Fer. I must believe ye; yet I hope anon,
When you are parted from me, you will say
I was a good, cold, easy-spirited man,
Nay, laugh at my simplicity: say, will ye?
Bian. No; by the faith I owe my bridal vows:
But ever hold thee much much dearer far
Than all my joys on earth; by this chaste kiss.
Fer. You have prevail'd: and Heaven forbid that I
Should by a wanton appetite profane
This sacred temple. "Tis enough for me,
You'll please to call me servant.
Bian. Nay, be thine:
Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write
This love within the tables of my heart.
Fer. Enough: I'll master passion, and triumph
In being conquer'd, adding to it this,
In you my love as it begun shall end.
Bian. The latter I new vow- -but day comes on:
What now we leave unfinish'd of content,
Each hour shall perfect up. Sweet, let us part.
Fer. Best life, good rest.
THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. BY JOHN FORD.
PERKIN WARBECK and his Followers are by LORD DAWBNEY presented to KING HENRY as Prisoners.
Dawb. Life to the king, and safety fix his throne!
I here present you, royal sir, a shadow
Of majesty, but in effect a substance
Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but the ambition of your mercy:
Perkin; the christian world's strange wonder!
King H. Dawbney,
We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine, and polish'd,
A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him.
How came be to thy hands?
At Bewley, near Southampton; register'd,
With these few followers, for persons privileged.
King H. I must not thank you, sir; you were to blame
To infringe the liberty of houses sacred:
Dare we be irreligious?
Dawb. Gracious lord,
They voluntarily resign'd themselves,
Without compulsion.
King H. So? 'twas very well;
'Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes,
Young man, upon thyself and thy past actions.
What revels in combustion through our kingdom
A frenzy of aspiring youth hath danced:
Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt
To break thy neck!
Warb. But not my heart: my heart
Will mount, till every drop of blood be frozen
By death's perpetual winter. If the sun
Of majesty be darken'd, let the sun
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse
Lasting, and universal. Sir; remember,
There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly,
For comfort to the duke of Bretagne's court.
Richard, who sway'd the sceptre, was reputed
A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd
To some few wandering remnants, promising day,
When first they ventured on a frightful shore,
At Milford Haven.
Dawb. Whither speeds his boldness?
Check his rude tongue, great sir.
King H. O, let him range:
The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part:
He does but act.- -What follow'd?
Warb. Bosworth field:
Where at an instant, to the world's amazement,
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard
Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied:
Fate which crown'd these attempts, when least assured,
Might have befriended others, like resolved.
King H. A pretty gallant! thus your aunt of Burgundy,
Your duchess aunt, inform'd her nephew; so
The lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded
Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed,
Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth.
Warb. Truth in her pure simplicity wants art
To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only
Such fashion, as commends to gazers' eyes
Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath
The sphere of majesty: in such a court
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes,
By which the sovereign is best distinguish'd
From zanies to his greatness.
King H. Sirrah, shift
Your antick pageantry, and now appear
In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger
Of fooling out of season.
No less than what severity calls justice,'
And politicians safety; let such beg,
As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy
In a protested enemy, then may it
Descend to these poor creatures', whose engage
To the bettering of their fortunes, have incurr'd
A loss of all: to them if any charity
Flow from some noble orator, in death
I owe the fee of thankfulness.
King H. So brave?
What a bold knave is this!
We trifle time with follies.
Urswick, command the dukeling, and these fellows,
To Digby the lieutenant of the Tower:
With safety let them be convey'd to London.
It is our pleasure, no uncivil outrage,
Taunts, or abuse; be suffer'd to their persons:
They shall meet fairer law than they deserve.
Time may restore their wits, whom vain ambition
Hath many years distracted.
Warb. Noble thoughts
Meet freedom in captivity. The Tower:
Our childhood's dreadful nursery!
King H. Was ever so much impudence in forgery?
The custom sure of being styled a king,
Hath fasten'd in his thought that he is such.
WARBECK is led to his death.
Oxford. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed
To wait on ye in death.
Warb. Why, peers of England,
We'll lead them on courageously. I read
A triumph over tyranny upon
Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment
Of victory! our ends, and Warwick's head,
Innocent Warwick's head, (for we are prologue
But to his tragedy,) conclude the wonder
Of Henry's fears: and then the glorious race
Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines
In this last issue male. Heaven be obey'd.
Impoverish time of its amazement, friends;
And we will prove as trusty in our payments,
As prodigal to nature in our debts.
Death! pish, 'tis but a sound; a name of air;
A minute's storm; or not so much: to tumble
From bed to bed, be massacred alive
By some physicians for a month or two,
In hope of freedom from a fever's torments,
Might stagger manhood; here, the pain is past
Ere sensibly 'tis felt. Be men of spirit;
Spurn coward passion: so illustrious mention
Shall blaze our names, and style us kings o'er death.
"TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN
GIOVANNI, a young gentleman of Parma, entertains an illicit love for his sister. He asks counsel of BONAVENTURA, a Friar1.
Friar. Dispute no more in this, for know, young man,
These are no school-points: nice philosophy
May tolerate unlikely arguments,
But Heaven admits no jests! wits that presumed
On wit too much, by striving how to prove
There was no God, with foolish grounds of art,
Discover'd first the nearest way to hell;
1 The good friar in this play is evidently a copy of Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet. He is the same kind physician to the souls of his young charges; but he has more desperate patients to deal with.
And fill'd the world with devilish atheism.
Such questions, youth, are fond: far better 'tis
To bless the sun, than reason why it shines;
Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun.
No more; I may not hear it.
Gio. Gentle father,
To you have I unclasp'd my burthen'd soul,
Emptied the storehouse of my thoughts and heart,
Made myself poor of secrets; have not left
Another word untold, which hath not spoke
All what I ever durst, or think, or know;
And yet is here the comfort I shall have ?
Must I not do what all men else may, love?
Friar. Yes, you may love, fair son.
Gio. Must I not praise
That beauty, which, if framed anew, the gods
Would make a god of, if they had it there;
And kneel to it, as I do kneel to them ?
Friar. Why, foolish madman!
Gio. Shall a peevish sound,
A customary form, from man to man,
Of brother and of sister, be a bar
'Twixt my perpetual happiness and me?
Friar. Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art lost.
Gio. No, father: in your eyes I see the change
Of pity and compassion: from your age,
As from a sacred oracle, distils
The life of counsel. Tell me, holy man,
What cure shall give me ease in these extremes ?
Friar. Repentance, son, and sorrow for this sin:
For thou hast moved a majesty above
With thy unguarded almost blasphemy.
Gio. O, do not speak of that, dear confessor.
Friar. Art thou, my son, that miracle of wit,.
Who once within these three months wert esteem'd
A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia?
How did the university applaud
Thy government, behaviour, learning, speech,
Sweetness, and all that could make up a man!
I was proud of my tutelage, and chose
Rather to leave my books than part with thee.
I did so; but the fruits of all my hopes
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