not heard

Of any private mistress he's engaged to?

_Calam._ Not any; and this does amaze me, madam,

That he, a soldier, should in his manners

Be so averse to women.

_Fior._ Troth, I know not.

_Calam._ I do suspect him; for I learnt last night,

When the great duke went to rest, attended by

One private follower, he took horse; but whither

He's rid, or to what end, I cannot guess at,

But I will find it out.

_Fior._ Do, faithful servant;

_Enter_ CALANDRINO.

We would not be abused.--Who have we here?

_Calam._ How the fool stares!

_Fior._ And looks as if he were

Conning his neck-verse.

_Cal._ If I now prove perfect

In my A B C of courtship, Calandrino

Is made for ever. I am sent--let me see,

On a _How d'ye_, as they call 't.

_Calam._ What wouldst thou say?

_Cal._ Let me see my notes. These are her lodgings; well.

_Calam._ Art thou an ass?

_Cal._ Peace! thou art a court wagtail,

[_Looking on his instructions._

To interrupt me.

_Fior_. He has given it you.

Cal. _And then say to the illustrious Fi-o-rin-da_--

I have it. Which is she?

_Calam._ Why this; fop-doodle.

_Cal._ Leave chattering, bull-finch; you would put me out,

But 'twill not do.--_Then, after you have made

Your three obeisances to her, kneel, and kiss

The skirt of her gown._--I am glad it is no worse.

_Calam._ This is sport unlook'd for.

_Cal._ Are you the princess?

_Fior._ Yes, sir.

_Cal._ Then stand fair,

For I am choleric; and do not nip

A hopeful blossom. Out again:--_Three low

Obeisances_--

_Fior._ I am ready.

_Cal._ I come on, then.

_Calam._ With much formality.

_Cal._ Umph! One, two, three.

[_Makes antic courtesies._

Thus far I am right. Now for the last. [_Kisses the

skirt of her gown._]--O, rare!

She is perfumed all over! Sure great women,

Instead of little dogs, are privileged

To carry musk-cats.

_Fior._ Now the ceremony

Is pass'd, what is the substance?

_Cal._ I'll peruse

My instructions, and then tell you.--_Her skirt kiss'd,

Inform her highness that your lord_----

_Calam._ Who's that?

_Cal._ Prince Giovanni, who entreats your grace,

That he, with your good favour, may have leave

To present his service to you. I think I have nick'd it

For a courtier of the first form.

_Fior._ To my wonder.

_Enter_ GIOVANNI _and a Gentleman_.

Return unto the prince--but he prevents

My answer. Calaminta, take him off;

And, for the neat delivery of his message,

Give him ten ducats: such rare parts as yours

Are to be cherish'd.

_Cal._ We will share: I know

It is the custom of the court, when ten

Are promised, five is fair. Fie! fie! the princess

Shall never know it, so you despatch me quickly,

And bid me not come to-morrow.

_Calam._ Very good, sir.

[_Exeunt_ CALANDRINO _and_ CALAMINTA.

_Giov._ Pray you, friend,

Inform the duke I am putting into act

What he commanded.

_Gent._ I am proud to be employ'd, sir. [_Exit._

_Giov._ Madam, that, without warrant, I presume

To trench upon your privacies, may argue

Rudeness of manners; but the free access

Your princely courtesy vouchsafes to all

That come to pay their services, gives me hope

To find a gracious pardon.

_Fior._ If you please, not

To make that an offence in your construction,

Which I receive as a large favour from you,

There needs not this apology.

_Giov._ You continue,

As you were ever, the greatest mistress of

Fair entertainment.

_Fior._ You are, sir, the master;

And in the country have learnt to outdo

All that in court is practised. But why should we

Talk at such distance? You are welcome, sir.

We have been more familiar, and since

You will impose the province (you should govern)

Of boldness on me, give me leave to say

You are too punctual. Sit, sir, and discourse

As we were used.

_Giov._ Your excellence knows so well

How to command, that I can never err

When I obey you.

_Fior._ Nay, no more of this.

You shall o'ercome; no more, I pray you, sir.--

And what delights, pray you be liberal

In your relation, hath the country life

Afforded you?

_Giov._ All pleasures, gracious madam,

But the happiness to converse with your sweet virtues.

I had a grave instructor, and my hours

Design'd to serious studies yielded me

Pleasure with profit, in the knowledge of

What before I was ignorant in; the signior,

Carolo de Charomonte, being skilful

To guide me through the labyrinth of wild passions,

That labour'd to imprison my free soul

A slave to vicious sloth.

_Fior._ You speak him well.

_Giov._ But short of his deserts. Then for the time

Of recreation, I was allow'd

(Against the form follow'd by jealous parents

In Italy) full liberty to partake

His daughter's sweet society. She's a virgin

Happy in all endowments which a poet

Could fancy in his mistress; being herself

A school of goodness, where chaste maids may learn,

Without the aids of foreign principles,

By the example of her life and pureness,

To be as she is, excellent. I but give you

A brief epitome of her virtues, which,

Dilated on at large, and to their merit,

Would make an ample story.

_Fior._ Your whole age,

So spent with such a father, and a daughter,

Could not be tedious to you.

_Giov._ True, great princess:

And now, since you have pleased to grant the hearing

Of my time's expense in the country, give me leave

To entreat the favour to be made acquainted

What service, or what objects in the court,

Have, in your excellency's acceptance, proved

Most gracious to you.

_Fior._ I'll meet your demand,

And make a plain discovery. The duke's care

For my estate and person holds the first

And choicest place: then, the respect the courtiers

Pay gladly to me, not to be contemn'd.

But that which raised in me the most delight,

(For I am a friend to valour,) was to hear

The noble actions truly reported

Of the brave count Sanazarro. I profess,

When it hath been, and fervently, deliver'd,

How boldly, in the horror of a fight,

Cover'd with fire and smoke, and, as if nature

Had lent him wings, like lightning he hath fallen

Upon the Turkish galleys, I have heard it

With a kind of pleasure, which hath whisper'd to me,

This worthy must be cherish'd.

_Giov._ 'Twas a bounty

You never can repent.

_Fior._ I glory in it.

And when he did return, (but still with conquest,)

His armour off, not young Antinous

Appear'd more courtly; all the graces that

Render a man's society dear to ladies,

Like pages waiting on him; and it does

Work strangely on me.

_Giov._ To divert your thoughts,

Though they are fix'd upon a noble subject,

I am a suitor to you.

_Fior._ You will ask,

I do presume, what I may grant, and then

It must not be denied.

_Giov._ It is a favour

For which I hope your excellence will thank me.

_Fior._ Nay, without circumstance.

_Giov._ That you would please

To take occasion to move the duke,

That you, with his allowance, may command

This matchless virgin, Lidia, (of whom

I cannot speak too much,) to wait upon you.

She's such a one, upon the forfeit of

Your good opinion of me, that will not

Be a blemish to your train.

_Fior._ 'Tis rank! he loves her:

But I will fit him with a suit. [_Aside._]--I pause not,

As if it bred or doubt or scruple in me

To do what you desire, for I'll effect it,

And make use of a fair and fit occasion;

Yet, in return, I ask a boon of you,

And hope to find you, in your grant to me,

As I have been to you.

_Giov._ Command me, madam.

_Fior._ 'Tis near allied to yours. That you would be

A suitor to the duke, not to expose,

After so many trials of his faith,

The noble Sanazarro to all dangers,

As if he were a wall to stand the fury

Of a perpetual battery: but now

To grant him, after his long labours, rest

And liberty to live in court; his arms

And his victorious sword and shield hung up

For monuments.

_Giov._ Umph!--I'll embrace, fair princess,

_Enter_ COZIMO.

The soonest opportunity. The duke!

_Coz._ Nay, blush not; we smile on your privacy,

And come not to disturb you. You are equals,

And, without prejudice to either's honours,

May make a mutual change of love and courtship,

Till you are made one, and with holy rites,

And we give suffrage to it.

_Giov._ You are gracious.

_Coz._ To ourself in this: but now break off; too much

Taken at once of the most curious viands,

Dulls the sharp edge of appetite. We are now

For other sports, in which our pleasure is

That you should keep us company.

_Fior._ We attend you. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[69] _He's blind with too much light._] Ennobled by Milton--"dark with

excess of light."

SCENE II.

_The Country. A Hall in_ CHAROMONTE'_s House._

_Enter_ BERNARDO, CAPONI, _and_ PETRUCHIO.

_Bern._ Is my lord stirring?

_Cap._ No; he's fast.

_Pet._ Let us take, then,

Our morning draught. Such as eat store of beef,

Mutton, and capons, may preserve their healths

With that thin composition call'd small beer,

As, 'tis said, they do in England. But Italians,

That think when they have supp'd upon an olive,

A root, or bunch of raisins, 'tis a feast,

Must kill those crudities rising from cold herbs,

With hot and lusty wines.

_Cap._ A happiness

Those tramontanes[70] ne'er tasted.

_Bern._ Have they not

Store of wine there?

_Cap._ Yes, and drink more in two hours

Than the Dutchmen or the Dane in four and twenty.

_Pet._ But what is 't? French trash, made of rotten grapes,

And dregs and lees of Spain, with Welsh metheglin,

A drench to kill a horse! But this pure nectar,

Being proper to our climate, is too fine

To brook the roughness of the sea: the spirit

Of this begets in us quick apprehensions,

And active executions; whereas their

Gross feeding makes their understanding like it:

They can fight, and that's their all. [_They drink._

_Enter_ SANAZARRO _and_ SERVANI.

_Sanaz._ Security

Dwells about this house, I think; the gate's wide open,

And not a servant stirring. See the horses

Set up, and clothed.

_Serv._ I shall, sir. [_Exit._

_Sanaz._ I'll make bold

To press a little further.

_Bern._ Who is this,

Count Sanazarro?

_Pet._ Yes, I know him. Quickly

Remove the flagon.

_Sanaz._ A good day to you, friends.

Nay, do not conceal your physic; I approve it,

And, if you please, will be a patient with you.

_Pet._ My noble lord. [_Drinks._

_Sanaz._ A health to yours. [_Drinks._] Well done!

I see you love yourselves, and I commend you;

'Tis the best wisdom.

_Pet._ May it please your honour

To walk a turn in the gallery, I'll acquaint

My lord with your being here. [_Exit._

_Sanaz._ Tell him I come

For a visit only. 'Tis a handsome pile this. [_Exit._

_Cap._ Why here is a brave fellow, and a right one;

Nor wealth nor greatness makes him proud.

_Bern._ There are

Too few of them; for most of our new courtiers,

(Whose fathers were familiar with the prices

Of oil and corn, with when and where to vent them,

And left their heirs rich, from their knowledge that way,)

Like gourds shot up in a night, disdain to speak

But to cloth of tissue.

_Enter_ CHAROMONTE _in a nightgown_, PETRUCHIO _following_.

_Char._ Stand you prating, knaves,

When such a guest is under my roof! See all

The rooms perfumed. This is the man that carries

The sway and swing of the court; and I had rather

Preserve him mine with honest offices, than----

But I'll make no comparisons. Bid my daughter

Trim herself up to the height. Which way went he?

_Cap._ To the round gallery.

_Char._ I will entertain him

As fits his worth and quality, but no further.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[70] _Tramontanes,_] i. e. _strangers_, _barbarians_: so the Italians

called, and still call, all who live beyond the Alps, _ultra

montes_. In a subsequent speech, the author does not forget to

satirize the acknowledged propensity of his countrymen to drinking:

"Your _Dane_, your German, and your swag-bellied _Hollander_, are

nothing to your Englishman."

If Caponi, as well as Iago, be not, however, too severe upon us,

it must be confessed that our ancestors were apt scholars, and

soon bettered the instructions which they received. Sir Richard

Baker (as Mr. Gilchrist observes), treating of the wars in the

Low-Countries about the end of the sixteenth century, says, "Here

it must not be omitted, that the English (who, of all the dwellers

in the northern parts of the world, were hitherto the least

drinkers, and deservedly praised for their sobriety) in these

Dutch wars learned to be drunkards, and brought the vice so far to

overspread the kingdom, that laws were fain to be enacted for

repressing it." _Chron._ fol. p. 382.--GIFFORD.

SCENE III.

_A Gallery in the same._

_Enter_ SANAZARRO.

_Sanaz._ I cannot apprehend, yet I have argued

All ways I can imagine, for what reasons

The great duke does employ me hither; and,

What does increase the miracle, I must render

A strict and true account, at my return,

Of Lidia, this lord's daughter, and describe

In what she's excellent, and where defective.

'Tis a hard task: he that will undergo

To make a judgment of a woman's beauty,

And see through all her plasterings and paintings,

Had need of Lynceus' eyes, and with more ease

May look, like him, through nine mud walls, than make

A true discovery of her. But the intents

And secrets of my prince's heart must be

Served, and not search'd into.

_Enter_ CHAROMONTE.

_Char._ Most noble sir,

Excuse my age, subject to ease and sloth,

That with no greater speed I have presented

My service with your welcome.

_Sanaz._ 'Tis more fit

That I should ask your pardon, for disturbing

Your rest at this unseasonable hour.

But my occasions carrying me so near

Your hospitable house, my stay being short too,

Your goodness, and the name of friend, which you

Are pleased to grace me with, gave me assurance

A visit would not offend.

_Char._ Offend, my lord!

I feel myself much younger for the favour.

How is it with our gracious master?

_Sanaz._ He, sir,

Holds still his wonted greatness, and confesses

Himself your debtor, for your love and care

To the prince Giovanni; and had sent

Particular thanks by me, had his grace known

The quick despatch of what I was design'd to

Would have licensed me to see you.

_Char._ I am rich

In his acknowledgment.

_Sanaz._ I have heard

Your happiness in a daughter.

_Char._ Sits the wind there? [_Aside._

_Sanaz._ Fame gives her out for a rare masterpiece.

_Char._ 'Tis a plain village girl, sir, but obedient;

That's her best beauty, sir.

_Sanaz._ Let my desire

To see her find a fair construction from you:

I bring no loose thought with me.

_Char._ You are that way,

My lord, free from suspicion. Her own manners,

Without an imposition from me,

I hope, will prompt her to it.

_Enter_ LIDIA _and_ PETRONELLA.

As she is,

She comes to make a tender of that service

Which she stands bound to pay.

_Sanaz._ With your fair leave,

I make bold to salute you.

_Lid._ Sir, you have it.

_Char._ How he falls off!

_Lid._ My lord, though silence best becomes a maid,

And to be curious to know but what

Concerns myself, and with becoming distance,

May argue me of boldness, I must borrow

So much of modesty, as to inquire

Prince Giovanni's health.

_Sanaz._ He cannot want

What you are pleased to wish him.

_Lid._ Would 'twere so!

And then there is no blessing that can make

A hopeful and a noble prince complete,

But should fall on him. O! he was our north star,

The light and pleasure of our eyes.

_Sanaz._ Where am I?

I feel myself another thing! Can charms

Be writ on such pure rubies[71]? her lips melt

As soon as touch'd! Not those smooth gales that glide

O'er happy Araby, or rich Sabæa,

Creating in their passage gums and spices,

Can serve for a weak simile to express

The sweetness of her breath. Such a brave stature

Homer bestow'd on Pallas, every limb

Proportion'd to it!

_Char._ This is strange.--My lord!

_Sanaz._ I crave your pardon, and yours, matchless maid,

For such I must report you.

_Petron._ There's no notice

Taken all this while of me. [_Aside._

_Sanaz._ And I must add,

If your discourse and reason parallel

The rareness of your more than human form,

You are a wonder.

_Char._ Pray you, my lord, make trial:

She can speak, I can assure you; and that my presence

May not take from her freedom, I will leave you:

For know, my lord, my confidence dares trust her

Where, and with whom, she pleases.--Petronella!

_Petron._ Yes, my good lord.

_Char._ I have employment for you.

[_Exeunt_ CHAROMONTE _and_ PETRONELLA.

_Lid._ What's your will, sir?

_Sanaz._ Madam, you are so large a theme to treat of,

And every grace about you offers to me

Such copiousness of language, that I stand

Doubtful which first to touch at. If I err,

As in my choice I may, let me entreat you,

Before I do offend, to sign my pardon:

Let this, the emblem of your innocence,

Give me assurance.

_Lid._ My hand join'd to yours,

Without this superstition, confirms it.

Nor need I fear you will dwell long upon me,

The barrenness of the subject yielding nothing

That rhetoric, with all her tropes and figures,

Can amplify. Yet since you are resolved

To prove yourself a courtier in my praise,

As I'm a woman (and you men affirm

Our sex loves to be flatter'd) I'll endure it.

_Enter_ CHAROMONTE _above_.

Now, when you please, begin.

_Sanaz._ [_turning from her._] If the great duke

Made this his end to try my constant temper,

Though I am vanquished, 'tis his fault, not mine;

For I am flesh and blood, and have affections

Like other men. Who can behold the temples,

Or holy altars, but the objects work

Devotion in him? And I may as well

Walk over burning iron with bare feet,

And be unscorch'd, as look upon this beauty

Without desire, and that desire pursued too,

Till it be quench'd with the enjoying those

Delights, which to achieve, danger is nothing,

And loyalty but a word.

_Lid._ I ne'er was proud;

Nor can find I am guilty of a thought

Deserving this neglect.

_Sanaz._ Suppose his greatness

Loves her himself, why makes he choice of me

To be his agent? It is tyranny

To call one pinch'd with hunger to a feast,

And at that instant cruelly deny him

To taste of what he sees. Allegiance

Tempted too far is like the trial of

A good sword on an anvil; as that often

Flies in pieces without service to the owner,

So trust enforced too far proves treachery,

And is too late repented.

_Lid._ Pray you, sir,

Or license me to leave you, or deliver

The reasons which invite you to command

My tedious waiting on you.

_Char._ As I live,

I know not what to think on 't. Is 't his pride,

Or his simplicity?

_Sanaz._ Whither have my thoughts

Carried me from myself? In this my dulness,

I've lost an opportunity----

[_Turns to her; she falls off._

_Lid._ 'Tis true

I was not bred in court, nor live a star there;

Nor shine in rich embroideries and pearl,

As they that are the mistresses of great fortunes

Are every day adorn'd with----

_Sanaz._ Will you vouchsafe

Your ear, sweet lady?

_Lid._ Yet I may be bold,

For my integrity and fame, to rank

With such as are more glorious. Though I never

Did injury, yet I am sensible

When I'm contemn'd and scorn'd.

_Sanaz._ Will you please to hear me?

_Lid._ O the difference of natures! Giovanni,

A prince in expectation, when he lived here,

Stole courtesy from heaven[72], and would not to

The meanest servant in my father's house

Have kept such distance.

_Sanaz._ Pray you, do not think me

Unworthy of your ear: it was your beauty

That turn'd me statue. I can speak, fair lady.

_Lid._ And I can hear. The harshness of your courtship

Cannot corrupt my courtesy.

_Sanaz._ Will you hear me,

If I speak of love?

_Lid._ Provided you be modest;

I were uncivil, else.

_Char._ They are come to parley:

I must observe this nearer. [_He retires._

_Sanaz._ You are a rare one,

And such (but that my haste commands me hence)

I could converse with ever. Will you grace me

With leave to visit you again?

_Lid._ So you,

At your return to court, do me the favour

To make a tender of my humble service

To the prince Giovanni.

_Sanaz._ Ever touching

Upon that string! [_Aside._] And will you give me hope

Of future happiness?

_Lid._ That, as I shall find you:

The fort that's yielded at the first assault

Is hardly worth the taking.

_Re-enter_ CHAROMONTE _below_.

_Sanaz._ She is a magazine of all perfection,

And 'tis death to part from her, yet I must.

_Char._ A homely breakfast does attend your lordship,

Such as the place affords.

_Sanaz._ No; I have feasted

Already here; my thanks, and so I leave you:

I will see you again.--Till this unhappy hour

I was never lost; and what to do, or say,

I have not yet determined. [_Aside, and exit._

_Char._ Gone so abruptly!

