2 Friend. 'Twas a passado, sir. 1 Friend. Why, let it pass, and 'twas; I'm sure 'twas some what. What's that now? 2 Friend. That's a punto. 1 Friend. O, go to then, I knew 'twas not far off: What a world's this! 'Tis right and fair, and he that breathes against it Thanks, thanks, for this most unexpected nobleness. [The Colonel is disarmed. Capt. Truth never fails her servant, sir, nor leaves him With the day's shame upon him. 1 Friend. Thou 'st redeem'd Thy worth to the same height 'twas first esteem'd. [The insipid levelling morality to which the modern stage is tied down would not admit of such admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment; a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which the old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of man, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the iterately inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us all is hypocritical meekness. A reconciliation scene (let the occasion be never so absurd or unnatural) is always sure of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful similarity of disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic morality out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble of copying it from originals within his own breast. To know the boundaries of honour, to be judiciously valiant, to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an edge upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done in a feigned story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes to the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of honour as opposed to the laws of the land, or a common-place against duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer nowadays in far better stead than Captain Ager and his conscientious honour; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old Rowley or Middleton if they were living.] ALL'S LOST BY LUST: A TRAGEDY, BY WILLIAM ROWLEY. Roderigo king of Spain takes the opportunity to violate the daughter of Julianus, while that old general is fighting his battles against the Moors. Jacinta seeks her father in the camp, at the moment of victory. JULIANUS. Servant. Serv. Sir, here's a woman (forced by some tide of sorrow) Death shall divide him from us: fetch her in. Servant returns with JACINTA veiled. Is this the creature? Serv. Yes, my lord, and a sad one. Jul. Leave us. A sad one! The downcast look calls up compassion in me: Hast not a tongue to read thy sorrows out? This book I understand not. Jacin. O my dear father! Jul. Thy father, who has wrong'd him? Jacin. A great commander. Jul. Under me? Jacin. Above you. Jul. Above me! who's above a general? None but the general of all Spain's armies; And that's the king, king Roderick: he's all goodness, He cannot wrong thy father. Jacin. What was Tarquin? Jul. A king, and yet a ravisher. Jacin. Such a sin Was in those days a monster; now 'tis common. Jul. Prithee be plain. Jacin. Have not you, sir, a daughter? Jul. If I have not, I am the wretched'st man That this day lives: for all the wealth I have Jacin. O for your daughter's sake then hear my woes. Jacin. No, let me kneel still: Such a resemblance of a daughter's duty Jul. And so they do; your own. For whilst I see thee kneeling, I think of my Jacinta. Jacin. Say your Jacinta then, chaste as the rose Coming on sweetly in the springing bud, And ne'er felt heat, to spread the summer sweet; Did to itself keep in its own perfume; Say that some rapine hand had pluck'd the bloom', Defiling her white lawn of chastity With ugly blacks of lust: what would you do? Jul. O 'tis too hard a question to resolve, Without a solemn council held within Beget a thing call'd vengeance: but they must sit upon't. Jacin. Say this were done by him that carried The fairest seeming face of friendship to yourself. Jul. We should fall out. Jacin. Would you in such a case respect degrees? 1 66 Cropt this fair rose," &c.-Otways. Jacin. Say he were noble. Jul. Impossible: the act's ignoble. The bee can breed No poison, though it suck the juice of hemlock. Jacin. Say a king should do it; were the act less done, By the greater power? does majesty Extenuate a crime? Jul. Augment it rather. Jacin. Say then that Roderick, your king and master, Jul. Who has sent A fury in this foul-fair shape to vex me? I have seen that face methinks, yet know it not: By this, he had been in hell: Roderick a Tarquin! Jul. Ha! Jacin. The king my ravisher. Jul. The king thy ravisher! O, unkingly sound! ANTONIO, ALONZO, and other Officers, enter. Jul. O noble friends, Our wars are ended, are they not? All. They are, sir. Jul. But Spain has now begun a civil war, And to confound me only. See you my daughter? Alon. On whom? speak loud your wrongs; Digest your choler into temperance: Give your considerate thoughts the upper hand Jacin. Father, dear father. Jul. Daughter, dear daughter. Jacin. Why do you kneel to me, sir? Jul. To ask thee pardon that I did beget thee. I brought thee to a shame, stains all the way (The skies' large canopy), could they drown the seas With a perpetual inundation, Can wash it ever out: leave me, I pray. Alon. His fighting passions will be o'er anon, And all will be at peace. Ant. Best in my judgment [Falls down. We wake him with the sight of his won honours. His prisoners to him; such a sight as that Jul. 'Twas a good doctor that prescribed that physic. Our consanguinity. Jacin. Dear father, Recollect your noble spirits; conquer grief, There's reason in thy shame, thou shouldst not see me. Vanquished Moor's address to the Sun. Descend thy sphere, thou burning deity. |