The Plays of Philip Massinger, Vol. I
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Title: The Plays of Philip Massinger, Vol. I
Author: Philip Massinger
Release date: March 8, 2015 [eBook #48440]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER, VOL. I ***
[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 de
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