'Tis very strange.

_Lid._ Under your favour, sir,

His coming hither was to little purpose,

For any thing I heard from him.

_Char._ Take heed, Lidia!

I do advise you with a father's love,

And tenderness of your honour; as I would not

Have you too harsh in giving entertainment,

So by no means be credulous: for great men,

Till they have gain'd their ends, are giants in

Their promises, but, those obtain'd, weak pigmies

In their performance. And it is a maxim

Allow'd among them, so they may deceive,

They may swear any thing; for the queen of love,

As they hold constantly, does never punish,

But smile at, lovers' perjuries[73].--Yet be wise too,

And when you are sued to in a noble way,

Be neither nice nor scrupulous.

_Lid._ All you speak, sir,

I hear as oracles; nor will digress

From your directions.

_Char._ So shall you keep Your fame untainted.

_Lid._ As I would my life, sir. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[71] ------------_Can charms

Be writ on such pure rubies?_] This, I believe, alludes to a very

old opinion, that some sorts of gems (from an inherent sanctity)

could not be profaned, or applied to the purposes of magic. The

notion took its rise probably from some superstitious ideas

respecting the precious stones employed in the breastplate of the

high-priest of the Jews.--GIFFORD.

[72] _Stole courtesy from heaven._] This is from Shakspeare; and the

plain meaning of the phrase is, that the affability and sweetness

of Giovanni were of a _heavenly_ kind.--GIFFORD.

[73] _Smile at lovers' perjuries._]

_Ridet hoc, inquam, Venus ipsa._

It would be as well if the queen of love had been a little more

fastidious on this subject. Her facility, I fear, has done much

mischief, as lovers of all ages have availed themselves of it: but

she had it from her father, whose laxity of principle is well

known:

------------_perjuria ridet amantûm

Jupiter._

GIFFORD.

ACT III. SCENE I.

_Florence. An Anteroom in the Palace._

_Enter_ SANAZARRO _and Servant_.

_Sanaz._ Leave the horses with my grooms; but be you careful,

With your best diligence and speed, to find out

The prince, and humbly, in my name, entreat

I may exchange some private conference with him

Before the great duke know of my arrival.

_Serv._ I haste, my lord.

_Sanaz._ Here I'll attend his coming:

And see you keep yourself, as much as may be,

Conceal'd from all men else.

_Serv._ To serve your lordship,

I wish I were invisible. [_Exit._

_Sanaz._ I am driven

Into a desperate strait, and cannot steer

A middle course; and of the two extremes

Which I must make election of, I know not

Which is more full of horror. Never servant

Stood more engaged to a magnificent master,

Than I to Cozimo: and all those honours

And glories by his grace conferr'd upon me,

Or by my prosperous services deserved,

If now I should deceive his trust, and make

A shipwreck of my loyalty, are ruin'd.

And, on the other side, if I discover

Lidia's divine perfections, all my hopes

In her are sunk, never to be buoy'd up:

For 'tis impossible, but, as soon as seen,

She must with adoration be sued to.

A hermit at his beads but looking on her

At this object would take fire. Nor is the duke

Such an Hippolytus, but that this Phædra,

But seen, must force him to forsake the groves

And Dian's huntmanship, proud to serve under

Venus' soft ensigns. No, there is no way

For me to hope fruition of my ends,

But to conceal her beauties;--and how that

May be effected is as hard a task

As with a veil to cover the sun's beams,

Or comfortable light. Three years the prince

Lived in her company, and Contarino,

The secretary, hath possess'd[74] the duke

What a rare piece she is:--but he's my creature,

And may with ease be frighted to deny

What he hath said: and if my long experience,

With some strong reasons I have thought upon,

Cannot o'er-reach a youth, my practice yields me

But little profit.

_Enter_ GIOVANNI _with the Servant_.

_Giov._ You are well return'd, sir.

_Sanaz._ Leave us.--[_Exit Servant._] When that

your grace shall know the motives

That forced me to invite you to this trouble,

You will excuse my manners.

_Giov._ Sir, there needs not

This circumstance between us. You are ever

My noble friend.

_Sanaz._ You shall have further cause

To assure you of my faith and zeal to serve you:

And when I have committed to your trust

(Presuming still on your retentive silence)

A secret of no less importance than

My honour, nay, my head, it will confirm

What value you hold with me.

_Giov._ Pray you, believe, sir,

What you deliver to me shall be lock'd up

In a strong cabinet, of which you yourself

Shall keep the key; for here I pawn my honour,

Which is the best security I can give yet,

It shall not be discover'd.

_Sanaz._ This assurance

Is more than I with modesty could demand

From such a paymaster; but I must be sudden;

And, therefore, to the purpose. Can your excellence,

In your imagination, conceive

On what design, or whither, the duke's will

Commanded me hence last night?

_Giov._ No, I assure you;

And it had been a rudeness to inquire

Of that I was not call'd to.

_Sanaz._ Grant me hearing,

And I will make you truly understand

It only did concern you.

_Giov._ Me, my lord!

_Sanaz._ You, in your present state and future fortunes;

For both lie at the stake.

_Giov._ You much amaze me.

Pray you, resolve this riddle.

_Sanaz._ You know the duke,

If he die issueless, as yet he is,

Determines you his heir.

_Giov._ It hath pleased his highness

Oft to profess so much.

_Sanaz._ But say he should

Be won to prove a second wife, on whom

He may beget a son, how, in a moment,

Will all those glorious expectations, which

Render you reverenced and remarkable,

Be in a moment blasted, howe'er you are

His much-loved sister's son!

_Giov._ I must bear it

With patience, and in me it is a duty

That I was born with; and 'twere much unfit

For the receiver of a benefit

To offer, for his own ends, to prescribe

Laws to the giver's pleasure.

_Sanaz._ Sweetly answer'd,

And like your noble self. This your rare temper

So wins upon me, that I would not live

(If that by honest arts I can prevent it)

To see your hopes made frustrate. And but think

How you shall be transform'd from what you are,

Should this (as Heaven avert it!) ever happen.

It must disturb your peace: for whereas now,

Being, as you are, received for the heir-apparent,

You are no sooner seen but wonder'd at;

The signiors making it a business to

Inquire how you have slept; and, as you walk

The streets of Florence, the glad multitude

In throngs press but to see you; and, with joy,

The father, pointing with his finger, tells

His son, This is the prince, the hopeful prince,

That must hereafter rule, and you obey him.--

Great ladies beg your picture, and make love

To that, despairing to enjoy the substance.--

And but the last night, when 'twas only rumour'd

That you were come to court, as if you had

By sea pass'd hither from another world,

What general shouts and acclamations follow'd!

The bells rang loud, the bonfires blazed, and such

As loved not wine, carousing to your health,

Were drunk, and blush'd not at it. And is this

A happiness to part with?

_Giov._ I allow these

As flourishes of fortune, with which princes

Are often soothed; but never yet esteem'd them

For real blessings.

_Sanaz._ Yet all these were paid

To what you may be, not to what you are;

For if the Great Duke but show to his servants

A son of his own, you shall, like one obscure,

Pass unregarded.

_Giov._ I confess, command

Is not to be contemn'd, and if my fate

Appoint me to it, as I may, I'll bear it

With willing shoulders. But, my lord, as yet,

You've told me of a danger coming towards me,

But have not named it.

_Sanaz._ That is soon deliver'd.

Great Cozimo, your uncle, as I more

Than guess, for 'tis no frivolous circumstance

That does persuade my judgment to believe it,

Purposes to be married.

_Giov._ Married, sir!

With whom, and on what terms? pray you, instruct

me.

_Sanaz._ With the fair Lidia.

_Giov._ Lidia!

_Sanaz._ The daughter

Of signior Charomonte.

_Giov._ Pardon me

Though I appear incredulous; for, on

My knowledge, he ne'er saw her.

_Sanaz._ That is granted:

But Contarino hath so sung her praises,

And given her out for such a masterpiece,

That he's transported with it, sir:--and love

Steals sometimes through the ear into the heart,

As well as by the eye. The duke no sooner

Heard her described, but I was sent in post

To see her, and return my judgment of her.

_Giov._ And what's your censure[75]?

_Sanaz._ 'Tis a pretty creature.

_Giov._ She's very fair.

_Sanaz._ Yes, yes, I have seen worse faces.

_Giov._ Her limbs are neatly form'd.

_Sanaz._ She hath a waist

Indeed sized to love's wish.

_Giov._ A delicate hand too.

_Sanaz._ Then for a leg and foot--

_Giov._ And there I leave you,

For I presumed no further.

_Sanaz._ As she is, sir,

I know she wants no gracious part that may

Allure the duke; and, if he only see her,

She is his own; he will not be denied,

And then you are lost: yet, if you'll second me,

(As you have reason, for it most concerns you,)

I can prevent all yet.

_Giov._ I would you could,

A noble way.

_Sanaz._ I will cry down her beauties;

Especially the beauties of her mind,

As much as Contarino hath advanced them;

And this, I hope, will breed forgetfulness,

And kill affection in him: but you must join

With me in my report, if you be question'd.

_Giov._ I never told a lie yet; and I hold it

In some degree blasphémous[76] to dispraise

What's worthy admiration: yet, for once,

I will dispraise a little, and not vary

From your relation.

_Sanaz._ Be constant in it.

_Enter_ ALPHONSO.

_Alph._ My lord, the duke hath seen your man, and wonders

_Enter_ COZIMO, HIPPOLITO, CONTARINO, _and Attendants._

You come not to him. See, if his desire

To have conference with you hath not brought him hither

In his own person!

_Coz._ They are comely coursers,

And promise swiftness.

_Cont._ They are, of my knowledge,

Of the best race in Naples.

_Coz._ You are, nephew,

As I hear, an excellent horseman, and we like it:

'Tis a fair grace in a prince. Pray you, make trial

Of their strength and speed; and, if you think them fit

For your employment, with a liberal hand

Reward the gentleman that did present them

From the viceroy of Naples.

_Giov._ I will use

My best endeavour, sir.

_Coz._ Wait on my nephew.

[_Exeunt_ GIOVANNI, ALPHONSO, HIPPOLITO, _and Attendants._

Nay, stay you, Contarino:--be within call;

It may be we shall use you. [_Exit_ CONTARINO.]

You have rode hard, sir,

And we thank you for it: every minute seems

Irksome, and tedious to us, till you have

Made your discovery. Say, friend, have you seen

This phoenix of our age?

_Sanaz._ I have seen a maid, sir;

But, if that I have judgment, no such wonder

As she was deliver'd to you.

_Coz._ This is strange.

_Sanaz._ But certain truth. It may be, she was

look'd on

With admiration in the country, sir;

But, if compared with many in your court,

She would appear but ordinary.

_Coz._ Contarino

Reports her otherwise.

_Sanaz._ Such as ne'er saw swans

May think crows beautiful.

_Coz._ How is her behaviour?

_Sanaz._ 'Tis like the place she lives in.

_Coz._ How her wit,

Discourse, and entertainment?

_Sanaz._ Very coarse;

I would not willingly say poor, and rude:

But, had she all the beauties of fair women,

The dulness of her soul would fright me from her.

_Coz._ You are curious, sir. I know not what to think on 't.--

[_Aside._

Contarino!

_Re-enter_ CONTARINO.

_Cont._ Sir.

_Coz._ Where was thy judgment, man,

To extol a virgin Sanazarro tells me

Is nearer to deformity?

_Sanaz._ I saw her,

And curiously perused her; and I wonder

That she, that did appear to me, that know

What beauty is, not worthy the observing,

Should so transport you.

_Cont._ Troth, my lord, I thought then----

_Coz._ Thought! Didst thou not affirm it?

_Cont._ I confess, sir,

I did believe so then; but now I hear

My lord's opinion to the contrary,

I am of another faith: for 'tis not fit

That I should contradict him. I am dim, sir;

But he's sharp-sighted.

_Sanaz._ This is to my wish. [_Aside._

_Coz._ We know not what to think of this; yet

would not

_Re-enter_ GIOVANNI, HIPPOLITO, _and_ ALPHONSO.

Determine rashly of it. [_Aside._]--How do you like

My nephew's horsemanship?

_Hip._ In my judgment, sir,

It is exact and rare.

_Alph._ And, to my fancy,

He did present great Alexander mounted

On his Bucephalus.

_Coz._ You are right, courtiers,

And know it is your duty to cry up

All actions of a prince.

_Sanaz._ Do not betray

Yourself, you're safe; I have done my part.

[_Aside to_ GIOVANNI.

_Giov._ I thank you;

Nor will I fail.

_Coz._ What's your opinion, nephew,

Of the horses?

_Giov._ Two of them are, in my judgment,

The best I ever back'd; I mean the roan, sir,

And the brown bay: but for the chestnut-colour'd,

Though he be full of metal, hot, and fiery,

He treads weak in his pasterns.

_Coz._ So: come nearer;

This exercise hath put you into a sweat;

Take this and dry it: and now I command you

To tell me truly what's your censure of

Charomonte's daughter, Lidia.

_Giov._ I am, sir,

A novice in my judgment of a lady;

But such as 'tis, your grace shall have it freely.

I would not speak ill of her, and am sorry,

If I keep myself a friend to truth, I cannot

Report her as I would, so much I owe

Her reverend father: but I'll give you, sir,

As near as I can, her character in little.

She's of a goodly stature, and her limbs

Not disproportion'd; for her face, it is

Far from deformity; yet they flatter her,

That style it excellent: her manners are

Simple and innocent; but her discourse

And wit deserve my pity, more than praise:

At the best, my lord, she is a handsome picture,

And, that said, all is spoken.

_Coz._ I believe you;

I ne'er yet found you false.

_Giov._ Nor ever shall, sir.--

Forgive me, matchless Lidia! too much love,

And jealous fear to lose thee, do compel me,

Against my will, my reason, and my knowledge,

To be a poor detractor of that beauty,

Which fluent Ovid, if he lived again,

Would want words to express. [_Aside._

_Coz._ Pray you, make choice of

The richest of our furniture for these horses,

[_To_ SANAZARRO.

And take my nephew with you; we in this

Will follow his directions.

_Giov._ Could I find now

The princess Fiorinda, and persuade her

To be silent in the suit that I moved to her,

All were secure.

_Sanaz._ In that, my lord, I'll aid you.

_Coz._ We will be private; leave us.

[_Exeunt all but_ COZIMO.

All my studies

And serious meditations aim no further

Than this young man's good. He was my sister's son,

And she was such a sister, when she lived,

I could not prize too much; nor can I better

Make known how dear I hold her memory,

Than in my cherishing the only issue

Which she hath left behind her. Who's that?

_Enter_ FIORINDA.

_Fior._ Sir.

_Coz._ My fair charge! you are welcome to us.

_Fior._ I have found it, sir.

_Coz._ All things go well in Urbin.

_Fior._ Your gracious care to me, an orphan, frees me

From all suspicion that my jealous fears

Can drive into my fancy.

_Coz._ The next summer,

In our own person, we will bring you thither,

And seat you in your own.

_Fior._ When you think fit, sir.

But, in the mean time, with your highness' pardon,

I am a suitor to you.

_Coz._ Name it, madam,

With confidence to obtain it.

_Fior._ That you would please

To lay a strict command on Charomonte,

To bring his daughter Lidia to the court:

And pray you, think, sir, that 'tis not my purpose

To employ her as a servant, but to use her

As a most wish'd companion.

_Coz._ Ha! your reason?

_Fior._ The hopeful prince, your nephew, sir, hath given her

To me for such an abstract of perfection

In all that can be wish'd for in a virgin,

As beauty, music, ravishing discourse,

Quickness of apprehension, with choice manners

And learning too, not usual with women,

That I am much ambitious (though I shall

Appear but as a foil to set her off)

To be by her instructed, and supplied

In what I am defective.

_Coz._ Did my nephew

Seriously deliver this?

_Fior._ I assure your grace,

With zeal and vehemency; and, even when,

With his best words, he strived to set her forth,

(Though the rare subject made him eloquent,)

He would complain, all he could say came short

Of her deservings.

_Coz._ Pray you have patience. [_Walks aside._

This was strangely carried.--Ha! are we trifled with?

Dare they do this? Is Cozimo's fury, that

Of late was terrible, grown contemptible?

Well; we will clear our brows, and undermine

Their secret works, though they have digg'd like moles,

And crush them with the tempest of my wrath

When I appear most calm. He is unfit

To command others that knows not to use it[77],

And with all rigour: yet my stern looks shall not

Discover my intents; for I will strike

When I begin to frown.----You are the mistress

Of that you did demand.

_Fior._ I thank your highness;

But speed in the performance of the grant

Doubles the favour, sir.

_Coz._ You shall possess it

Sooner than you expect:----

Only be pleased to be ready, when my secretary

Waits on you, to take the fresh air. My nephew,

And my bosom friend, so to cheat me! 'tis not fair.

[_Aside._

_Re-enter_ GIOVANNI _and_ SANAZARRO.

_Sanaz._ Where should this princess be? nor in her lodgings,

Nor in the private walks, her own retreat,

Which she so much frequented!

_Giov._ By my life,

She's with the duke! and I much more than fear

Her forwardness to prefer my suit hath ruin'd

What with such care we built up.

_Coz._ Have you furnish'd

Those coursers, as we will'd you?

_Sanaz._ There's no sign

Of anger in his looks.

_Giov._ They are complete, sir.

_Coz._ 'Tis well: to your rest. Soft sleeps wait on you, madam.

To-morrow, with the rising of the sun,

Be ready to ride with us.--They with more safety

Had trod on fork-tongued adders, than provoked me.

[_Aside, and exit._

_Fior._ I come not to be thank'd, sir, for the speedy

Performance of my promise touching Lidia:

It is effected.

_Sanaz._ We are undone. [_Aside._

_Fior._ The duke

No sooner heard me with my best of language

Describe her excellencies, as you taught me,

But he confirm'd it.--You look sad, as if

You wish'd it were undone.

_Giov._ No, gracious madam,

I am your servant for 't.

_Fior._ Be you as careful

For what I moved to you.--Count Sanazarro,

Now I perceive you honour me, in vouchsafing

To wear so slight a favour.

_Sanaz._ 'Tis a grace

I am unworthy of.

_Fior._ You merit more,

In prizing so a trifle. Take this diamond;

I'll second what I have begun; for know,

Your valour hath so won upon me, that

'Tis not to be resisted: I have said, sir,

And leave you to interpret it. [_Exit._

_Sanaz._ This to me

Is wormwood. 'Tis apparent we are taken

In our own noose. What's to be done?

_Giov._ I know not.

And 'tis a punishment justly fallen upon me,

For leaving truth, a constant mistress, that

Ever protects her servants, to become

A slave to lies and falsehood. What excuse

Can we make to the duke, what mercy hope for,

Our packing[78] being laid open?

_Sanaz._ 'Tis not to

Be question'd but his purposed journey is

To see fair Lidia.

_Giov._ And to divert him

Impossible.

_Sanaz._ There's now no looking backward.

_Giov._ And which way to go on with safety, not

To be imagined.

_Sanaz._ Give me leave: I have

An embryon in my brain, which, I despair not,

May be brought to form and fashion, provided

You will be open-breasted.

_Giov._ 'Tis no time now,

Our dangers being equal, to conceal

A thought from you.

_Sanaz._ What power hold you o'er Lidia?

Do you think that, with some hazard of her life,

She would prevent your ruin?

_Giov._ I presume so:

If, in the undertaking it, she stray not

From what becomes her innocence; and to that

'Tis far from me to press her: I myself

Will rather suffer.

_Sanaz._ 'Tis enough; this night

Write to her by your servant Calandrino,

As I shall give directions; my man

_Enter_ CALANDRINO, _fantastically dressed._

Shall bear him company. See, sir, to my wish

He does appear; but much transform'd from what

He was when he came hither.

_Cal._ I confess

I am not very wise, and yet I find

A fool, so he be parcel knave, in court

May flourish and grow rich.

