(From my griev'd soul I wish it) but produce
To qualify, not excuse, your deed of horror,
One seeming reason: that I might fix here,
And move no further!
Mal. sen. Have I so far lost
A father's power, that I must give account
Of
my actions to my son? or must I plead
As a fearful prisoner at the bar, while he
That owes his being to me sits as judge
To censure that, which only by myself
Ought to be question'd? mountains sooner fall
Beneath their valleys, and the lofty pine
Pay homage to the bramble, or what else is
Preposterous in nature, ere my tongue
In one short syllable yields satisfaction
To any doubt of thine; nay, though it were
A certainty, disdaining argument:
Since, though my deeds wore hell's black livery,
To thee they should appear triumphant robes,
Set off with glorious honour thou being bound
To see with my eyes, and to hold that reason
That takes or birth or fashion from my will.
Mal. jun. This sword divides that slavish knot.
Mal. sen. It cannot,
It cannot, wretch; and thou but remember
From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou dar'st not hope it.
Who train'd thee up in arms, but I? who taught thee
Men were men only when they durst look down
With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd
All opposition, till plum'd victory
Had made her constant stand upon their helmets?
Under my shield thou hast fought as securely
As the young eaglet, covered with the wings
Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey.
All that is manly in thee, I call mine;
But what is weak and womanish, thine own.
And what I gave (since thou art proud, ungrateful,
Presuming to contend with him, to whom
Submission is due) I will take from thee.
Look therefore for extremities, and expect not
I will correct thee as a son, but kill thee
As a serpent swoln with poison; who surviving
A little longer, with infectious breath,
Would render all things near him, like itself,
Contagious.1
Mal. sen. Thou shalt never name her more--1
Mal. sen. Die all my fears,
And waking jealousies, which have so long
Been my tormentors; there's now no suspicion :
A fact, which I alone am conscious of,
Can never be discover'd, or the cause
That call'd this duel on; I being above
All perturbations; nor is it in
The power of fate again to make me wretched.
1621: LICENSED 1620]. BY PHILIP MASSINGER
Angelo, an Angel, attends Dorothea as a page.
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 lov'd mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ;
For then you break his heart.
[Twenty-three lines omitted.]
[Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, vol. viii.]
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-fac'd, 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 cherubims, than it did before.
Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.
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, shew 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 heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you,
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,
My father is in heav'n; and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
No worse, than yet it doth, upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.
This scene has beauties of so very high an order that with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for any thing. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the Sons of Heaven) and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow
as Caliban serves to shew Miranda.
[Mermaid Series, Massinger, ed. Symons, 1889. For other extracts from Decker see note on p. 60.]
THE FATAL DOWRY. A TRAGEDY [PUBLISHED 1632:
BY PHILIP
WRITTEN PROBABLY BEFORE 1619].
MASSINGER AND NATHANIEL FIELD [1587-1633]
The Marshal of Burgundy dies in prison at Dijon for debts con-
His
tracted by him for the service of the state in the wars.
dead body is arrested and denied burial by his creditors.
His son, young Charalois, gives up himself to prison to
redeem his father's body, that it may have honourable
burial. He has leave from his prison doors to view the
ceremony of the funeral, but to go no farther.
Enter three gentlemen, PONTALIER, MALOTIN, and Beaumont, as spectators of the funeral.
Mal. "Tis strange.
Beaum. Methinks so.
Pont. In a man but young,
Yet old in judgment; theoric and practic
In all humanity; and, to increase the wonder,
Religious, yet a soldier,—that he should
Yield his free-living youth a captive, for
The freedom of his aged father's corpse;
And rather chuse to want life's necessaries,
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should
In death be kept from Christian ceremony.
Mal. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son,
To let strong nature have the better hand,
In such a case, of all affected reason.
What years sit on this Charalois?
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old,
Under his father's wing his son hath fought,
Serv'd and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appear'd his father's father,
And never less than his son; the old man's virtues
So recent in him, as the world may swear
Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear.1
Mal. This morning is the funeral.
And from this prison 'twas the son's request
That his dear father might interment have.
[CHARALOIS appears at the door of the prison}
See the young son interr'd, a lively grave.
Beaum. They come. Observe their order.
1 [Twenty-two lines omitted.]
The funeral procession enters. Captains and soldiers, mourners.
ROMONT, friend to the deceased. Three creditors are among
the spectators. CHARALOIS speaks.
Char. How like a silent stream shaded with night,
And gliding softly with our windy sighs,
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile;
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth!-vouchsafe
To stay awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth!
Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives,
Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death !
Here stands thy poor executor, thy son,
That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death;
Who gladlier puts on this captivity,
Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds.
Of all that ever thou hast done good to,
These only have good memories; for they
Remember best, forget not gratitude.
I thank you for this last and friendly love.
And though this country, like a vip❜rous mother,
Not only hath eat up ungratefully
All means of thee, her son, but last thyself,
Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent,
He cannot raise thee a poor monument,
Such as a flatterer or a usurer hath;
Thy worth in every honest breast builds one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.
Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly mine— What! weep you, soldiers?-blanch not.-Romont weeps.Ha! let me see! my miracle is eas'd;
The jailors and the creditors do weep;
E'en they that make us weep, do
Be these thy body's balm: these, and thy virtue,
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous,
Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man,
Alive stinks in his vices, and, being vanish'd,
The golden calf that was an idol, deck'd
With marble pillars, jet and porphyry,
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume,
Tho' wrapt in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume.
Creditor. Sir!
Char. What!-away for shame-you, prophane rogues,
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