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Mar. Hold me from falling, Carracus.

[She descends.
Car. Come, fair Maria, the troubles of this night
Are as fore-runners to ensuing pleasures.
And, noble friend, although now Carracus
Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize,
To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure,
Which ought not to be mixed; yet his heart
Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness,
That if the loss and ruin of itself
Can but avail your good-

Alb. O friend, no more ; come, you are slow in haste.
Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words,
Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book,
And reads but some part of it only, cannot judge
What praise the whole deserves, because his knowledge
Is grounded but on part—as thine, friend, is,
Ignorant of that black mischief I have done thee.

[Aside. Exeunt.

[Act i.] Albert, after the marriage of Carracus, struck with remorse for

the injury he has done to his friend, knocks at Carracus's
door, but cannot summon resolution to see him, or to do

more than inquire after his welfare.
Alb. Conscience, thou horror unto wicked men,
When wilt thou cease thy all-afflicting wrath,
And set my soul free from the labyrinth
Of thy tormenting terror? O, but it fits not !
Should I desire redress, or wish for comfort,
That have committed an act so inhuman,
Able to fill Shame's spacious chronicle ?
Who but a damn'd one could have done like me ?
Robb’d my dear friend in a short moment's time
Of his love's high-prized gem of chastity ;
That which so many years himself hath staid for.
How often hath he, as he lay in bed,
Sweetly discours'd to me of his Maria!
And with what pleasing passions did he suffer
Love's gentle war-siege : then he would relate
How he first came unto her fair eyes' view;
How long it was ere she could brook affection ;
And then how constant she did still abide.
I then at this would joy, as if my breast
Had sympathiz’d in equal happiness

[Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, 1874, vol. xi.]




With my true friend.

true friend. But now, when joy should be,
Who but a damn'd one would have done like me ?
He hath been married now at least a month ;
In all which time I have not once beheld him.
This is his house.
I'll call to know his health, but will not see him ;
My looks would then betray me, for, should he ask
My cause of seeming sadness or the like,
I could not but reveal, and so pour on
Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion.

[He knocks.
A Servant opens.
Alb. Is the master of the house within ?
Serv. Yes, marry, is he, sir : would you speak with him ?

Alb. My business is not so troublesome :
Is he in health with his late espoused wife ?

Serv. Both are exceeding well, sir.
Alb. I am truly glad on't : farewell, good friend.

Serv. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir ; I may else have anger.

Alb. You may say, one Albert, riding by this way, only inquired their health. Serv. I will acquaint so much.

[Escit serv.
Alb. How like a poisonous doctor have I come
To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself
Have giv'n the potion of their ne'er-recovery ;
For which I will afflict myself with torture ever.
And since the earth yields not a remedy
Able to salve the sores my lust hath made,
I'll now take farewell of society,
And the abode of men, to entertain a life
Fitting my fellowship in desert woods,
Where beasts like me consort; there may I live,
Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus.
There's no Maria, that shall satisfy
My hateful lust: the trees shall shelter
This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks

I will engrave the story of my sin.
And there this short breath of mortality
I'll finish up in that repentant state,
Where not the allurements of earth's vanities
Can e'er o'ertake me: there's no baits for lust,
No friend to ruin ; I shall then be free

? [A line and a half omitted.]

From practising the art of treachery.
Thither then, steps, where such content abides,
Where penitency not disturb'd may grieve,
Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve
This heavy motto of my misery,
Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?

[Act ii]

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The ancient Hebrew, clad with mysteries ;
The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets,
Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words ;
The Chaldee wise, the Arabian physical,
The Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave,
The braving Spanish, and the smooth-tongued French-

[Act i., Sc. 1.'] Tragedy and Comedy. – fellows both, both twins, but so unlike As birth to death, wedding to funeral : For this that rears himself

in buskins quaint,
Is pleasant at the first, proud in the midst,
Stately in all, and bitter death at end.
That in the pumps doth frown at first acquaintance,
Trouble the midst, but in the end concludes
Closing up all with a sweet catastrophe.
This grave and sad, distain'd with brinish tears ;
That light and quick, with wrinkled laughter painted:
This deals with nobles, kings, and emperors,
Full of great fears, great hopes, great enterprizes ;
This other trades with men of mean condition,
His projects small, small hopes, and dangers little :
This gorgeous, broider'd with rich sentences;
That fair, and purfled round with merriments.
Both vice detect, and virtue beautify,
By being death's mirror, and life's looking-glass.

[Act iv., Sc. 2.] 2[Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, vol. ix.]

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Scenical Personation.

'Tis better in a play
Be Agamemnon, than himself indeed
How oft, with danger of the field beset,
Or with home-mutinies, would he un-be
Himself; or, over cruel altars weeping,
Wish, that with putting off a vizard he

Might his true inward sorrow lay aside!
The shows of things are better than themselves.
How doth it stir this airy part of us
To hear our poets tell imagin'd fights
And the strange blows that feigned courage gives !
When I Achilles hear upon the Stage
Speak honour and the greatness of his soul,
Methinks I too could on a Phrygian'spear
Run boldly, and make tales for after times : .
But when we come to act it in the deed,
Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears
Of th’ other world sit on the proudest brow;
And boasting valour loseth his red cheek.

[Act iii., Sc. 3.']



Millisent the fair daughter of Clare was betrothed, with the

consent of her parents, to Raymond, son of Mounchensey;
but the elder Mounchensey being since fallen in his for-
tunes, Clare revokes his consent, and plots a marriage for
his daughter with the rich heir of Jerningham. Peter
Fabel, a good magician, who had been Tutor to young Ray.
mond Mounchensey at College, determines by the aid of
his art to assist his pupil in obtaining fair Millisent.

Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill,
That for thy bounty, and thy royal parts,

[Ed. Walker, Temple Dramatists.]
? It has been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and to Michael Dray.


Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn ;
And after all these promises by Clare,
Refuse to give his daughter to thy son,
Only because thy revenues cannot reach
To make her dowage of so rich a jointure,
As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham ?
And therefore is the false fox now in hand
To strike a match betwixt her and the other,
And the old grey-beards now are close together,
Plotting in the garden. Is it even so ?
Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I
Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts,
The metaphysics, magic, and those parts
Of the most secret deep philosophy?
Have I so many melancholy nights
Watch'd on the top of Peter House highest tower ?
And come we back unto our native home,
For want of skill to lose the wench thou lovest ?
We'll first hang Envil in such rings of mist,
As never rose from any dampish fen;
I'll make the brinish sea to rise at Ware,
And drown the marshes unto Stratford bridge ;
I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks
And scatter them like sheep in every field :
We may perhaps be cross'd; but if we be,
He shall cross the devil that but crosses me.
But here comes Raymond disconsolate and sad ;
And here comes the gallant must have his wench.


young CLARE.

Jern. I prithee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps;
Revive thy spirits ; thou that before hast been
More watchful than the day-proclaiming clock,
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry
As mirth herself.
If aught in me may thy content procure,
It is thy own, thou mayest thyself assure.

Raym. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself
Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold
As the bleak northern winds upon the face of winter.
From thee, they have some power on my blood;

1 Enfield,

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