_Giov._ Calandrino.

_Cal._ Peace!

I am in contemplation.

_Giov._ Do not you know me?

_Cal._ I tell thee, no; on forfeit of my place,

I must not know myself, much less my father,

But by petition; that petition lined too

With golden birds, that sing to the tune of profit,

Or I am deaf.

_Giov._ But you've your sense of feeling.

[_Offering to strike him._

_Sanaz._ Nay, pray you, forbear.

_Cal._ I have all that's requisite

To the making up of a signior: my spruce ruff,

My hooded cloak, long stocking, and paned hose,

My case of toothpicks, and my silver fork[79];

To convey an olive neatly to my mouth;--

And, what is all in all, my pockets ring

A golden peal. O that the peasants in the country,

My quondam fellows, but saw me as I am,

How they would admire and worship me!

_Giov._ As they shall;

For instantly you must thither.

Cal. _My grand signior,

Vouchsafe a beso las manos[80], and a cringe

Of the last edition._

_Giov._ You must ride post with letters

This night to Lidia.

_Cal._ An it please your grace,

Shall I use my coach, or footcloth mule?

_Sanaz._ You widgeon,

You are to make all speed; think not of pomp.

_Giov._ Follow for your instructions, sirrah.

_Cal._ I have

One suit to you, my good lord.

_Sanaz._ What is 't?

_Cal._ That you would give me

A subtile court-charm, to defend me from

The infectious air of the country.

_Giov._ What's the reason?

_Cal._ Why, as this court-air taught me knavish wit,

By which I am grown rich, if that again

Should turn me fool and honest, vain hopes farewell!

For I must die a beggar.

_Sanaz._ Go to, sirrah,

You'll be whipt for this.

_Giov._ Leave fooling, and attend us. [_Exeunt_[81].

FOOTNOTES:

[74] _Possessed_,] i. e. _informed_.

[75] _Censure_,] i. e. _judgment_.

[76] _Blasphémous._] So the word was usually accented in Massinger's

time, and with strict regard to its Greek derivation.

[77] ------------_that knows not to use it_,] i. e. his _command_,

authority: the expression is harsh, but is not uncommon in the

writers of Massinger's time.--GIFFORD.

[78] _Packing_,] i. e. _insidious contrivance_: so the word is used by

Shakspeare, and others.

[79] Cal. _I have all that's requisite To the making up of a signior:

my spruce ruff, My hooded cloak, long stocking, and paned hose, My

case of toothpicks, and my silver fork._] Calandrino is very

correct in his enumeration of the articles which in his time made

up a complete signior: and which are frequently introduced with

evident marks of disapprobation and ridicule by our old poets. The

ruff, cloak, and long stocking, are sufficiently familiar: _hose_

are breeches: _paned hose_ are breeches composed of small squares

or pannels. _Toothpicks_, the next accompaniment of state, were

newly imported from Italy, as were _forks_; the want of which our

ancestors supplied, as well as they could, with their

fingers.--GIFFORD.

[80] Cal. _My grand signior,

Vouchsafe a beso las manos_, &c.] This is the phrase in which

Calandrino supposes his "quondam fellows" will address him. In

Massinger's time these tags of politeness were in everybody's

mouth, and better understood than they are at this day.--GIFFORD.

[81] I have restricted myself to as few remarks as possible on the

beauties of the author, but I cannot forbear observing, on the

present occasion, that the act we have just finished, for

language, sentiment, surprising yet natural turns, and general

felicity of conduct, is scarcely to be paralleled in any drama

with which I am acquainted.--GIFFORD.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_The Country. A Hall in_ CHAROMONTE'_s House_.

_Enter_ CHAROMONTE _and_ LIDIA.

_Char._ Daughter, I have observed, since the prince left us,

(Whose absence I mourn with you,) and the visit

Count Sanazarro gave us, you have nourish'd

Sad and retired thoughts, and parted with

That freedom and alacrity of spirit

With which you used to cheer me.

_Lid._ For the count, sir,

All thought of him does with his person die;

But I confess ingenuously, I cannot

So soon forget the choice and chaste delights,

The courteous conversation of the prince,

And without stain, I hope, afforded me,

When he made this house a court.

_Char._ It is in us

To keep it so without him. Want we know not,

And all we can complain of, Heaven be praised for 't,

Is too much plenty; and we will make use of

_Enter_ CAPONI, BERNARDO, PETRUCHIO, _and other Servants_.

All lawful pleasures.--How now, fellows! when

Shall we have this lusty dance?

_Cap._ In the afternoon, sir.

'Tis a device, I wis, of my own making,

And such a one, as shall make your signiorship know

I have not been your butler for nothing, but

Have crotchets in my head. We'll trip it tightly,

And make my sad young mistress merry again,

Or I'll forswear the cellar.

_Bern._ If we had

Our fellow Calandrino here, to dance

His part, we were perfect.

_Pet._ O! he was a rare fellow;

But I fear the court hath spoil'd him.

_Cap._ When I was young,

I could have cut a caper on a pinnacle;

But now I am old and wise.--Keep your figure fair,

And follow but the sample I shall set you,

The duke himself will send for us, and laugh at us;

And that were credit.

_Enter_ CALANDRINO.

_Lid._ Who have we here?

_Cal._ I find

What was brawn in the country, in the court grows tender.

The bots on these jolting jades! I am bruised to jelly.

A coach for my money!

_Char._ Calandrino! 'tis he.

_Cal._ Now to my postures.--Let my hand have the honour

To convey a kiss from my lips to the cover of

Your foot, dear signior.

_Char._ Fie! you stoop too low, sir.

_Cal._ The hem of your vestment, lady: your glove is for princes;

Nay, I have conn'd my distances.

_Lid._ 'Tis most courtly.

_Cap._ Fellow Calandrino!

_Cal._ Signior de Caponi,

Grand botelier of the mansion.

_Bern._ How is 't, man? [_Claps him on the shoulder._

_Cal._ Be not so rustic in your salutations.

Signior Bernardo, master of the accounts.

Signior Petruchio, may you long continue

Your function in the chamber!

_Cap._ When shall we learn

Such gambols in our villa?

_Lid._ Sure he's mad.

_Char._ 'Tis not unlike, for most of such mushrooms are so.

What news at court?

_Cal._ _Basta!_ they are mysteries.

And not to be reveal'd. With your favour, signior,

I am, in private, to confer awhile

With this signora: but I'll pawn my honour,

That neither my terse language, nor my habit,

Howe'er it may convince, nor my new shrugs,

Shall render her enamour'd.

_Char._ Take your pleasure;

A little of these apish tricks may pass,

Too much is tedious. [_Exit._

_Cal._ The prince, in this paper,

Presents his service. Nay, it is not courtly

To see the seal broke open; so I leave you.--

Signiors of the villa, I'll descend to be

Familiar with you.

_Cap._ Have you forgot to dance?

_Cal._ No, I am better'd.

_Pet._ Will you join with us?

_Cal._ As I like the project.

Let me warm my brains first with the richest grape,

And then I'm for you.

_Cap._ We will want no wine.

[_Exeunt all but_ LIDIA.

_Lid._ That this comes only from the best of princes,

With a kind of adoration does command me

To entertain it; and the sweet contents

[_Kissing the letter._

That are inscribed here by his hand must be

Much more than musical to me. All the service

Of my life at no part can deserve this favour.

O, what a virgin longing I feel on me

To unrip the seal, and read it! yet, to break

What he hath fastened, rashly, may appear

A saucy rudeness in me.--I must do it,

(Nor can I else learn his commands, or serve them,)

But with such reverence, as I would open

Some holy writ, whose grave instructions beat down

Rebellious sins, and teach my better part

How to mount upward.--So, [_opens the letter_] 'tis done, and I

With eagle's eyes will curiously peruse it. [_Reads._

_Chaste Lidia, the favours are so great

On me by you conferr'd, that to entreat

The least addition to them, in true sense

May argue me of blushless impudence.

But, such are my extremes, if you deny

A further grace, I must unpitied die.

Haste cuts off circumstance. As you're admired

For beauty; the report of it hath fired

The duke my uncle, and, I fear, you'll prove,

Not with a sacred, but unlawful love.

If he see you as you are, my hoped-for light

Is changed into an everlasting night;

How to prevent it, if your goodness find,

You save two lives, and me you ever bind,

The honourer of your virtues_, GIOVANNI.

Were I more deaf than adders, these sweet charms

Would through my ears find passage to my soul,

And soon enchant it. To save such a prince,

Who would not perish? Virtue in him must suffer,

And piety be forgotten. The duke's passion,

Though it raged more than Tarquin's, shall not reach me.

All quaint inventions of chaste virgins aid me!

My prayers are heard; I have 't. The duke ne'er saw me--

Or, if that fail, I am again provided--

But for the servants!--They will take what form

I please to put upon them. Giovanni,

Be safe; thy servant Lidia assures it.

Let mountains of afflictions fall on me,

Their weight is easy, so I set thee free. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Another Room in the same._

_Enter_ COZIMO, GIOVANNI, SANAZARRO, CHAROMONTE, _and Attendants_.

_Sanaz._ Are you not tired with travel, sir?

_Coz._ No, no;

I am fresh and lusty.

_Char._ This day shall be ever

A holiday to me, that brings my prince

Under my humble roof. [_Weeps._

_Giov._ See, sir, my good tutor

Sheds tears for joy.

_Coz._ Dry them up, Charomonte;

And all forbear the room, while we exchange

Some private words together.

_Giov._ O, my lord,

How grossly have we overshot ourselves!

_Sanaz._ In what, sir?

_Giov._ In forgetting to acquaint

My guardian with our purpose: all that Lidia

Can do avails us nothing, if the duke

Find out the truth from him.

_Sanaz._ 'Tis now past help,

And we must stand the hazard:--hope the best, sir.

[_Exeunt_ GIOVANNI, SANAZARRO, _and Attendants_.

_Char._ My loyalty doubted, sir!

_Coz._ 'Tis more. Thou hast

Abused our trust, and in a high degree

Committed treason.

_Char._ Treason! 'Tis a word

My innocence understands not. Were my breast

Transparent, and my thoughts to be discern'd,

Not one spot shall be found to taint the candour

Of my allegiance: and I must be bold

To tell you, sir, (for he that knows no guilt

Can know no fear,) 'tis tyranny to o'ercharge

An honest man; and such, till now, I've lived,

And such, my lord, I'll die.

_Coz._ Sir, do not flatter

Yourself with hope, these great and glorious words,

Which every guilty wretch, as well as you,

That's arm'd with impudence, can with ease deliver,

And with as full a mouth, can work on us:

Nor shall gay flourishes of language clear

What is in fact apparent.

_Char._ Fact! what fact?

You, that know only what it is, instruct me,

For I am ignorant.

_Coz._ This, then, sir: We gave up,

On our assurance of your faith and care,

Our nephew Giovanni, nay, our heir

In expectation, to be train'd up by you

As did become a prince.

_Char._ And I discharged it:

Is this the treason?

_Coz._ Take us with you, sir[82].

And, in respect we knew his youth was prone

To women, and that, living in our court,

He might make some unworthy choice, before

His weaker judgment was confirm'd, we did

Remove him from it; constantly presuming,

You, with your best endeavours, rather would

Have quench'd those heats in him, than light a torch,

As you have done, to his looseness.

_Char._ I! my travail

Is ill requited, sir; for, by my soul,

I was so curious that way, that I granted

Access to none could tempt him; nor did ever

One syllable, or obscene accent, touch

His ear, that might corrupt him.

_Coz._ No! Why, then,

With your allowance, did you give free way

To all familiar privacy between

My nephew and your daughter? Or why did you

(Had you no other ends in 't but our service)

Read to them, and together, as they had been

Scholars of one form, grammar, rhetoric,

Philosophy, story[83], and interpret to them

The close temptations of lascivious poets?

Or wherefore, for we still had spies upon you,

Was she still present, when, by your advice,

He was taught the use of his weapon, horsemanship,

Nay, wrestling, but to fan a love in her?

And then, forsooth, his exercises ended,

A fair pretence of recreation for him,

(When Lidia was instructed in those graces

That add to beauty,) he, brought to admire her,

Must hear her sing, while to her voice her hand

Made ravishing music; and, this applauded, dance

A light lavolta[84] with her.

_Char._ Have you ended

All you can charge me with?

_Coz._ Nor stopt you there,

But they must unattended walk into

The silent groves, and hear the amorous birds

Warbling their wanton notes; here, a sure shade

Of barren sicamores, which the all-seeing sun

Could not pierce through; near that, an arbour hung

With spreading eglantine; there, a bubbling spring

Watering a bank of hyacinths and lilies;

With all allurements that could move to love.

And could this, Charomonte, (should I grant

They had been equals both in birth and fortune,)

Become your gravity? nay, 'tis clear as air,

That your ambitious hopes to match your daughter

Into our family, gave connivance to it:

And this, though not in act, in the intent

I call high treason.

_Char._ Hear my just defence, sir;

And, though you are my prince, it will not take from

Your greatness, to acknowledge with a blush,

In this my accusation you have been

More sway'd by spleen, and jealous suppositions,

Than certain grounds of reason. You had a father,

(Blest be his memory!) that made frequent proofs

Of my loyalty and faith, and, would I boast

The dangers I have broke through in his service,

I could say more. Nay, you yourself, dread sir,

Whenever I was put unto the test,

Found me true gold, and not adulterate metal;

And am I doubted now?

_Coz._ This is from the purpose.

_Char._ I will come to it, sir: Your grace well knew,

Before the prince's happy presence made

My poor house rich, the chiefest blessing which

I gloried in, though now it prove a curse,

Was an only daughter. Nor did you command me,

As a security to your future fears,

To cast her off: which had you done, howe'er

She was the light of my eyes, and comfort of

My feeble age, so far I prized my duty

Above affection, she now had been

A stranger to my care. But she is fair!

Is that her fault, or mine? Did ever father

Hold beauty in his issue for a blemish?

You may, if you think fit, before my face,

In recompense of all my watchings for you,

With burning corrosives transform her to

An ugly leper. This I will rather suffer, sir,

Than live suspected by you.

_Coz._ Let not passion

Carry you beyond your reason.

_Char._ I am calm, sir;

Yet you must give me leave to grieve I find

My actions misinterpreted. Alas! sir,

Was Lidia's desire to serve the prince

Call'd an offence? or did she practise to

Seduce his youth, because with her best zeal

And fervour she endeavour'd to attend him?

'Tis a hard construction. Though she be my daughter,

I may thus far speak her: from her infancy

She was ever civil, her behaviour nearer

Simplicity than craft; and malice dares not

Affirm, in one loose gesture, or light language,

She gave a sign she was in thought unchaste.

I'll fetch her to you, sir; and but look on her

With equal eyes, you must in justice grant

That your suspicion wrongs her.

_Coz._ It may be;

But I must have stronger assurance of it

Than passionate words: and, not to trifle time,

As we came unexpected to your house,

We will prevent all means that may prepare her

How to answer that with which we come to charge her.

And howsoever it may be received

As a foul breach to hospitable rites,

On thy allegiance and boasted faith,

Nay, forfeit of thy head, we do confine thee

Close prisoner to thy chamber till all doubts

Are clear'd that do concern us.

_Char._ I obey, sir,

And wish your grace had followed my hearse

To my sepulchre, my loyalty unsuspected,

Rather than now----But I am silent, sir,

And let that speak my duty[85]. [_Exit._

I can't perceive the deficiency

_Coz._ If this man

Be false, disguised treachery ne'er put on

A shape so near to truth. Within, there!

_Re-enter_ GIOVANNI _and_ SANAZARRO, _ushering in_ PETRONELLA.

CALANDRINO _and others setting forth a Banquet_.

_Sanaz._ Sir.

_Coz._ Bring Lidia forth.

_Giov._ She comes, sir, of herself,

To present her service to you.

_Coz._ Ha! This personage

Cannot invite affection.

_Sanaz._ See you keep state.

_Petron._ I warrant you.

_Coz._ The manners of her mind

Must be transcendent, if they can defend

Her rougher outside. May we with your liking

Salute you, lady?

_Petron._ Let me wipe my mouth, sir,

With my cambric handkerchief, and then have at you.

_Coz._ Can this be possible?

_Sanaz._ Yes, sir; you will find her

Such as I gave her to you.

_Petron._ Will your dukeship

Sit down and eat some sugar-plums? Here's a castle

Of march-pane[86] too; and this quince-marmalade was

Of my own making; all summ'd up together,

Did cost the setting on: and here is wine too,

As good as e'er was tapp'd. I'll be your taster,

For I know the fashion. [_Drinks all off._]--Now

you must do me right, sir;

You shall nor will nor choose.

_Giov._ She's very simple.

_Coz._ Simple! 'tis worse. Do you drink thus often, lady?

_Petron._ Still when I am thirsty, and eat when I am hungry:

Such junkets come not every day. Once more to you,

With a heart and a half, i' faith.

_Coz._ Pray you, pause a little.

_Petron._ Then I'll drink for you.

_Coz._ I'll find you out a pledge

That shall supply my place: what think you of

This complete signior? You are a Juno,

And in such state must feast this Jupiter:

What think you of him?

_Petron._ I desire no better.

_Coz._ And you will undertake this service for me?

You are good at the sport.

_Cal._ Who, I? a piddler, sir.

_Coz._ Nay, you shall sit enthroned, and eat and drink

As you were a duke.

_Cal._ If your grace will have me,

I'll eat and drink like an emperor.

_Coz._ Take your place, then:

[CALANDRINO _takes the duke's chair_.

We are amazed.

_Giov._ This is gross; nor can the imposture

But be discover'd.

_Sanaz._ The duke is too sharp-sighted

To be deluded thus.

_Cal._ Nay, pray you eat fair;

Or divide, and I will choose. Cannot you use

Your fork, as I do? Gape, and I will feed you.

[_Feeds her._

Gape wider yet; this is courtlike.

_Petron._ To choke daws with:----

I like it not.

_Cal._ But you like this?

_Petron._ Let it come, boy. [_They drink._

_Coz._ What a sight is this! We could be angry with you.

How much you did belie her when you told us

She was only simple! this is barbarous rudeness,

Beyond belief.

_Giov._ I would not speak her, sir,

Worse than she was.

_Sanaz._ And I, my lord, chose rather

To deliver her better parted[87] than she is,

Than to take from her.

_Enter_ CAPONI, _with his fellow-servants for the dance_.

_Cap._ Ere I'll lose my dance,

I'll speak to the purpose. I am, sir, no prologue;

But in plain terms must tell you we are provided

Of a lusty hornpipe.

_Coz._ Prithee let us have it,

For we grow dull.

_Cap._ But to make up the medley,

For it is of several colours, we must borrow

Your grace's ghost here.

_Cal._ Pray you, sir, depose me;

It will not do else. I am, sir, the engine

[_Rises, and resigns his chair._

By which it moves.

_Petron._ I will dance with my duke too;

I will not out.

_Coz._ Begin then.--[_They dance._]--There's more in this

Than yet I have discover'd. Some Oedipus

Resolve this riddle.

_Petron._ Did I not foot it roundly? [_Falls._

_Coz._ As I live, stark drunk! away with her. We'll reward you

[_Exeunt Servants with_ PETRONELLA.

When you have cool'd yourselves in the cellar.

_Cap._ Heaven preserve you!

_Coz._ We pity Charomonte's wretched fortune

In a daughter, nay, a monster. Good old man!--

The place grows tedious; our remove shall be

With speed: we'll only, in a word or two,

Take leave, and comfort him.

_Sanaz._ 'Twill rather, sir,

Increase his sorrow, that you know his shame;

Your grace may do it by letter.

_Coz._ Who sign'd you

A patent to direct us? Wait our coming,

In the garden.

_Giov._ All will out.

_Sanaz._ I more than fear it.

[_Exeunt_ GIOVANNI _and_ SANAZARRO.

_Coz._ These are strange chimeras to us: what to judge of 't,

Is past our apprehension. One command

Charomonte to attend us. [_Exit an Attendant._]

Can it be

That Contarino could be so besotted,

As to admire this prodigy! or her father

To dote upon it! Or does she personate,

For some ends unknown to us, this rude behaviour,

Which, in the scene presented, would appear

Ridiculous and impossible?--O, you are welcome.

_Enter_ CHAROMONTE.

We now acknowledge the much wrong we did you

In our unjust suspicion. We have seen

The wonder, sir, your daughter.

_Char._ And have found her

Such as I did report her. What she wanted

In courtship[88], was, I hope, supplied in civil

And modest entertainment.

_Coz._ Pray you, tell us,

And truly, we command you--Did you never

Observe she was given to drink?

_Char._ To drink, sir!

_Coz._ Dare you trust your own eyes, if you find her now

More than distemper'd?

_Char._ I will pull them out, sir,

If your grace can make this good. And if you please

To grant me liberty, as she is I'll fetch her,

And in a moment.

_Coz._ Look you do, and fail not,

On the peril of your head.

_Char._ Drunk!--She disdains it. [_Exit._

_Coz._ Such contrarieties were never read of.

Charomonte is no fool; nor can I think

His confidence built on sand. We are abused,

'Tis too apparent.

_Re-enter_ CHAROMONTE, _with_ LIDIA.

_Lid._ I am indisposed, sir;

And that life you once tender'd, much endanger'd

In forcing me from my chamber.

_Char._ Here she is, sir;

Suddenly sick, I grant; but sure, not drunk:

Speak to my lord the duke.

_Lid._ All is discover'd. [_Kneels._

_Coz._ Is this your only daughter?

_Char._ And my heir, sir;

Nor keep I any woman in my house

(Unless for sordid offices) but one

I do maintain, trimm'd up in her cast habits,

To make her sport: and she, indeed, loves wine,

And will take too much of it; and, perhaps, for mirth,

She was presented to you.

_Coz._ It shall yield

No sport to the contrivers. 'Tis too plain now.

Her presence does confirm what Contarino

Deliver'd of her; nor can sickness dim

The splendour of her beauties: being herself, then,

She must exceed his praise.

_Lid._ Will your grace hear me?

I'm faint, and can say little.

_Coz._ Here are accents

Whose every syllable is musical!

Pray you, let me raise you, and awhile rest here.

False Sanazarro, treacherous Giovanni!

But stand we talking!----

_Char._ Here's a storm soon raised.

_Coz._ As thou art our subject, Charomonte, swear

To act what we command.

_Char._ That is an oath

I long since took.

_Coz._ Then, by that oath we charge thee,

Without excuse, denial, or delay,

To apprehend, and suddenly, Sanazarro,

And our ingrateful nephew. We have said it.

Do it without reply, or we pronounce thee,

Like them, a traitor to us. See them guarded

In several lodgings, and forbid access

To all, but when we warrant. Is our will

Heard sooner than obey'd?

_Char._ These are strange turns;

But I must not dispute them. [_Exit._

_Coz._ Be severe in 't.--

O my abused lenity! from what height

Is my power fall'n!

_Lid._ O me most miserable!

That, being innocent, makes others guilty.

Most gracious prince----

_Coz._ Pray you rise, and then speak to me.

_Lid._ My knees shall first be rooted in this earth,

And, Myrrha-like, I'll grow up to a tree,

Dropping perpetual tears of sorrow, which

Harden'd by the rough wind, and turn'd to amber,

Unfortunate virgins like myself shall wear,

Before I'll make petition to your greatness,

But with such reverence, my hands held up thus,

As I would do to heaven. You princes are

As gods on earth to us, and to be sued to

With such humility, as his deputies

May challenge from their vassals.

_Coz._ Here's that form

Of language I expected; pray you, speak:

What is your suit?

_Lid._ That you look upon me

As an humble thing, that millions of degrees

Is placed beneath you: for what am I, dread sir,

Or what can fall in the whole course of my life,

That may be worth your care, much less your trouble?

As the lowly shrub is to the lofty cedar,

Or a molehill to Olympus, if compared,

I am to you, sir. Or, suppose the prince,

(Which cannot find belief in me,) forgetting

The greatness of his birth and hopes, hath thrown

An eye of favour on me, in me punish,

That am the cause, the rashness of his youth.

Shall the queen of the inhabitants of the air,

The eagle, that bears thunder on her wings,

In her angry mood destroy her hopeful young,

For suffering a wren to perch too near them?

Such is our disproportion.

_Coz._ With what fervour

She pleads against herself!

_Lid._ For me, poor maid,

I know the prince to be so far above me,

That my wishes cannot reach him. Yet I am

So much his creature, that, to fix him in

Your wonted grace and favour, I'll abjure

His sight for ever, and betake myself

To a religious life, (where in my prayers

I may remember him,) and ne'er see man more,

But my ghostly father. Will you trust me, sir?

In truth I'll keep my word; or, if this fail,

A little more of fear what may befall him

Will stop my breath for ever.

_Coz._ Had you thus argued [_Raises her._

As you were yourself, and brought as advocates

Your health and beauty to make way for you,

No crime of his could put on such a shape

But I should look with the eyes of mercy on it.

What would I give to see this diamond

In her perfect lustre, as she was before

The clouds of sickness dimm'd it! Yet, take comfort;

And, as you would obtain remission for

His treachery to me, cheer your drooping spirits,

And call the blood again into your cheeks,

And then plead for him; and in such a habit

As in your highest hopes you would put on,

If we were to receive you for our bride.

_Lid._ I'll do my best, sir.

_Coz._ And that best will be

A crown of all felicity to me. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[82] _Take us with you, sir._] i. e. _understand our meaning fully,

before you form your conclusions_: this expression is common to

all our old writers.

[83] _Story_,] i. e. _history_. The two words were formerly synonymous.

[84] _Lavolta_,] i. e. _the waltz_. This dance, originally imported

from Italy, was a great favourite with our ancestors.

[85] This scene is exquisitely written. It must, however, be

confessed, that Charomonte's justification of himself is less

complete than might be expected from one who had so good a cause

to defend.--GIFFORD.

[86] _March-pane_,] a cake composed of sugar and almonds.

[87] _Parted_,] i. e. _gifted_ or _endowed with parts_.

It seems to have been the opinion of Massinger and his fellow

dramatists, that no play could succeed without the admission of

some kind of farcical interlude among the graver scenes. If the

dramas of our author be intimately considered, few will be found

without some extraneous mummery of this description; and, indeed,

nothing but a persuasion of the nature which I have just mentioned

could give birth to the poor mockery before us. As a trick, it is

so gross and palpable, that the duke could not have been deceived

by it for a moment; (to do him justice, he frequently hints his

suspicions;) and as a piece of humour, it is so low, and even

disagreeable, that I cannot avoid regretting a proper regard for

his characters had not prevented the author from adopting it on

the present occasion.--GIFFORD.

[88] _Courtship_,] i. e. _the grace and elegance of a court_.

ACT V. SCENE I.

_The same. An upper Chamber in_ CHAROMONTE'_s House_.

_Enter_ SANAZARRO.

_Sanaz._ 'Tis proved in me: the curse of human frailty,

Adding to our afflictions, makes us know

What's good; and yet our violent passions force us

To follow what is ill. Reason assured me

It was not safe to shave a lion's skin;

And that to trifle with a sovereign was

To play with lightning: yet imperious beauty,

Treading upon the neck of understanding,

Compell'd me to put off my natural shape

Of loyal duty, to disguise myself

In the adulterate and cobweb-mask

Of disobedient treachery. Where is now

My borrow'd greatness, or the promised lives

Of following courtiers echoing my will?

In a moment vanish'd! Power that stands not on

Its proper base, which is peculiar only

To absolute princes, falls or rises with

Their frown or favour. The great duke, my master,

(Who almost changed me to his other self,)

No sooner takes his beams of comfort from me,

But I, as one unknown, or unregarded,

Unpitied suffer. Who makes intercession

To his mercy for me now? who does remember

The service I have done him? not a man:

And such as spake no language but my lord

The favourite of Tuscany's grand duke,

Deride my madness.--Ha! what noise of horses?

[_He looks out at the back window._

A goodly troop! This back part of my prison

Allows me liberty to see and know them.

Contarino! yes, 'tis he, and Lodovico[89]:

And the duchess Fiorinda, Urbin's heir,

A princess I have slighted: yet I wear

Her favours; and, to teach me what I am,

She whom I scorn'd can only mediate for me.

This way she makes, yet speak to her I dare not;

And how to make suit to her is a task

Of as much difficulty.--Yes, thou blessed pledge

[_Takes off the ring._

Of her affection, aid me! This supplies

The want of pen and ink; and this, of paper.

[_Takes a pane of glass._

It must be so; and I in my petition

Concise and pithy. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTE:

[89] _Lodovico_,] i. e. _Lodovico Hippolito_.

SCENE II.

_The Court before_ CHAROMONTE'_s House_.

_Enter_ CONTARINO, _leading in_ FIORINDA, ALPHONSO, HIPPOLITO,

HIERONIMO, _and_ CALAMINTA.

_Fior._ 'Tis a goodly pile, this.

_Hier._ But better by the owner.

_Alph._ But most rich

In the great states[90] it covers.

_Fior._ The duke's pleasure

Commands us hither.

_Cont._ Which was laid on us

To attend you to it.

_Hip._ Signior Charomonte,

To see your excellence his guest, will think

Himself most happy.

_Fior._ Tie my shoe.--[_The pane falls down._]--What's that?

A pane thrown from the window, no wind stirring!

_Calam._ And at your feet too fall'n:--there's something writ on 't.

_Cont._ Some courtier, belike, would have it known

He wore a diamond.

_Calam._ Ha! it is directed

To the princess Fiorinda.

_Fior._ We will read it. [_Reads._

_He, whom you pleased to favour, is cast down

Past hope of rising, by the great duke's frown,

If, by your gracious means, he cannot have

A pardon;--and that got, he lives your slave.

Of men the most distressed_,

SANAZARRO.

Of me the most beloved; and I will save thee,

Or perish with thee. Sure, thy fault must be

Of some prodigious shape, if that my prayers

And humble intercession to the duke

_Enter_ COZIMO _and_ CHAROMONTE.

Prevail not with him. Here he comes; delay

Shall not make less my benefit.

_Coz._ What we purpose

Shall know no change, and therefore move we not:

We were made as properties, and what we shall

Determine of them cannot be call'd rigour,

But noble justice. When they proved disloyal,

They were cruel to themselves. The prince that pardons

The first affront offer'd to majesty,

Invites a second, rendering that power

Subjects should tremble at, contemptible.

Ingratitude is a monster, Carolo,

To be strangled in the birth, not to be cherish'd.

Madam, you're happily met with.

_Fior._ Sir, I am

An humble suitor to you; and the rather

Am confident of a grant, in that your grace,

When I made choice to be at your devotion,

Vow'd to deny me nothing.

_Coz._ To this minute

We have confirm'd it. What's your boon?

_Fior._ It is, sir,

That you, in being gracious to your servant,

The ne'er sufficiently praised Sanazarro,

That now under your heavy displeasure suffers,

Would be good unto yourself. His services,

So many, and so great, (your storm of fury

Calm'd by your better judgment,) must inform you

Some little slip, for sure it is no more,

From his loyal duty, with your justice cannot

Make foul his fair deservings. Great sir, therefore,

Look backward on his former worth, and turning

Your eye from his offence, what 'tis I know not,

And, I am confident, you will receive him

Once more into your favour.

_Coz._ You say well,

You are ignorant in the nature of his fault;

Which when you understand, as we'll instruct you,

Your pity will appear a charity,

It being conferr'd on an unthankful man,

To be repented. He's a traitor, madam,

To you, to us, to gratitude; and in that

All crimes are comprehended.

_Fior._ If his offence

Aim'd at me only, whatsoe'er it is,

'Tis freely pardon'd.

_Coz._ This compassion in you

Must make the colour of his guilt more ugly.

The honours we have hourly heap'd upon him,

The titles, the rewards, to the envy of

The old nobility, as the common people,

We now forbear to touch at, and will only

Insist on his gross wrongs to you. You were pleased,

Forgetting both yourself and proper greatness,

To favour him, nay, to court him to embrace

A happiness, which, on his knees, with joy

He should have sued for. Who repined not at

The grace you did him? yet, in recompense

Of your large bounties, the disloyal wretch

Makes you a stale; and, what he might be by you,

Scorn'd and derided, gives himself up wholly

To the service of another. If you can

Bear this with patience, we must say you have not

The bitterness of spleen, or ireful passions

Familiar to women. Pause upon it,

And when you seriously have weigh'd his carriage,

Move us again, if your reason will allow it,

His treachery known: and then, if you continue

An advocate for him, we perhaps, because

We would deny you nothing, may awake

Our sleeping mercy. Carolo!

_Char._ My lord. [_They talk aside._

_Fior._ To endure a rival that were equal to me,

Cannot but speak my poverty of spirit;

But an inferior, more: yet true love must not

Know or degrees, or distances. Lidia may be

As far above me in her form, as she

Is in her birth beneath me; and what I

In Sanazarro liked, he loves in her.

But, if I free him now, the benefit

Being done so timely, and confirming too

My strength and power, my soul's best faculties being

Bent wholly to preserve him, must supply me

With all I am defective in, and bind him

My creature ever. It must needs be so,

Nor will I give it o'er thus.

_Coz._ Does your nephew

Bear his restraint so constantly[91], as you

Deliver it to us?

_Char._ In my judgment, sir,

He suffers more for his offence to you,

Than in his fear of what can follow it.

For he is so collected, and prepared

To welcome that you shall determine of him,

As if his doubts and fears were equal to him.

And sure he's not acquainted with much guilt,

That more laments the telling one untruth,

Under your pardon still, for 'twas a fault, sir,

Than others, that pretend to conscience, do

Their crying secret sins.

_Coz._ No more; this gloss

Defends not the corruption of the text.

Urge it no more.

[CHAROMONTE _and the others talk aside_.

_Fior._ I once more must make bold, sir,

To trench upon your patience. I have

Consider'd my wrongs duly: yet that cannot

Divert my intercession for a man

Your grace, like me, once favour'd. I am still

A suppliant to you, that you would vouchsafe

The hearing his defence, and that I may,

With your allowance, see and comfort him.

Then, having heard all that he can allege

In his excuse, for being false to you,

Censure him as you please.

_Coz._ You will o'ercome;

There's no contending with you. Pray you, enjoy

What you desire, and tell him, he shall have

A speedy trial; in which, we will forbear

To sit a judge, because our purpose is

To rise up his accuser.

_Fior._ All increase

Of happiness wait on Cozimo!

[_Exeunt_ FIORINDA _and_ CALAMINTA.

_Alph._ Was it no more?

_Char._ My honour's pawn'd for it.

_Cont._ I'll second you.

_Hip._ Since it is for the service and the safety

Of the hopeful prince, fall what can fall, I'll run

The desperate hazard.

_Hier._ He's no friend to virtue

That does decline it.

[_They all come forward and kneel._

_Coz._ Ha! what sue you for?

Shall we be ever troubled? Do not tempt

That anger may consume you.

_Char._ Let it, sir:

The loss is less, though innocents we perish,

Than that your sister's son should fall, unheard,

Under your fury. Shall we fear to entreat

That grace for him, that are your faithful servants,

Which you vouchsafe the count, like us a subject?

_Coz._ Did not we vow, till sickness had forsook

Thy daughter Lidia, and she appear'd

In her perfect health and beauty to plead for him,

We were deaf to all persuasion?

_Char._ And that hope, sir,

Hath wrought a miracle. She is recover'd,

And, if you please to warrant her, will bring

The penitent prince before you.

_Coz._ To enjoy

Such happiness, what would we not dispense with?

_Alph. Hip. Hier._ We all kneel for the prince.

_Cont._ Nor can it stand

With your mercy, that are gracious to strangers,

To be cruel to your own.

_Coz._ But art thou certain

I shall behold her at the best?

_Char._ If ever

She was handsome, as it fits not me to say so,

She is now much better'd.

_Coz._ Rise; thou art but dead,

If this prove otherwise. Lidia, appear,

And feast an appetite almost pined to death

With longing expectation to behold

Thy excellencies: thou, as beauty's queen,

Shalt censure[92] the detractors. Let my nephew

Be led in triumph under her command;

We'll have it so; and Sanazarro tremble

To think whom he hath slander'd. We'll retire

Ourselves a little, and prepare to meet

A blessing, which imagination tells us

We are not worthy of: and then come forth,

But with such reverence, as if I were

Myself the priest, the sacrifice my heart,

To offer at the altar of that goodness

That must or kill or save me. [_Exit._

_Char._ Are not these

Strange gambols in the duke?

_Alph._ Great princes have,

Like meaner men, their weakness.

_Hip._ And may use it

Without control or check.

_Cont._ 'Tis fit they should;

Their privilege were less else, than their subjects'.

_Hier._ Let them have their humours; there's no crossing them.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[90] _States_,] i. e. _statesmen_, _men of power_. A common

acceptation of the word.

[91] _So constantly_,] i. e. _with such constancy_.

[92] _Censure._] It has been already observed, that this word is used

by our old writers, where we should now use _judge_, and

with the same latitude of meaning through its various

acceptations.--GIFFORD.

SCENE III.

_A State-room in the same._

_Enter_ FIORINDA, SANAZARRO, _and_ CALAMINTA.

_Sanaz._ And can it be, your bounties should fall down

In showers on my ingratitude, or the wrongs

Your greatness should revenge, teach you to pity?

What retribution can I make, what service

Pay to your goodness, that, in some proportion,

May to the world express I would be thankful?

Since my engagements are so great, that all

My best endeavours to appear your creature

Can but proclaim my wants, and what I owe

To your magnificence.

_Fior._ All debts are discharged

In this acknowledgment: yet, since you please

I shall impose some terms of satisfaction

For that which you profess yourself obliged for,

They shall be gentle ones, and such as will not,

I hope, afflict you.

_Sanaz._ Make me understand,

Great princess, what they are, and my obedience

Shall, with all cheerful willingness, subscribe

To what you shall command.

_Fior._ I will bind you to

Make good your promise. First, I then enjoin you

To love a lady, that, a noble way,

Truly affects you; and that you would take

To your protection and care the dukedom

Of Urbin, which no more is mine, but yours.

And that, when you have full possession of

My person as my fortune, you would use me,

Not as a princess, but instruct me in

The duties of an humble wife, for such,

The privilege of my birth no more remember'd,

I will be to you. This consented to,

All injuries are forgotten.

_Sanaz._ I am wretched,

In having but one life to be employ'd

As you please to dispose it. And, believe it,

If it be not already forfeited

To the fury of my prince, as 'tis your gift,

With all the faculties of my soul I'll study,

In what I may, to serve you.

_Fior._ I am happy

_Enter_ GIOVANNI _and_ LIDIA.

In this assurance. What sweet lady's this?

_Sanaz._ 'Tis Lidia, madam, she----

_Fior._ I understand you.

Nay, blush not; by my life, she is a rare one!

And, if I were your judge, I would not blame you

To like and love her. But, sir, you are mine now;

And I presume so on your constancy,

That I dare not be jealous.

_Sanaz._ All thoughts of her

Are in your goodness buried.

_Lid._ Pray you, sir,

Be comforted; your innocence should not know

What 'tis to fear; and if that you but look on

The guards that you have in yourself, you cannot.

The duke's your uncle, sir, and, though a little

Incensed against you, when he sees your sorrow,

He must be reconciled. What rugged Tartar,

Or cannibal, though bathed in human gore,

But, looking on your sweetness, would forget

His cruel nature, and let fall his weapon,

Though then aim'd at your throat?

_Giov._ O Lidia,

Of maids the honour, and your sex's glory!

It is not fear to die, but to lose you,

That brings this fever on me. I will now

Discover to you, that which, till this minute,

I durst not trust the air with. Ere you knew

What power the magic of your beauty had,

I was enchanted by it, liked, and loved it,

My fondness still increasing with my years;

And, flatter'd by false hopes, I did attend

Some blessed opportunity to move

The duke with his consent to make you mine:

But now, such is my star-cross'd destiny,

When he beholds you as you are, I may

As well entreat him give away his crown,

As to part from a jewel of more value.

Yet, howsoever, when you are his duchess,

And I am turn'd into forgotten dust,

Pray you, love my memory:--I should say more,

But I'm cut off.

_Enter_ COZIMO, CHAROMONTE, CONTARINO, HIERONIMO, HIPPOLITO, _and_

ALPHONSO.

_Sanaz._ The duke! That countenance, once,

When it was clothed in smiles, show'd like an angel's,

But, now 'tis folded up in clouds of fury,

'Tis terrible to look on.

_Lid._ Sir.

_Coz._ A while

Silence your musical tongue, and let me feast

My eyes with the most ravishing object that

They ever gazed on. There's no miniature

In her fair face, but is a copious theme

Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume.

What clear arch'd brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies

Contending with the roses in her cheeks,

Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!--

Or unto what can I compare her neck,

But to a rock of crystal? every limb

Proportion'd to love's wish, and in their neatness

Add lustre to the riches of her habit,

Not borrow from it.

_Lid._ You are pleased to show, sir,

The fluency of your language, in advancing

A subject much unworthy.

_Coz._ How! unworthy?

By all the vows which lovers offer at

The Cyprian goddess' altars, eloquence

Itself presuming, as you are, to speak you,

Would be struck dumb!--And what have you deserved then,

[GIOVANNI _and_ SANAZARRO _kneel_.

(Wretches, you kneel too late,) that have endeavour'd

To spout the poison of your black detraction

On this immaculate whiteness? Was it malice

To her perfections? or----

_Fior._ Your highness promised

A gracious hearing to the count.

_Lid._ And prince too:

Do not make void so just a grant.

_Coz._ We will not:

Yet, since their accusation must be urged,

And strongly, ere their weak defence have hearing,

We seat you here, as judges, to determine

Of your gross wrongs and ours. [_Seats the Ladies

in the chairs of state._] And now, remembering

Whose deputies you are, be neither sway'd

Or with particular spleen, or foolish pity,

For neither can become you.

_Char._ There's some hope yet,

Since they have such gentle judges.

_Coz._ Rise, and stand forth, then,

And hear, with horror to your guilty souls,

What we will prove against you. Could this princess,

Thou enemy to thyself, [_To_ SANAZARRO.] stoop her high flight

Of towering greatness to invite thy lowness

To look up to it, and with nimble wings

Of gratitude couldst thou forbear to meet it?

Were her favours boundless in a noble way,

And warranted by our allowance, yet,

In thy acceptation, there appear'd no sign

Of a modest thankfulness?

_Fior._ Pray you, forbear

To press that further; 'tis a fault we have

Already heard, and pardon'd.

_Coz._ We will then

Pass over it, and briefly touch at that

Which does concern ourself; in which both being

Equal offenders, what we shall speak points

Indifferently at either. How we raised thee,

Forgetful Sanazarro! of our grace,

To a full possession of power and honours,

It being too well known, we'll not remember.

And what thou wert, rash youth, in expectation,

[_To_ GIOVANNI.

And from which headlong thou hast thrown thyself,

Not Florence, but all Tuscany, can witness

With admiration. To assure thy hopes,

We did keep constant to a widow'd bed,

And did deny ourself those lawful pleasures

Our absolute power and height of blood allow'd us;

Made both, the keys that open'd our heart's secrets,

And what you spake, believed as oracles:

But you, in recompense of this, to him

That gave you all, to whom you owed your being,

With treacherous lies endeavour'd to conceal

This jewel from our knowledge, which ourself

Could only lay just claim to.

_Giov._ 'Tis most true, sir.

_Sanaz._ We both confess a guilty cause.

_Coz._ Look on her.

Is this a beauty fit to be embraced

By any subject's arms? can any tire

Become that forehead but a diadem?

Or, should we grant your being false to us

Could be excused, your treachery to her,

In seeking to deprive her of that greatness

(Her matchless worth consider'd) she was born to,

Must ne'er find pardon. We have spoken, ladies,

Like a rough orator, that brings more truth

Than rhetoric to make good his accusation;

And now expect your sentence.

[_The Ladies descend from the state[93]._

_Lid._ In your birth, sir,

You were mark'd out the judge of life and death,

And we, that are your subjects, to attend,

With trembling fear, your doom.

_Fior._ We do resign

This chair, as only proper to yourself.

_Giov._ And, since injustice we are lost, we fly

Unto your saving mercy. [_All kneeling._

_Sanaz._ Which sets off

A prince much more than rigour.

_Char._ And becomes him,

When 'tis express'd to such as fell by weakness,

That being a twin-born brother to affection,

Better than wreaths of conquest.

_Hier. Hip. Cont. Alph._ We all speak

Their language, mighty sir.

_Coz._ You know our temper,

And therefore with more boldness venture on it:

And, would not our consent to your demands

Deprive us of a happiness hereafter

Ever to be despair'd of, we, perhaps,

Might hearken nearer to you; and could wish

With some qualification, or excuse,

You might make less the mountains of your crimes,

And so invite our clemency to feast with you.

But you, that knew with what impatiency

Of grief we parted from the fair Clarinda,

Our duchess, (let her memory still be sacred!)

And with what imprecations on ourself

We vow'd, not hoping e'er to see her equal,

Ne'er to make trial of a second choice,

If nature framed not one that did excel her,

As this maid's beauty prompts us that she does:--

And yet, with oaths then mix'd with tears, upon

Her monument we swore our eye should never

Again be tempted;--'tis true, and those vows

Are register'd above, something here tells me.--

Carolo, thou heard'st us swear.

_Char._ And swear so deeply,

That if all women's beauties were in this,

(As she's not to be named with the dead duchess,)

Nay, all their virtues bound up in one story,

(Of which mine is scarce an epitome,)

If you should take her as a wife, the weight

Of your perjuries would sink you. If I durst,

I had told you this before.

_Coz._ 'Tis strong truth, Carolo:

And yet what was necessity in us

Cannot free them from treason.

_Char._ There's your error:

The prince, in care to have you keep your vows

Made unto Heaven, vouchsafed to love my daughter[94].

Surely Massinger intended that his characters should here be

understood as speaking the truth. The contrivance by which

he exculpates Giovanni is a clumsy one; but he was anxious

to conclude his play, and took the first that suggested itself.

Awkward as it may appear to the reader, it has, perhaps,

quite enough dramatic probability to satisfy an audience

_Lid._ He told me so, indeed, sir.

_Fior._ And the count

Averr'd as much to me.

_Cos._ You all conspire,

To force our mercy from us.

_Char._ Which given up,

To aftertimes preserves you unforsworn:

An honour which will live upon your tomb

When your greatness is forgotten.

_Coz._ Though we know

All this is practice[95], and that both are false,

Such reverence we will pay to dead Clarinda,

And to our serious oaths, that we are pleased

With our own hand to blind our eyes, and not

Know what we understand. Here, Giovanni,

We pardon thee; and take from us, in this,

More than our dukedom: love her. As I part

With her, all thoughts of women fly fast from us.

Sanazarro, we forgive you: in your service

To this princess, merit it. Yet let not others

That are in trust and grace, as you have been,

By the example of our lenity,

Presume upon their sovereign's clemency.

_Enter_ CALANDRINO _and_ PETRONELLA.

_All._ Long live great Cozimo!

_Cal._ Sure the duke is

In the giving vein, they are so loud. Come on, spouse;

We have heard all, and we will have our boon too.

_Coz._ What is it?

_Cal._ That your grace, in remembrance of

My share in a dance, and that I play'd your part

When you should have drunk hard, would get this signior's grant

To give this damsel to me in the church,

For we are contracted. In it you shall do

Your dukedom pleasure.

_Coz._ How?

_Cal._ Why, the whole race

Of such as can act naturally fools' parts

Are quite worn out; and they that do survive

Do only zany us: and we will bring you,

If we die not without issue, of both sexes

Such chopping mirth-makers, as shall preserve

Perpetual cause of sport, both to your grace

And your posterity, that sad melancholy

Shall ne'er approach you.

_Coz._ We are pleased in it,

And will pay her portion.----[_Comes forward._

_May the passage prove,

Of what's presented, worthy of your love

And favour, as was aim'd; and we have all

That can in compass of our wishes fall._ [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[93] _The state_,] i. e. _the raised platform on which the chairs were

placed_.

[94] _The prince, in care to have you keep your vows Made unto Heaven,

vouchsafed to love my daughter._] This attempt to impose upon the

great duke is more deplorable than the former. It has falsehood

and improbability written on its face. The duke, indeed, is not

deceived by it; but surely the author showed a strange want of

judgment in this gratuitous degradation of three of his most

estimable characters.--GIFFORD.

[95] _Practice_,] i. e. _artifice, or insidious combination_.

THE BONDMAN.

The Bondman was performed, as we learn from the Office-book of Sir

Henry Herbert, Master of the Revels, at the Cockpit in Drury-lane,

December 3, 1623. It was printed the following year, and again in

1638.

The main incident of the plot is taken from the life of Timoleon, as

related by Plutarch. The revolt and subsequent reduction of the slaves

to their duty may have been taken either from Herodotus or Justin, or

Purchas's Pilgrim. The artifice by which they are quelled is silly and

unnatural, and its introduction degrades a very beautifully managed

plot.

The play was revived in 1660 by Betterton, who played Pisander; and

several alterations of it have since been produced, but without

success.

Our author never writes with more effect than when he combines his own

fancy with real history; and in The Bondman he has produced a piece

which is, with few exceptions, at once stately and playful, impressive

and tender. He matures the love under the cover of the history; till

at length the interest changes, and the history becomes subordinate to

the love.

The characters are drawn with much variety and interest. The modest

gravity and self-command of Timoleon well agrees with the ancient

descriptions of the man from whose mouth _nihil unquam insolens, neque

gloriosum exiit_.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, MY SINGULAR GOOD LORD,

PHILIP, EARL OF MONTGOMERY,

KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C.

RIGHT HONOURABLE,

However I could never arrive at the happiness to be made known to

your lordship, yet a desire, born with me, to make a tender of

all duties and service to the noble family of the Herberts,

descended to me as an inheritance from my dead father, Arthur

Massinger. Many years he happily spent in the service of your

honourable house, and died a servant to it; leaving his to be

ever most glad and ready to be at the command of all such as

derive themselves from his most honoured master, your lordship's

most noble father. The consideration of this encouraged me

(having no other means to present my humblest service to your

honour) to shroud this trifle under the wings of your noble

protection; and I hope, out of the clemency of your heroic

disposition, it will find, though perhaps not a welcome

entertainment, yet, at the worst, a gracious pardon. When it was

first acted, your lordship's liberal suffrage taught others to

allow it for current, it having received the undoubted stamp of

your lordship's allowance: and if in the perusal of any vacant

hour, when your honour's more serious occasions shall give you

leave to read it, it answer, in your lordship's judgment, the

report and opinion it had upon the stage, I shall esteem my

labours not ill employed, and, while I live, continue

the humblest of those that

truly honour your lordship,

PHILIP MASSINGER.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

TIMOLEON, _the general, of Corinth_.

ARCHIDAMUS, _prætor of Syracusa_.

DIPHILUS, _a senator of Syracusa_.

CLEON, _a fat foolish lord_.

MARULLO, _the Bondman_ (_i. e._ PISANDER, _a gentleman of

Thebes, disguised as a slave_).

POLIPHRON, _friend to_ MARULLO, _also disguised as a slave_.

LEOSTHENES, _a gentleman of Syracusa, enamoured of_ CLEORA.

ASOTUS, _a foolish lover, and the son of_ CLEON.

TIMAGORAS, _the son of_ ARCHIDAMUS.

GRACCULO, } _slaves._

CIMBRIO, }

_A Gaoler._

CLEORA, _daughter of_ ARCHIDAMUS.

CORISCA, _a proud lady, wife to_ CLEON.

OLYMPIA, _a rich widow_.

TIMANDRA, _slave to_ CLEORA (_i. e._ STATILIA, _sister to_ PISANDER).

ZANTHIA, _slave to_ CORISCA.

_Other Slaves, Soldiers, Officers, Senators._

SCENE, Syracuse, and the adjacent country.

THE BONDMAN.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_The Camp of_ TIMOLEON, _near Syracuse_.

_Enter_ TIMAGORAS _and_ LEOSTHENES.

_Timag._ Why should you droop, Leosthenes, or despair

My sister's favour? What, before, you purchased

By courtship and fair language, in these wars

(For from her soul you know she loves a soldier)

You may deserve by action.

_Leost._ Good Timagoras,

When I have said my friend, think all is spoken

That may assure me yours; and pray you believe,

The dreadful voice of war that shakes the city,

The thundering threats of Carthage, nor their army

Raised to make good those threats, affright not me.--

If fair Cleora were confirm'd his prize

That has the strongest arm and sharpest sword,

I'd court Bellona in her horrid trim,

As if she were a mistress; and bless fortune,

That offers my young valour to the proof,

How much I dare do for your sister's love.

But, when that I consider how averse

Your noble father, great Archidamus,

Is, and hath ever been, to my desires,

Reason may warrant me to doubt and fear,

What seeds soever I sow in these wars

Of noble courage, his determinate will

May blast, and give my harvest to another,

That never toil'd for it.

_Timag._ Prithee, do not nourish

These jealous thoughts; I am thine, (and pardon me,

Though I repeat it,) thy Timagoras,

That, for thy sake, when the bold Theban sued,

Far-famed Pisander, for my sister's love,

Sent him disgraced and discontented home.

I wrought my father then; and I, that stopp'd not

In the career of my affection to thee,

When that renowned worthy, that brought with him

High birth, wealth, courage, as feed advocates

To mediate for him; never will consent

A fool, that only has the shape of man,

Asotus, though he be rich Cleon's heir,

Shall bear her from thee.

_Leost._ In that trust I love.

_Timag._ Which never shall deceive you.

_Enter_ MARULLO.

_Mar._ Sir, the general,

Timoleon, by his trumpets hath given warning

For a remove.

_Timag._ 'Tis well; provide my horse.

_Mar._ I shall, sir. [_Exit._

_Leost._ This slave has a strange aspect.

_Timag._ Fit for his fortune; 'tis a strong-limb'd knave:

My father bought him for my sister's litter.

O pride of women! Coaches are too common--

They surfeit in the happiness of peace,

And ladies think they keep not state enough,

If, for their pomp and ease[96], they are not borne

In triumph on men's shoulders.

_Leost._ Who commands

The Carthaginian fleet?

_Timag._ Gisco's their admiral,

And 'tis our happiness; a raw young fellow,

One never train'd in arms, but rather fashion'd

To tilt with ladies' lips, than crack a lance;

Ravish a feather from a mistress' fan[97],

And wear it as a favour. A steel helmet,

Made horrid with a glorious plume, will crack

His woman's neck.

_Leost._ No more of him.--The motives,

That Corinth gives us aid?

_Timag._ The common danger;

For Sicily being afire, she is not safe:

It being apparent that ambitious Carthage,

That, to enlarge her empire, strives to fasten

An unjust gripe on us that live free lords

Of Syracusa, will not end, till Greece

Acknowledge her their sovereign.

_Leost._ I am satisfied.

What think you of our general?

_Timag._ He's a man [_Trumpets within._

Of strange and reserved parts; but a great soldier.

His trumpets call us, I'll forbear his character:

To-morrow, in the senate-house, at large

He will express himself.

_Leost._ I'll follow you. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[96] _If, for their pomp and ease_, &c.] Mr. Gilchrist thinks (and I

believe rightly) that Massinger, who evidently regarded the Duke

of Buckingham with no favourable eye, here reflects on the use of

sedan-chairs, which his grace first introduced, from Spain, about

this period. They were carried, as Massinger says, "on men's

shoulders," and the novelty provoked no small displeasure against

the favourite, who, in thus employing his servants, was charged,

by the writers of those times, with "degrading Englishmen into

slaves and beasts of burden, to gratify his inordinate

vanity."--GIFFORD.

[97] _Fan._] The fan of our ancestors was not at all in the shape of

the implement now used under the same name, but more like a

hand-skreen. It had a roundish handle, and was frequently composed

of feathers.

SCENE II.

_Syracuse. The Senate-house._

_Enter_ ARCHIDAMUS, CLEON, DIPHILUS, OLYMPIA, CORISCA, CLEORA, _and_

ZANTHIA.

_Archid._ So careless we have been, my noble lords,

In the disposing of our own affairs,

And ignorant in the art of government,

That now we need a stranger to instruct us.

Yet we are happy that our neighbour Corinth,

Pitying the unjust gripe Carthage would lay

On Syracusa, hath vouchsafed to lend us

Her man of men, Timoleon, to defend

Our country and our liberties.

_Diph._ 'Tis a favour

We are unworthy of, and we may blush

Necessity compels us to receive it.

_Archid._ O shame! that we, that are a populous nation,

Engaged to liberal nature for all blessings

An island can bring forth; we, that have limbs,

And able bodies; shipping, arms, and treasure,

The sinews of the war, now we are call'd

To stand upon our guard, cannot produce

One fit to be our general.

_Cleon._ I am old and fat;

I could say something, else.

_Archid._ We must obey

The time and our occasions; ruinous buildings,

Whose bases and foundations are infirm,

Must use supporters: we are circled round

With danger; o'er our heads, with sail-stretch'd wings,

Destruction hovers, and a cloud of mischief

Ready to break upon us; no hope left us

That may divert it, but our sleeping virtue,

Roused up by brave Timoleon.

_Cleon._ When arrives he?

_Diph._ He is expected every hour.

_Archid._ The braveries[98]

Of Syracusa, among whom my son,

Timagoras, Leosthenes, and Asotus,

Your hopeful heir, lord Cleon, two days since

Rode forth to meet him, and attend him to

The city; every minute we expect

To be bless'd with his presence.

[_Shouts within; then a flourish of trumpets._

_Cleon._ What shout's this?

_Diph._ 'Tis seconded with loud music.

_Archid._ Which confirms

His wish'd-for entrance. Let us entertain him

With all respect, solemnity, and pomp,

A man may merit, that comes to redeem us

From slavery and oppression.

_Cleon._ I'll lock up

My doors, and guard my gold: these lads of Corinth

Have nimble fingers, and I fear them more,

Being within our walls, than those of Carthage;

They are far off.

_Archid._ And, ladies, be it your care

To welcome him and his followers with all duty:

For rest resolved, their hands and swords must keep you

In that full height of happiness you live;

A dreadful change else follows.

[_Exeunt_ ARCHIDAMUS, CLEON, _and_ DIPHILUS.

_Olymp._ We are instructed.

_Coris._ Musing, Cleora?

_Olymp._ She's studying how to entertain these strangers,

And to engross them to herself.

_Cleor._ No, surely.

_Olymp._ No more; they come.

_Flourish of trumpets. Enter_ TIMAGORAS, LEOSTHENES, ASOTUS, TIMOLEON

_in black, led in by_ ARCHIDAMUS, DIPHILUS, _and_ CLEON; _followed by_

MARULLO, GRACCULO, CIMBRIO, _and other Slaves_.

_Archid._ It is your seat: which, with a general suffrage,

[_Offering_ TIMOLEON _the state_[99].

As to the supreme magistrate, Sicily tenders,

And prays Timoleon to accept.

_Timol._ Such honours

To one ambitious of rule[100] or titles,

Whose heaven on earth is placed in his command,

And absolute power o'er others, would with joy,

And veins swollen high with pride, be entertain'd.

They take not me; for I have ever loved

An equal freedom, and proclaim'd all such

As would usurp on others' liberties

Rebels to nature, to whose bounteous blessings

All men lay claim as true legitimate sons:

But such as have made forfeit of themselves

By vicious courses, and their birthright lost,

'Tis not injustice they are mark'd for slaves,

To serve the virtuous. For myself, I know

Honours and great employments are great burdens,

And must require an Atlas to support them.

He that would govern others, first should be

The master of himself, richly endued

With depth of understanding, height of courage,

And those remarkable graces which I dare not

Ascribe unto myself.

_Archid._ Sir, empty men

Are trumpets of their own deserts; but you,

That are not in opinion, but in proof,

Really good, and full of glorious parts,

Leave the report of what you are to fame,

Which, from the ready tongues of all good men,

Aloud proclaims you.

_Diph._ Besides, you stand bound,

Having so large a field to exercise

Your active virtues offer'd you, to impart

Your strength to such as need it.

_Timol._ 'Tis confess'd;

And, since you'll have it so, such as I am,

For you, and for the liberty of Greece,

I am most ready to lay down my life:

But yet consider, men of Syracusa,

Before that you deliver up the power,

Which yet is yours, to me,--to whom 'tis given;

To an impartial man, with whom nor threats

Nor prayers shall prevail; for I must steer

An even course.

_Archid._ Which is desired of all.

_Timol._ Timophanes, my brother[101], for whose death

I am tainted in the world, and foully tainted;

In whose remembrance I have ever worn,

In peace and war, this livery of sorrow;

Can witness for me how much I detest

Tyrannous usurpation. With grief

I must remember it; for when no persuasion

Could win him to desist from his bad practice,

To change the aristocracy of Corinth

Into an absolute monarchy, I chose rather

To prove a pious and obedient son

To my country, my best mother[102], than to lend

Assistance to Timophanes, though my brother,

That, like a tyrant, strove to set his foot

Upon the city's freedom.

_Timag._ 'Twas a deed

Deserving rather trophies than reproof.

_Leost._ And will be still remember'd to your honour,

If you forsake not us.

_Diph._ If you free Sicily

From barbarous Carthage' yoke[103], it will be said

In him you slew a tyrant.

_Archid._ But, giving way

To her invasion, not vouchsafing us

That fly to your protection aid and comfort,

'Twill be believed that, for your private ends,

You kill'd a brother.

_Timol._ As I then proceed,

To all posterity may that act be crown'd

With a deserved applause, or branded with

The mark of infamy.--Stay yet: ere I take

This seat of justice, or engage myself

To fight for you abroad, or to reform

Your state at home, swear all upon my sword,

And call the gods of Sicily to witness

The oath you take, that whatsoe'er I shall

Propound for safety of your commonwealth,

Not circumscribed or bound in, shall by you

Be willingly obey'd.

_Archid. Diph. Cleon._ So may we prosper,

As we obey in all things!

_Timag. Leost. Asot._ And observe

All your commands as oracles!

_Timol._ Do not repent it. [_Takes the state._

_Olymp._ He ask'd not our consent.

_Coris._ He's a clown, I warrant him.

_Olymp._ He thinks women

No part of the republic.

_Coris._ He shall find

We are a commonwealth.

_Cleo._ The less your honour.

_Timol._ First, then, a word or two, but without bitterness,

(And yet mistake me not, I am no flatterer,)

Concerning your ill government of the state;

In which the greatest, noblest, and most rich,

Stand, in the first file, guilty.

_Cleon._ Ha! how's this?

_Timol._ You have not, as good patriots should do, studied

The public good, but your particular ends;

Factious among yourselves, preferring such

To offices and honours, as ne'er read

The elements of saving policy,

But deeply skill'd in all the principles

That usher to destruction.

_Leost._ Sharp!

_Timag._ The better.

_Timol._ Your senate-house, which used not to admit

A man, however popular, to stand

At the helm of government, whose youth was not

Made glorious by action; whose experience,

Crown'd with gray hairs, gave warrant to his counsels,

Heard and received with reverence; is now fill'd

With green heads, that determine of the state

Over their cups, or when their sated lusts

Afford them leisure; or supplied by those

Who, rising from base arts and sordid thrift,

Are eminent for their wealth, not for their wisdom:

Which is the reason that to hold a place

In council, which was once esteem'd an honour,

And a reward for virtue, hath quite lost

Lustre and reputation, and is made

A mercenary purchase.

_Timag._ He speaks home.

_Leost._ And to the purpose.

_Timol._ From whence it proceeds,

That the treasure of the city is engross'd

By a few private men, the public coffers

Hollow with want; and they, that will not spare

One talent for the common good, to feed

The pride and bravery of their wives, consume,

In plate, in jewels, and superfluous slaves,

What would maintain an army.

_Coris._ Have at us!

_Olymp._ We thought we were forgot.

_Cleo._ But it appears

You will be treated of.

_Timol._ Yet, in this plenty,

And fat of peace, your young men ne'er were train'd

In martial discipline; and your ships unrigg'd

Rot in the harbour: no defence prepared,

But thought unuseful; as if that the gods,

Indulgent to your sloth, had granted you

A perpetuity of pride and pleasure,

No change fear'd or expected. Now you find

That Carthage, looking on your stupid sleeps

And dull security, was invited to

Invade your territories.

_Archid._ You have made us see, sir,

To our shame, the country's sickness: now from you,

As from a careful and a wise physician,

We do expect the cure.

_Timol._ Old fester'd sores

Must be lanced to the quick, and cauterized;

Which borne with patience, after I'll apply

Soft unguents. For the maintenance of the war,

It is decreed all moneys in the hand

Of private men shall instantly be brought

To the public treasury.

_Timag._ This bites sore.

_Cleon._ The cure

Is worse than the disease; I'll never yield to 't:

What could the enemy, though victorious,

Inflict more on us? All that my youth hath toil'd for,

Purchased with industry, and preserved with care,

Forced from me in a moment!

_Diph._ This rough course

Will never be allow'd of.

_Timol._ O blind men!

If you refuse the first means that is offer'd

To give you health, no hope's left to recover

Your desperate sickness. Do you prize your muck

Above your liberties? and rather choose

To be made bondmen, than to part with that

To which already you are slaves? Or can it

Be probable, in your flattering apprehensions,

You can capitulate with the conquerors,

And keep that yours which they come to possess,

And, while you kneel in vain, will ravish from you?

--But take your own ways; brood upon your gold.

Sacrifice to your idol, and preserve

The prey entire, and merit the report

Of careful stewards: yield a just account

To your proud masters, who, with whips of iron,

Will force you to give up what you conceal,

Or tear it from your throats: adorn your walls

With Persian hangings wrought of gold and pearl;

Cover the floors on which they are to tread

With costly Median silks; perfume the rooms

With cassia and amber, where they are

To feast and revel; while, like servile grooms,

You wait upon their trenchers: feed their eyes

With massy plate, until your cupboards crack

With the weight that they sustain; and, to perfect

Their entertainment, offer up your sons

And able men for slaves; while you, that are

Unfit for labour, are spurn'd out to starve,

Unpitied, in some desert, no friend by,

Whose sorrow may spare one compassionate tear

In the remembrance of what once you were.

_Leost._ The blood turns.

_Timag._ Observe how old Cleon shakes,

As if in picture he had shown him what

He was to suffer.

_Coris._ I am sick: the man

Speaks poniards and diseases.

_Olymp._ O my doctor!

I never shall recover.

_Cleo._ [_coming forward._] If a virgin,

Whose speech was ever yet usher'd with fear,

One knowing modesty and humble silence

To be the choicest ornaments of our sex,

In the presence of so many reverend men

Struck dumb with terror and astonishment,

Presume to clothe her thought in vocal sounds,

Let her find pardon. First to you, great sir,

A bashful maid's thanks, and her zealous prayers

Wing'd with pure innocence, bearing them to heaven,

For all prosperity that the gods can give

To one whose piety must exact their care,

Thus low I offer.

_Timol._ 'Tis a happy omen.

Rise, blest one, and speak boldly. On my virtue,

I am thy warrant from so clear a spring

Sweet rivers ever flow.

_Cleo._ Then, thus to you,

My noble father, and these lords, to whom

I next owe duty: no respect forgotten

To you, my brother, and these bold young men,

(Such I would have them,) that are, or should he,

The city's sword and target of defence.

To all of you I speak; and, if a blush

Steal on my cheeks, it is shown to reprove

Your paleness, willingly I would not say,

Your cowardice or fear: Think you all treasure

Hid in the bowels of the earth, or shipwreck'd

In Neptune's wat'ry kingdom, can hold weight,

When liberty and honour fill one scale,

Triumphant Justice sitting on the beam?

Or dare you but imagine that your gold is

Too dear a salary for such as hazard

Their blood and lives in your defence? For me,

An ignorant girl, bear witness, heaven! so far

I prize a soldier, that, to give him pay,

With such devotion as our flamens offer

Their sacrifices at the holy altar,

I do lay down these jewels, will make sale

Of my superfluous wardrobe, to supply

The meanest of their wants.

[_Lays down her jewels, &c.; the rest follow her example._

_Timol._ Brave masculine spirit!

_Diph._ We are shown, to our shame, what we in honour

Should have taught others.

_Archid._ Such a fair example

Must needs be follow'd.

_Timag._ Ever my dear sister,

But now our family's glory!

_Leost._ Were she deform'd,

The virtues of her mind would force a stoic

To sue to be her servant.

_Cleon._ I must yield;

And, though my heart-blood part with it, I will

Deliver in my wealth.

_Asot._ I would say something;

But, the truth is, I know not what.

_Timol._ We have money;

And men must now be thought on.

_Archid._ We can press

Of labourers in the country, men inured

To cold and heat, ten thousand.

_Diph._ Or, if need be,

Enrol our slaves, lusty and able varlets,

And fit for service.

_Cleon._ They shall go for me;

I will not pay and fight too.

_Cleo._ How! your slaves?

O stain of honour!----Once more, sir, your pardon;

And, to their shames, let me deliver what

I know in justice you may speak.

_Timol._ Most gladly:

I could not wish my thoughts a better organ

Than your tongue, to express them.

_Cleo._ Are you men!

(For age may qualify, though not excuse,

The backwardness of these,) able young men!

Yet, now your country's liberty's at the stake,

Honour and glorious triumph made the garland

For such as dare deserve them; a rich feast

Prepared by Victory, of immortal viands,

Not for base men, but such as with their swords

Dare force admittance, and will be her guests:

And can you coldly suffer such rewards

To be proposed to labourers and slaves?

While you, that are born noble, to whom these,

Valued at their best rate, are next to horses,

Or other beasts of carriage, cry aim[104]!

Like idle lookers on, till their proud worth

Make them become your masters!

_Timol._ By my hopes,

There's fire and spirit enough in this to make

Thersites valiant.

_Cleo._ No; far, far be it from you:

Let these of meaner quality contend

Who can endure most labour; plough the earth,

And think they are rewarded when their toil

Brings home a fruitful harvest to their lords;

Let them prove good artificers, and serve you

For use and ornament, but not presume

To touch at what is noble. If you think them

Unworthy to taste of those cates you feed on,

Or wear such costly garments, will you grant them

The privilege and prerogative of great minds,

Which you were born to? Honour won in war,

And to be styled preservers of their country,

Are titles fit for free and generous spirits,

And not for bondmen. Had I been born a man,

And such ne'er-dying glories made the prize

To bold heroic courage, by Diana,

I would not to my brother, nay, my father,

Be bribed to part with the least piece of honour

I should gain in this action!

_Timol._ She's inspired,

Or in her speaks the genius of your country,

To fire your blood in her defence: I am rapt

With the imagination. Noble maid,

Timoleon is your soldier, and will sweat

Drops of his best blood, but he will bring home

Triumphant conquest to you. Let me wear

Your colours, lady; and though youthful heats,

That look no further than your outward form,

Are long since buried in me; while I live,

I am a constant lover of your mind,

That does transcend all precedents.

_Cleo._ 'Tis an honour, [_Gives her scarf._

And so I do receive it.

_Leost._ I am for the journey.

_Timag._ May all diseases sloth and luxury bring

Fall upon him that stays at home!

_Archid._ Though old,

I will be there in person.

_Diph._ So will I:

Methinks I am not what I was; her words

Have made me younger, by a score of years,

Than I was when I came hither.

_Cleon._ I shall never

Make a good soldier, and therefore desire

To be excused at home.

_Asot._ 'Tis my suit too.

_Timol._ Have your desires; you would be burthens to us.--

Lead, fairest, to the temple; first we'll pay

A sacrifice to the gods for good success:

For all great actions the wish'd course do run,

That are, with their allowance, well begun.

[_Exeunt all but_, MAR. GRAC. _and_ CIMB.

_Mar._ Stay, Cimbrio and Gracculo.

_Cimb._ The business?

_Mar._ Meet me to-morrow night near to the grove,

Neighbouring the east part of the city.

_Grac._ Well.

_Mar._ And bring the rest of our condition with you:

I've something to impart may break our fetters,

If you dare second me.

_Cimb._ We'll not fail.

_Grac._ A cart-rope

Shall not bind me at home.

_Mar._ Think on 't, and prosper. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[98] _The braveries_,] i. e. _the gay and fashionable gallants of the

town_.

[99] _The state._] This was a raised platform, on which was placed a

chair with a canopy over it. The word occurs perpetually in our

old writers. It is used by Dryden, but seems to have been growing

obsolete while he was writing: in the first edition of Mac

Fleckno, the monarch is placed on a _state_; in the subsequent

ones, he is seated like his fellow kings, on a throne: it occurs

also, and I believe for the last time, in Swift: "As she affected

not the grandeur of a _state_ with a canopy, she thought there was

no offence in an elbow chair."--_Hist. of John Bull_, c.

i.--GIFFORD.

[100] --------_Such honours

To one ambitious of rule_, &c.] Massinger has here finely drawn

the character of Timoleon, and been very true to history. He was

descended from one of the noblest families in Corinth, loved his

country passionately, and discovered upon all occasions a singular

humanity of temper, except against tyrants and bad men. He was an

excellent captain; and as in his youth he had all the maturity of

age, in age he had all the fire and courage of the most ardent

youth.--COXETER.

[101] Timol. _Timophanes, my brother_, &c.] Timoleon had an elder

brother, called Timophanes, whom he tenderly loved, as he had

demonstrated in a battle, in which he covered him with his body,

and saved his life at the great danger of his own. But his country

was still dearer to him. That brother having made himself tyrant

of it, so black a crime gave him the sharpest affliction. He made

use of all possible means to bring him back to his duty: kindness,

friendship, affection, remonstrances, and even menaces. But

finding all his endeavours ineffectual, and that nothing could

prevail upon a heart abandoned to ambition he caused his brother

to be assassinated by two of his friends and intimates, and

thought that upon such an occasion the laws of nature ought to

give place to those of his country.--COXETER.

[102] _To my country, my best mother._] In this expression Timoleon

alludes to the conduct of his natural mother, who would never see

him after the assassination of his brother, and always, as

Cornelius Nepos informs us, called him _fratricidam,

impiumque_.--GIFFORD.

[103] Diph. _If you free Sicily From barbarous Carthage' yoke_, &c.]

This speech and the next are literally from Plutarch. Massinger

has in this instance adhered more closely to his story than

usual.--GIFFORD.

[104] _Cry aim!_] i. e. _encourage them_, as the bystanders do those

who are about to shoot at a trial of skill in archery.

ACT II. SCENE I.

_The same. A Room in_ ARCHIDAMUS'_s House_.

_Enter_ ARCHIDAMUS, TIMAGORAS, LEOSTHENES, _with gorgets; and_

MARULLO.

_Archid._ So, so, 'tis well: how do I look?

_Mar._ Most sprightfully.

_Archid._ I shrink not in the shoulders; though I'm old

I'm tough, steel to the back; I have not wasted

My stock of strength in featherbeds: here's an arm too;

There's stuff in 't, and I hope will use a sword

As well as any beardless boy of you all.

_Timag._ I'm glad to see you, sir, so well prepared

To endure the travail of the war.

_Archid._ Go to, sirrah!

I shall endure, when some of you keep your cabins,

For all your flaunting feathers; nay, Leosthenes,

You are welcome too[105], all friends and fellows now.

_Leost._ Your servant, sir.

_Archid._ Pish! leave these compliments,

They stink in a soldier's mouth; I could be merry,

For, now my gown's off, farewell gravity[106]!

I fear ye, when you come to the test.--Old stories tell us,

There's a month call'd October[107], which brings in

Cold weather; there are trenches too, 'tis rumour'd,

In which to stand all night to the knees in water,

In gallants breeds the toothach; there's a sport too,

Named _lying perdue_, do you mark me? 'tis a game

Which you must learn to play at: now in these seasons,

And choice variety of exercises,

(Nay, I come to you,) and fasts, not for devotion,

Your rambling youngster feels strange alterations;

And in a frosty morning.----O welcome! welcome!

_Enter_ DIPHILUS _and_ CLEORA.

You have cut off my discourse; but I will perfect

My lecture in the camp.

_Diph._ Come, we are stay'd for;

The general's afire for a remove,

And longs to be in action.

_Archid._ 'Tis my wish too.

We must part--nay, no tears, my best Cleora;

I shall melt too, and that were ominous.

Millions of blessings on thee! All that's mine

I give up to thy charge; and, sirrah, look

[_To_ MARULLO.

You with that care and reverence observe her,

Which you would pay to me.--A kiss; farewell, girl!

_Diph._ Peace wait upon you, fair one!

[_Exeunt_ ARCHIDAMUS, DIPHILUS, _and_ MARULLO.

_Timag._ 'Twere impertinence

To wish you to be careful of your honour,

That ever keep in pay a guard about you

Of faithful virtues: farewell!--Friend, I leave you

To wipe our kisses off; I know that lovers

Part with more circumstance and ceremony:

Which I give way to. [_Exit._

_Leost._ 'Tis a noble favour,

For which I ever owe you. We are alone;

But how I should begin, or in what language

Speak the unwilling word of parting from you,

I am yet to learn.

_Cleo._ And still continue ignorant;

For I must be most cruel to myself,

If I should teach you.

_Leost._ Yet it must be spoken,

Or you will chide my slackness. You have fired me

With the heat of noble action to deserve you;

And the least spark of honour that took life

From your sweet breath, still fann'd by it and cherish'd,

Must mount up in a glorious flame, or I

Am much unworthy.

_Cleo._ May it not burn here[108],

And, as a seamark, serve to guide true lovers

Safe from the rocks of passion to the harbour

Of pure affection? rising up an example

Which aftertimes shall witness, to our glory,

First took from us beginning.

_Leost._ 'Tis a happiness

My duty to my country, and mine honour

Cannot consent to; besides, add to these,

It was your pleasure, fortified by persuasion,

And strength of reason, for the general good,

That I should go.

_Cleo._ Alas! I then was witty

To plead against myself; and mine eye, fix'd

Upon the hill of honour, ne'er descended

To look into the vale of certain dangers,

Through which you were to cut your passage to it.

_Leost._ I'll stay at home, then.

_Cleo._ No, that must not be;

For so, to serve my own ends, and to gain

A petty wreath myself, I rob you of

A certain triumph, which must fall upon you,

Or Virtue's turn'd a handmaid to blind Fortune.

How is my soul divided! to confirm you

In the opinion of the world, most worthy

To be beloved, (with me you're at the height,

And can advance no further,) I must send you

To court the goddess of stern war, who, if

She see you with my eyes, will ne'er return you,

But grow enamour'd of you.

_Leost._ Sweet, take comfort!

And what I offer you, you must vouchsafe me,

Or I am wretched. All the dangers that

I can encounter in the war are trifles;

My enemies abroad to be contemn'd:

The dreadful foes, that have the power to hurt me,

I leave at home with you.

_Cleo._ With me!

_Leost._ Nay, in you,

In every part about you, they are arm'd

To fight against me.

_Cleo._ Where?

_Leost._ There's no perfection

That you are mistress of, but musters up

A legion against me, and all sworn

To my destruction.

_Cleo._ This is strange!

_Leost._ But true, sweet;

Excess of love can work such miracles!

Upon this ivory forehead are intrench'd

Ten thousand rivals, and these suns command

Supplies from all the world, on pain to forfeit

Their comfortable beams; these ruby lips,

A rich exchequer to assure their pay:

This hand, Sibylla's golden bough to guard them

Through hell, and horror, to the Elysian springs;

Which who'll not venture for? and, should I name

Such as the virtues of your mind invite,

Their numbers would be infinite.

_Cleo._ Can you think

I may be tempted?

_Leost._ You were never proved[109].

For me, I have conversed with you no further

Than would become a brother. I ne'er tuned

Loose notes to your chaste ears; or brought rich presents

For my artillery, to batter down

The fortress of your honour; I never practised

The cunning and corrupting arts they study,

That wander in the wild maze of desire;

Honest simplicity and truth were all

The agents I employ'd; and when I came

To see you, it was with that reverence

As I beheld the altars of the gods:

And Love, that came along with me, was taught

To leave his arrows and his torch behind,

Quench'd in my fear to give offence.

_Cleo._ And 'twas

That modesty that took me, and preserves me,

Like a fresh rose, in mine own natural sweetness;

Which, sullied with the touch of impure hands,

Loses both scent and beauty.

_Leost._ But, Cleora,

When I am absent, as I must go from you,

(Such is the cruelty of my fate,) and leave you,

Unguarded, to the violent assaults

Of loose temptations; when the memory

Of my so many years of love and service

Is lost in other objects; when you are courted

By such as keep a catalogue of their conquests,

Won upon credulous virgins; when nor father

Is here to owe[110] you, brother to advise you,

Nor your poor servant by, to keep such off,

By love instructed how to undermine,

And blow your constancy up; when your weak senses,

At once assaulted, shall conspire against you,

And play the traitors to your soul, your virtue;

How can you stand? 'Faith, though you fall, and I

The judge, before whom you then stood accused,

I should acquit you.

_Cleo._ Will you then confirm

That love and jealousy, though of different natures,

Must of necessity be twins; the younger

Created only to defeat the elder,

And spoil him of his birthright[111]? 'tis not well.

But being to part, I will not chide, I will not;

Nor with one syllable or tear, express

How deeply I am wounded with the arrows

Of your distrust: but when that you shall hear,

At your return, how I have borne myself,

And what an austere penance I take on me,

To satisfy your doubts; when, like a vestal,

I show you, to your shame, the fire still burning,

Committed to my charge by true affection,

The people joining with you in the wonder;

When, by the glorious splendour of my sufferings,

The prying eyes of jealousy are struck blind,

The monster too that feeds on fears e'en starved

For want of seeming matter to accuse me;

Expect, Leosthenes, a sharp reproof

From my just anger.

_Leost._ What will you do?

_Cleo._ Obey me,

Or from this minute you are a stranger to me;

And do 't without reply. All-seeing sun,

Thou witness of my innocence, thus I close

Mine eyes against thy comfortable light,

'Till the return of this distrustful man!

Now bind them sure;--nay, do 't: [_He binds her

eyes with her scarf._] If, uncompell'd,

I loose this knot, until the hands that made it

Be pleased to untie it, may consuming plagues

Fall heavy on me! pray you guide me to your lips.

This kiss, when you come back, shall be a virgin

To bid you welcome; nay, I have not done yet:

I will continue dumb, and, you once gone,

No accent shall come from me. Now to my chamber,

My tomb, if you miscarry: there I'll spend

My hours in silent mourning, and thus much

Shall be reported of me to my glory,

And you confess it, whether I live or die,

My constancy triumphs o'er your jealousy.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[105] ------------_nay, Leosthenes,

You are welcome too_, &c.] It should be remembered that Archidamus

is, with great judgment, represented in the first scene as averse

to the marriage of Leosthenes with his daughter.--GIFFORD.

[106] _For, now my gown's off, farewell gravity!_] This is said to

have been a frequent expression with the great but playful Sir

Thomas More, who was never so happy as when he shook off the pomp

of office. Fuller tells a similar story of Lord

Burleigh.--GIFFORD.

[107] _There's a month call'd_ October, &c.] This pleasant old man

forgets that he is talking of Sicily, where October is the most

delightful month of the year. All our old poets loved and thought

only of their country. Whatever region was the subject, England

was the real theme: their habits, customs, peculiarities were all

derived from thence. This, though it must condemn them as

historians, may save them as patriots: and, indeed, it is not much

to be regretted that they should overlook manners, with which they

were very imperfectly acquainted, in favour of those with which

they were hourly conversant--at least it would be ungrateful in

us, who profit so much by their minute descriptions, to be

offended at their disregard of "the proper _costumi_."--GIFFORD.

[108] _Here_,] i. e. _in Syracuse_.

[109] Leost. _You were never proved._] The whole of this scene is

eminently beautiful; yet I cannot avoid recommending to the

reader's particular notice the speech which follows. Its rhythm is

so perfect, that it drops on the ear like the sweetest

melody.--GIFFORD.

[110] _Owe_,] i. e. _own_.

[111] _And spoil him of his birthright?_] This is a happy allusion to

the history of Jacob and Esau. It is the more so, for being void

of all profaneness; to which, indeed, Massinger had no

tendency.--GIFFORD.

SCENE II.

_The same. A Room in_ CLEON'_s House_.

_Enter_ ASOTUS, _driving in_ GRACCULO.

_Asot._ You slave! you dog! down, cur!

_Grac._ Hold, good young master,

For pity's sake!

_Asot._ Now am I in my kingdom:--

Who says I am not valiant? I begin

To frown again: quake, villain!

_Grac._ So I do, sir;

Your looks are agues to me.

_Asot._ Are they so, sir!

'Slight, if I had them at this bay that flout me,

And say I look like a sheep and an ass, I'd make them

Feel that I am a lion.

_Grac._ Do not roar, sir,

As you are a valiant beast: but do you know

Why you use me thus?

_Asot._ I'll beat thee a little more,

Then study for a reason. O! I have it:

One brake a jest on me, and then I swore,

(Because I durst not strike him,) when I came home,

That I would break thy head.

_Grac._ Plague on his mirth!

I am sure I mourn for 't.

_Asot._ Remember too, I charge you,

To teach my horse good manners yet; this morning,

As I rode to take the air, the untutor'd jade

Threw me, and kick'd me.

_Grac._ I thank him for 't. [_Aside._

_Asot._ What's that?

_Grac._ I say, sir, I will teach him to hold his heels,

If you will rule your fingers.

_Asot._ I'll think upon 't.

_Grac._ I am bruised to jelly: better be a dog,

Than slave to a fool or coward. [_Aside._

_Asot._ Here's my mother,

_Enter_ CORISCA _and_ ZANTHIA.

She is chastising too: how brave we live,

That have our slaves to beat, to keep us in breath

When we want exercise!

_Coris._ Careless creature, [_Striking her._

Look to 't; if a curl fall, or wind or sun

Take my complexion off, I will not leave

One hair upon thine head.

_Grac._ Here's a second show

Of the family of pride! [_Aside._

_Coris._ Fie on these wars!

I'm starved for want of action. When were you with

Your mistress, fair Cleora?

_Asot._ Two days sithence;

But she's so coy, forsooth, that ere I can

Speak a penn'd speech I have bought and studied for her,

Her woman calls her away.

_Coris._ Here's a dull thing!

_Zant._ Madam, my lord.

_Enter_ CLEON.

_Cleon._ Where are you, wife? I fain would go abroad,

But cannot find my slaves that bear my litter;

I am tired. Your shoulder, son;--nay, sweet, thy hand too:

A turn or two in the garden, and then to supper,

And so to bed.

_Asot._ Never to rise, I hope, more. [_Aside._

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Grove near the Walls of Syracuse._

_Enter_ MARULLO _and_ POLIPHRON. _A Table set out with Wine, &c._

_Mar._ 'Twill take, I warrant thee.

_Poliph._ You may do your pleasure;

But, in my judgment, better to make use of

The present opportunity.

_Mar._ No more.

_Poliph._ I am silenced.

_Mar._ More wine; prithee drink hard, friend,

And when we're hot, whatever I propound,

_Enter_ CIMBRIO, GRACCULO, _and other Slaves._

Second with vehemence.--Men of your words, all welcome!

Slaves use no ceremony; sit down; here's a health.

_Poliph._ Let it run round; fill every man his glass.

_Grac._ We look for no waiters;--this is wine!

_Mar._ The better,

Strong, lusty wine: drink deep; this juice will make us

As free as our lords. [_Drinks._

_Grac._ But if they find we taste it,

We are condemn'd to the quarry during life,

Without hope of redemption.

_Mar._ Pish! for that

We'll talk anon: another rouse[112]! we lose time;

[_Drinks._

When our low blood's wound up a little higher,

I'll offer my design; nay, we are cold yet;

These glasses contain nothing:--do me right,

[_Takes the bottle._

As e'er you hope for liberty. 'Tis done bravely:

How do you feel yourselves now?

_Cimb._ I begin

To have strange conundrums in my head.

_Grac._ And I

To loathe base water. I would be hang'd in peace now

For one month of such holidays.

_Mar._ An age, boys,

And yet defy the whip; if you are men,

Or dare believe you have souls.

_Cimb._ We are no brokers.

_Mar._ Our lords are no gods--

_Grac._ They are devils to us, I am sure.

_Mar._ But subject to

Cold, hunger, and diseases.

_Grac._ In abundance.

_Mar._ Equal Nature fashion'd us

All in one mould. The bear serves not the bear,

Nor the wolf the wolf; 'twas odds of strength in tyrants

That pluck'd the first link from the golden chain

With which that THING OF THINGS[113] bound in the world.

Why then, since we are taught, by their examples,

To love our liberty, if not command,

Should the strong serve the weak, the fair, deform'd ones?

Or such as know the cause of things pay tribute

To ignorant fools? All's but the outward gloss,

And politic form, that does distinguish us.--

Cimbrio, thou art a strong man; if, in place

Of carrying burthens, thou hadst been train'd up

In martial discipline, thou might'st have proved

A general, fit to lead and fight for Sicily,

As fortunate as Timoleon.

_Cimb._ A little fighting

Will serve a general's turn.

_Mar._ Thou, Gracculo,

Hast fluency of language, quick conceit;

And, I think, cover'd with a senator's robe,

Formally set on the bench, thou wouldst appear

As brave a senator.

_Grac._ Would I had lands,

Or money to buy a place! and if I did not

Sleep on the bench with the drowsiest of them,

Play with my chain, look on my watch, and wear

A state beard, with my barber's help, rank with them

In their most choice peculiar gifts, degrade me,

And put me to drink water again, which, now

I have tasted wine, were poison!

_Mar._ 'Tis spoke nobly,

And like a gownman: none of these, I think too,

But would prove good burghers.

_Grac._ Hum! the fools are modest;

I know their insides: here's an ill-faced fellow,

(But that will not be seen in a dark shop;)

If he did not in a month learn to outswear,

In the selling of his wares, the cunning'st tradesman

In Syracuse, I have no skill. Here's another;

Observe but what a cozening look he has!--

Hold up thy head, man! If, for drawing gallants

Into mortgages for commodities[114], cheating heirs

With your new counterfeit gold thread, and gumm'd velvets,

He does not transcend all that went before him,

Call in his patent.

_Mar._ Is 't not pity, then,

Men of such eminent virtues should be slaves?

_Cimb._ Our fortune.

_Mar._ 'Tis your folly: daring men

Command and make their fates. Say, at this instant,

I mark'd you out a way to liberty;

Possess'd you of those blessings our proud lords

So long have surfeited in; and, what is sweetest,

Arm you with power, by strong hand to revenge

Your stripes, your unregarded toil, the pride,

The insolence, of such as tread upon

Your patient sufferings; fill your famish'd mouths

With the fat and plenty of the land; redeem you

From the dark vale of servitude, and seat you

Upon a hill of happiness; what would you do

To purchase this, and more?

_Grac._ Do! any thing:

To burn a church or two, and dance by the light on 't,

Were but a May-game.

_Poliph._ I have a father living;

But if the cutting of his throat could work this,

He should excuse me.

_Cimb._ 'Slight! I would cut mine own,

Rather than miss it; so I might but have

A taste on 't ere I die.

_Mar._ Be resolute men;

You shall run no such hazard, nor groan under

The burden of such crying sins.

_Poliph._ Do not torment us

With expectation.

_Mar._ Thus, then:--Our proud masters,

And all the able freemen of the city,

Are gone unto the wars----

_Poliph._ Observe but that.

_Mar._ Old men, and such as can make no resistance,

Are only left at home----

_Grac._ And the proud young fool,

My master--if this take, I'll hamper him.

_Mar._ Their arsenal, their treasure, 's in our power,

If we have hearts to seize them. If our lords fall

In the present action, the whole country's ours:

Say they return victorious, we have means

To keep the town against them; at the worst,

To make our own conditions. If you dare break up

Their iron chests, banquet in their rich halls,

And carve yourselves of all delights and pleasures

You have been barr'd from, with one voice cry with me,

Liberty! liberty!

_All._ Liberty! liberty!

_Mar._ Go, then, and take possession: use all freedom;

But shed no blood. [_Exeunt Slaves._]--So, this is well begun;

But not to be commended till 't be done. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[112] _Rouse_,] i. e. _full glass_, _bumper_.

[113] _That_ THING OF THINGS.] A literal translation, as Mr. M. Mason

observes, of ENS ENTIUM. I know not where Pisander acquired his

revolutionary philosophy: his golden chain, perhaps, he found in

Homer.--GIFFORD.

[114] _For commodities_, &c.] i. e. _for wares_, of which the needy

borrower made what he could. Our old writers are extremely

pleasant on the heterogeneous articles which the usurers of their

days forced on the necessity of the thoughtless spendthrift in

lieu of the money for which he had rashly signed. Fielding has

imitated them in his Miser, without adding much to their humour;

and Foote, in The Minor, has servilely followed his example. The

spectators of those scenes probably thought that the writers had

gone beyond real life, and drawn on imagination for their

amusement: but transactions (not altogether proper, perhaps, to be

specified here) have actually taken place in our own times, which

leave their boldest conceptions at an humble distance; and prove,

beyond a doubt, that, in the arts of raising money, the invention

of the most fertile poet must yield to that of the meanest

scrivener.--GIFFORD.

ACT III. SCENE I.

_The same. A Gallery in_ ARCHIDAMUS'_s House_.

_Enter_ MARULLO _and_ TIMANDRA.

_Mar._ Why, think you that I plot against myself[115]?

Fear nothing, you are safe: these thick-skinn'd slaves,

I use as instruments to serve my ends,

Pierce not my deep designs; nor shall they dare

To lift an arm against you.

_Timand._ With your will.

But turbulent spirits, raised beyond themselves

With ease, are not so soon laid; they oft prove

Dangerous to him that call'd them up.

_Mar._ 'Tis true,

In what is rashly undertook. Long since

I have consider'd seriously their natures,

Proceeded with mature advice, and know

I hold their will and faculties in more awe

Than I can do my own. Now, for their licence,

And riot in the city, I can make

A just defence and use: it may appear, too,

A politic prevention of such ills

As might, with greater violence and danger,

Hereafter be attempted; though some smart for 't,

It matters not:--however, I'm resolved;

And sleep you with security. Holds Cleora

Constant to her rash vow?

_Timand._ Beyond belief;

To me, that see her hourly, it seems a fable.

By signs I guess at her commands, and serve them

With silence; such her pleasure is, made known

By holding her fair hand thus. She eats little,

Sleeps less, as I imagine; once a day

I lead her to this gallery, where she walks

Some half a dozen turns, and, having offer'd

To her absent saint a sacrifice of sighs,

She points back to her prison.

_Mar._ Guide her hither,

And make her understand the slaves' revolt;

And, with your utmost eloquence, enlarge

Their insolence, and wrongs done in the city.

Forget not, too, I am their chief, and tell her

You strongly think my extreme dotage on her,

As I'm Marullo, caused this sudden uproar,

To gain possession of her.

_Timand._ Punctually

I will discharge my part. [_Exit._

_Enter_ POLIPHRON.

_Poliph._ O, sir, I sought you:

There's such variety of all disorders

Among the slaves; answer'd with crying, howling,

By the citizens and their wives; such a confusion,

In a word, not to tire you, as I think

The like was never read of.

_Mar._ This is some

Revenge for my disgrace.

_Poliph._ But, sir, I fear,

If your authority restrain them not,

They'll fire the city, or kill one another,

They are so apt to outrage; neither know I

Whether you wish it, and came therefore to

Acquaint you with so much.

_Mar._ I will among them;

But must not long be absent.

_Poliph._ At your pleasure. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[115] Mar. _Why, think you that I plot against myself?_] The plot

opens here with wonderful address; and the succeeding conference,

or rather scene, between Pisander and Cleora, is inimitably

beautiful.--GIFFORD.

SCENE II.

_The same. A Room in the same._

_Shouts within. Enter_ CLEORA _and_ TIMANDRA.

_Timand._ They are at our gates: my heart! affrights and horrors

Increase each minute. No way left to save us,

No flattering hope to comfort us, or means,

But miracle, to redeem us from base wrongs

And lawless rapine! Are there gods, yet suffer

Such innocent sweetness to be made the spoil

Of brutish violence? And, of these rebel slaves,

He that should offer up his life to guard you,

Marullo, cursed Marullo, your own bondman,

Purchased to serve you, and fed by your favours--

Nay, start not: it is he; he, the grand captain

Of these libidinous beasts, that have not left

One cruel act undone that barbarous conquest

Yet ever practised in a captive city;

He, doting on your beauty, and to have fellows

In his foul sin, hath raised these mutinous slaves.

Wring not your hands, 'tis bootless; use the means

That may preserve you. 'Tis no crime to break

A vow when you are forced to it; show your face,

And with the majesty of commanding beauty

Strike dead his loose affections: if that fail,

Give liberty to your tongue, and use entreaties:

There cannot be a breast of flesh and blood,

Or heart so made of flint, but must receive

Impression from your words; or eyes so stern,

But, from the clear reflection of your tears,

Must melt, and bear them company. Will you not

Do these good offices to yourself? poor I, then,

Can only weep your fortune.--Here he comes.

_Enter_ MARULLO, _speaking at the door_.

_Mar._ He that advances

A foot beyond this comes upon my sword:

You have had your ways, disturb not mine.

_Timand._ Speak gently;

Her fears may kill her else.

_Mar._ Now Love inspire me!

Still shall this canopy of envious night

Obscure my suns of comfort? and those dainties

Of purest white and red, which I take in at

My greedy eyes, denied my famish'd senses?--

The organs of your hearing yet are open;

And you infringe no vow, though you vouchsafe

To give them warrant to convey unto

Your understanding parts the story of

A tortured and despairing lover, whom

Not fortune but affection marks your slave:--

Shake not, best lady! for, believe 't, you are

As far from danger as I am from force:

All violence I shall offer tends no further

Than to relate my sufferings, which I dare not

Presume to do, till, by some gracious sign,

You show you are pleased to hear me.

_Timand._ If you are,

Hold forth your right hand.

[CLEORA _holds forth her right hand._

_Mar._ So, 'tis done; and I

With my glad lips seal humbly on your robe

My soul's thanks for the favour: I forbear

To tell you who I am, what wealth, what honours

I made exchange of, to become your servant:

And though I knew worthy Leosthenes

(For sure he must be worthy, for whose love

You have endured so much) to be my rival,

When rage and jealousy counsell'd me to kill him,

Which then I could have done with much more ease,

Than now, in fear to grieve you, I dare speak it,

Love, seconded with duty, boldly told me

The man I hated, fair Cleora favour'd;

And that was his protection. [CLEORA _bows._

_Timand._ See, she bows

Her head in sign of thankfulness.

_Mar._ He removed by

The occasion of the war, (my fires increasing

By being closed and stopp'd up,) frantic affection

Prompted me to do something in his absence

That might deliver you into my power,

Which you see is effected: and even now,

When my rebellious passions chide my dulness,

And tell me how much I abuse my fortunes,

Now it is in my power to bear you hence,

[CLEORA _starts._

(Nay, fear not, madam; true love is a servant,

But brutish lust a tyrant,) only thus much

Be pleased I may speak in my own dear cause;

And think it worthy your consideration,

(I have loved truly, cannot say deserved,

Since duty must not take the name of merit,)

That I so far prize your content, before

All blessings that my hope can fashion to me,

That willingly I entertain despair,

And, for your sake, embrace it; for I know,

This opportunity lost, by no endeavour

The like can be recover'd. To conclude,

Forget not that I lose myself to save you:

For what can I expect but death and torture,

The war being ended? and, what is a task

Would trouble Hercules to undertake,

I do deny you to myself, to give you,

A pure unspotted present, to my rival.

I have said: if it distaste not, best of virgins!

Reward my temperance with some lawful favour,

Though you contemn my person.

[CLEORA _kneels, then pulls off her glove, and

offers her hand to_ MARULLO.

_Timand._ See, she kneels,

And seems to call upon the gods to pay

The debt she owes your virtue: to perform which,

As a sure pledge of friendship, she vouchsafes you

Her fair right hand.

_Mar._ I am paid for all my sufferings.

Now, when you please, pass to your private chamber:

My love and duty, faithful guards, shall keep you

From all disturbance; and when you are sated

With thinking of Leosthenes, as a fee

Due to my service, spare one sigh for me.

[_Exeunt._ CLEORA _makes a low courtesy as she goes off._

SCENE III.

_The same. A Room in_ CLEON'_s House_.

_Enter_ GRACCULO, _leading_ ASOTUS _in an ape's habit, with a chain

about his neck_; ZANTHIA _in_ CORISCA'_s clothes, she bearing up her

train_.

_Grac._ Come on, sir.

_Asot._ Oh!

_Grac._ Do you grumble? you were ever

A brainless ass; but if this hold, I'll teach you

To come aloft and do tricks like an ape.

Your morning's lesson: if you miss----

_Asot._ O no, sir.

_Grac._ What for the Carthaginians? [ASOTUS

_makes moppes_[116].] A good beast.

What for ourself, your lord[117]? [_Dances._] Exceeding well.

There's your reward. [_Gives him an apple._]--Not

kiss your paw! So, so, so.

_Zant._ Was ever lady, the first day of her honour,

So waited on by a wrinkled crone? She looks now,

Without her painting, curling, and perfumes,

Like the last day of January. Further off!

So--stand there like an image; if you stir,

Till, with a quarter of a look, I call you,

You know what follows.

_Coris._ O, what am I fallen to!

But 'tis a punishment for my cruel pride,

Justly return'd upon me.

_Grac._ How dost thou like

Thy ladyship, Zanthia?

_Zant._ Very well; and bear it

With as much state as your lordship.

_Grac._ Give me thy hand:

Let us, like conquering Romans, walk in triumph[118],

Our captives following; then mount our tribunals,

And make the slaves our footstools.

_Zant._ Fine, by Jove!

Are your hands clean, minion?

_Coris._ Yes, forsooth.

_Zant._ Fall off then. She and I have changed our parts;

She does what she forced me to do in her reign,

And I must practise it in mine.

_Grac._ 'Tis justice:

O! here come more.

_Enter_ CIMBRIO, CLEON, POLIPHRON, _and_ OLYMPIA.

_Cimb._ Discover to a drachma,

Or I will famish thee.

_Cleon._ O! I am pined already.

_Poliph._ Spare the old jade, he's founder'd.

_Grac._ Cut his throat then,

And hang him out for a scarecrow.

_Poliph._ You have all your wishes

In your revenge, and I have mine. You see

I use no tyranny: once I was her slave,

And in requital of her courtesies,

Having made one another free, we are married:

And, if you wish us joy, join with us in

A dance at our wedding.

_Grac._ Agreed; for I have thought of

A most triumphant one, which shall express

We are lords, and these our slaves.

_Poliph._ But we shall want

A woman.

_Grac._ No, here's Jane-of-apes shall serve[119];

Carry your body swimming.--Where's the music?

_Poliph._ I have placed it in yon window.

_Grac._ Begin then sprightly.

[_Music, and then a dance._

_Enter_ MARULLO _behind_.

_Poliph._ Well done on all sides! I have prepared a banquet;

Let's drink and cool us.

_Grac._ A good motion.

_Cimb._ Wait here;

You have been tired with feasting, learn to fast now.

_Grac._ I'll have an apple for jack, and may be some scraps

May fall to your share.

[_Exeunt_ GRAC. ZANT. CIMB. POLIPH. _and_ OLYMP.

_Coris._ Whom can we accuse

But ourselves, for what we suffer? Thou art just,

Thou all-creating Power! and misery

Instructs me now, that yesterday acknowledged

No deity beyond my pride and pleasure,

There is a heaven above us, that looks down

With the eyes of justice, upon such as number

Those blessings freely given, in the accompt

Of their poor merits: else it could not be,

Now miserable I, to please whose palate

The elements were ransack'd, yet complain'd

Of nature, as not liberal enough

In her provision of rarities

To soothe my taste, and pamper my proud flesh,

Should wish in vain for bread.

_Cleon._ Yes, I do wish too,

For what I fed my dogs with.

_Coris._ I, that forgot

I was made of flesh and blood, and thought the silk

Spun by the diligent worm out of their entrails,

Too coarse to clothe me, and the softest down

Too hard to sleep on; that disdain'd to look

On virtue being in rags, that from my servants

Expected adoration, am made justly

The scorn of my own bondwoman.

_Cleon._ I know I cannot

Last long, that's all my comfort.

_Mar._ What a true mirror

Were this sad spectacle for secure greatness!

Here they, that never see themselves, but in

The glass of servile flattery, might behold

The weak foundation upon which they build

Their trust in human frailty. Happy are those,

That knowing, in their births, they are subject to

Uncertain change, are still prepared, and arm'd

For either fortune: a rare principle,

And, with much labour, learn'd in wisdom's school!

For, as these bondmen, by their actions, show

That their prosperity, like too large a sail

For their small bark of judgment, sinks them with

A fore-right gale of liberty, ere they reach

The port they long to touch at: so these wretches,

Swollen with the false opinion of their worth,

And proud of blessings left them, not acquired;

That did believe they could with giant arms

Fathom the earth, and were above their fates,

Those borrow'd helps, that did support them, vanish'd,

Fall of themselves, and by unmanly suffering

Betray their proper weakness, and make known

Their boasted greatness was lent, not their own.

_Cleon._ O for some meat! they sit long.

_Coris._ We forgot,

When we drew out intemperate feasts till midnight;

Their hunger was not thought on, nor their watchings;

Nor did we hold ourselves served to the height,

But when we did exact and force their duties

Beyond their strength and power.

_Asot._ We pay for 't now:

_Re-enter_ POLIPHRON, CIMBRIO, GRACCULO, ZANTHIA, _and_ OLYMPIA,

_drunk and quarrelling_.

_Cimb._ Do not hold me:

Not kiss the bride!

_Poliph._ No, sir.

_Mar._ [_coming forward_] Hold!

_Zant._ Here's Marullo.

_Olymp._ He's your chief.

_Mar._ Take heed; I've news will cool this heat, and make you

Remember what you were.

_Cimb._ How!

_Mar._ Send off these,

And then I'll tell you.

[_Exeunt_ CLEON, ASOT. ZANT. OLYMP. _and_ CORIS.

_Cimb._ What would you impart?

_Mar._ What must invite you

To stand upon your guard, and leave your feasting;

Our masters are victorious.

_All._ How!

_Mar._ Within

A day's march of the city, flesh'd with spoil,

And proud of conquest; the armado sunk,

The Carthaginian admiral, hand to hand,

Slain by Leosthenes.

_Cimb._ I feel the whip

Upon my back already.

_Grac._ Every man

Seek a convenient tree, and hang himself.

_Poliph._ Better die once, than live an age to suffer

New tortures every hour.

_Cimb._ Say, we submit,

And yield us to their mercy?--

_Mar._ Can you flatter

Yourselves with such false hopes? Or dare you think

That your imperious lords, that never fail'd

To punish with severity petty slips

In your neglect of labour, may be won

To pardon those licentious outrages

Which noble enemies forbear to practise

Upon the conquer'd? We have gone too far

To think now of retiring; in our courage,

And daring, lies our safety: if you are not

Slaves in your abject minds, as in your fortunes,

Since to die is the worst, better expose

Our naked breasts to their keen swords, and sell

Our lives with the most advantage, than to trust

In a forestall'd remission, or yield up

Our bodies to the furnace of their fury,

Thrice heated with revenge.

_Grac._ You led us on.

_Cimb._ And 'tis but justice you should bring us off.

_Grac._ And we expect it.

_Mar._ Hear then, and obey me;

And I will either save you, or fall with you.

Man the walls strongly, and make good the ports;

Boldly deny their entrance, and rip up

Your grievances, and what compell'd you to

This desperate course: if they disdain to hear

Of composition, we have in our powers

Their aged fathers, children, and their wives,

Who, to preserve themselves, must willingly

Make intercession for us. 'Tis not time now

To talk, but do: a glorious end, or freedom,

Is now proposed us; stand resolved for either,

And, like good fellows, live or die together.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[116] _Moppes_,] i. e. the quick and grinning motions of the teeth and

lips which apes make when they are irritated.

[117] _What for ourself, your lord?_] Here Asotus must be supposed to

leap, or rather tumble, in token of obedience. Our ancestors

certainly excelled us in the education which they bestowed on

their animals. Banks's horse far surpassed all that have been

brought up in the academy of Mr. Astley; and the apes of these

days are mere clowns to their progenitors. The apes of Massinger's

time were gifted with a pretty smattering of politics and

philosophy. The widow Wild had one of them: "He would _come over_

for all my friends, but was the dogged'st thing to my enemies! he

would sit upon his tail before them, and frown like John-a-napes

when the pope is named." _The Parson's Wedding._--GIFFORD.

[118] _Let us, like conquering Romans, walk in triumph._] Gracculo

speaks in the spirit of prophecy; for the _conquering Romans_ were

at this time struggling with their neighbours for a few miserable

huts to hide their heads in; and if any _captives followed_, or

rather preceded, their _triumphs_, it was a herd of stolen

beeves.--GIFFORD.

[119] _Jane-of-apes_;] Meaning Corisca: he plays upon _Jack-an-apes_,

the name he had given to Asotus.--GIFFORD.

SCENE IV.

_The Country near Syracuse. The Camp of_ TIMOLEON.

_Enter_ LEOSTHENES _and_ TIMAGORAS.

_Timag._ I am so far from envy, I am proud

You have outstripp'd me in the race of honour.

O 'twas a glorious day, and bravely won!

Your bold performance gave such lustre to

Timoleon's wise directions, as the army

Rests doubtful, to whom they stand most engaged

For their so great success.

_Leost._ The gods first honour'd,

The glory be the general's; 'tis far from me

To be his rival.

_Timag._ You abuse your fortune,

To entertain her choice and gracious favours

With a contracted brow; plumed Victory

Is truly painted with a cheerful look,

Equally distant from proud insolence,

And base dejection.

_Leost._ O Timagoras,

You only are acquainted with the cause

That loads my sad heart with a hill of lead;

Whose ponderous weight, neither my new-got honour,

Assisted by the general applause

The soldier crowns it with, nor all war's glories,

Can lessen or remove: and, would you please,

With fit consideration, to remember

How much I wrong'd Cleora's innocence

With my rash doubts; and what a grievous penance

She did impose upon her tender sweetness,

To pluck away the vulture, jealousy,

That fed upon my liver; you cannot blame me,

But call it a fit justice on myself,

Though I resolve to be a stranger to

The thought of mirth or pleasure.

_Timag._ You have redeem'd

The forfeit of your fault with such a ransom

Of honourable action, as my sister

Must of necessity confess her sufferings,

Weigh'd down by your fair merits; and, when she views you,

Like a triumphant conqueror, carried through

The streets of Syracusa, the glad people

Pressing to meet you, and the senators

Contending who shall heap most honours on you;

The oxen, crown'd with garlands, led before you,

Appointed for the sacrifice; and the altars

Smoking with thankful incense to the gods:

The soldiers chanting loud hymns to your praise,

The windows fill'd with matrons and with virgins,

Throwing upon your head, as you pass by,

The choicest flowers, and silently invoking

The queen of love, with their particular vows,

To be thought worthy of you; can Cleora

(Though, in the glass of self-love, she behold

Her best deserts) but with all joy acknowledge

What she endured was but a noble trial

You made of her affection? and her anger,

Rising from your too amorous cares, soon drench'd

In Lethe, and forgotten.

_Leost._ If those glories

You so set forth were mine, they might plead for me;

But I can lay no claim to the least honour

Which you, with foul injustice, ravish from her.

Her beauty in me wrought a miracle,

Taught me to aim at things beyond my power,

Which her perfections purchased, and gave to me

From her free bounties; she inspired me with

That valour which I dare not call mine own;

And, from the fair reflection of her mind,

My soul received the sparkling beams of courage.

She, from the magazine of her proper goodness,

Stock'd me with virtuous purposes; sent me forth

To trade for honour; and, she being the owner

Of the bark of my adventures, I must yield her

A just account of all, as fits a factor.

And, howsoever others think me happy,

And cry aloud, I have made a prosperous voyage;

One frown of her dislike at my return,

Which, as a punishment for my fault, I look for,

Strikes dead all comfort.

_Timag._ Tush! these fears are needless;

She cannot, must not, shall not, be so cruel.

A free confession of a fault wins pardon,

But, being seconded by desert, commands it.

The general is your own, and, sure, my father

Repents his harshness; for myself, I am

Ever your creature.--One day shall be happy

In your triumph, and your marriage.

_Leost._ May it prove so,

With her consent and pardon.

_Timag._ Ever touching

On that harsh string! She is your own, and you

Without disturbance seize on what's your due.

[_Exeunt._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_Syracuse. A Room in_ ARCHIDAMUS'_s House_.

_Enter_ MARULLO _and_ TIMANDRA.

_Mar._ She has her health, then?

_Timand._ Yes, sir; and as often

As I speak of you, lends attentive ear

To all that I deliver; nor seems tired,

Though I dwell long on the relation of

Your sufferings for her, heaping praise on praise

On the unequall'd temperance, and command

You hold o'er your affections.

_Mar._ To my wish:

Have you acquainted her with the defeature[120]

Of the Carthaginians, and with what honours

Leosthenes comes crown'd home with?

_Timand._ With all care.

_Mar._ And how does she receive it?

_Timand._ As I guess,

With a seeming kind of joy; but yet appears not

Transported, or proud of his happy fortune.

But when I tell her of the certain ruin

You must encounter with at their arrival

In Syracusa, and that death, with torments,

Must fall upon you, which you yet repent not,

Esteeming it a glorious martyrdom,

And a reward of pure unspotted love,

Preserved in the white robe of innocence,

Though she were in your power; and, still spurr'd on

By powerful love, you rather chose to suffer

The fury of your lord, than that she should

Be grieved or tainted in her reputation----

_Mar._ Pities she my misfortune?

_Timand._ She express'd

All signs of sorrow which, her vow observed,

Could witness a grieved heart. At the first hearing,

She fell upon her face, rent her fair hair,

Her hands held up to heaven, and vented sighs,

In which she silently seem'd to complain

Of heaven's injustice.

_Mar._ 'Tis enough: wait carefully,

And, on all watch'd occasions, continue

Speech and discourse of me: 'tis time must work her.

_Timand._ I'll not be wanting, but still strive to serve you.

[_Exit._

_Enter_ POLIPHRON.

_Mar._ Now, Poliphron, the news?

_Poliph._ The conquering army

Is within ken.

_Mar._ How brook the slaves the object?

_Poliph._ Cheerfully yet; they do refuse no labour,

And seem to scoff at danger; 'tis your presence

That must confirm them: with a full consent

You are chosen to relate the tyranny

Of our proud masters; and what you subscribe to,

They gladly will allow of, or hold out

To the last man.

_Mar._ I'll instantly among them.

If we prove constant to ourselves, good fortune

Will not, I hope, forsake us.

_Poliph._ 'Tis our best refuge. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTE:

[120] _Defeature_,] i. e. _defeat_. The two words were used

indiscriminately by our old writers.

SCENE II.

_Before the Walls of Syracuse._

_Enter_ TIMOLEON, ARCHIDAMUS, DIPHILUS, LEOSTHENES, TIMAGORAS, _and

Soldiers_.

_Timol._ Thus far we are return'd victorious; crown'd

With wreaths triumphant, (famine, blood, and death,

Banish'd your peaceful confines,) and bring home

Security and peace. 'Tis therefore fit

That such as boldly stood the shock of war,

And with the dear expense of sweat and blood

Have purchased honour, should with pleasure reap

The harvest of their toil: and we stand bound,

Out of the first file of the best deservers,

(Though all must be consider'd to their merits,)

To think of you, Leosthenes, that stand,

And worthily, most dear in our esteem,

For your heroic valour.

_Archid._ When I look on

The labour of so many men and ages,

This well-built city, not long since design'd

To spoil and rapine, by the favour of

The gods, and you, their ministers, preserved,

I cannot, in my height of joy, but offer

These tears for a glad sacrifice.

_Diph._ Sleep the citizens?

Or are they overwhelm'd with the excess

Of comfort that flows to them?

_Leost._ We receive

A silent entertainment.

_Timag._ I long since

Expected that the virgins and the matrons,

The old men striving with their age, the priests,

Carrying the images of their gods before them,

Should have met us with procession.--Ha! the gates

Are shut against us!

_Archid._ And, upon the walls,

Arm'd men seem to defy us!

_Enter above, on the Walls_, MARULLO, POLIPHRON, CIMBRIO, GRACCULO,

_and other Slaves_.

_Diph._ I should know

These faces: they are our slaves.

_Timag._ The mystery, rascals!

Open the ports, and play not with an anger

That will consume you.

_Timol._ This is above wonder.

_Archid._ Our bondmen stand against us!

_Grac._ Some such things

We were in man's remembrance. The slaves are turn'd

Lords of the town, or so--nay, be not angry:

Perhaps, upon good terms, giving security

You will be quiet men, we may allow you

Some lodgings in our garrets or outhouses:

Your great looks cannot carry it.

_Cimb._ The truth is,

We have been bold to rifle your rich chests,

Been busy with your wardrobes.

_Timag._ Can we endure this?

_Leost._ O my Cleora!

_Grac._ A caudle for the gentleman;

He'll die o' the pip else.

_Timag._ Scorn'd too! are you turn'd stone?

Hold parley with our bondmen! force our entrance,

Then, villains, expect----

_Timol._ Hold! You wear men's shapes,

And if, like men, you have reason, show a cause

That leads you to this desperate course, which must end

In your destruction.

_Grac._ That, as please the Fates;

But we vouchsafe----Speak, captain.

_Timag._ Hell and furies!

_Archid._ Bay'd by our own curs!

_Cimb._ Take heed you be not worried.

_Poliph._ We are sharp set.

_Cimb._ And sudden.

_Mar._ Briefly thus, then,

Since I must speak for all--Your tyranny

Drew us from our obedience. Happy those times

When lords were styled fathers of families,

And not imperious masters! when they number'd

Their servants almost equal with their sons,

Or one degree beneath them! when their labours

Were cherish'd and rewarded, and a period

Set to their sufferings; when they did not press

Their duties or their wills, beyond the power

And strength of their performance! all things order'd

With such decorum, as[121] wise lawmakers,

From each well-govern'd private house derived

The perfect model of a commonwealth.

Humanity then lodged in the hearts of men,

And thankful masters carefully provided

For creatures wanting reason. The noble horse,

That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils

Neigh'd courage to his rider, and brake through

Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord

Safe to triumphant victory; old or wounded,

Was set at liberty, and freed from service.