Clear thyself first, O Appius, ere thou judge
Our imperfections rashly, for we wot
The office of a justice is perverted quite
When one thief hangs another.

1. Senator. You are too bold.

Appius. Lictor, take charge of him.
Icilius. 'Tis very good.

Will no man view these papers,* what not one?
Jove, thou hast found a rival upon earth,
His nod strikes all men dumb.

My duty to you.

The ass that carried Isis on his back,

Thought that the superstitious people kneel'd
To give his dulness humble reverence

If thou thinkst so, proud judge, I let thee see

I bend low to thy gown but not to thee.

Virginius. There's one in hold already. Noble youth;
Fetters grace one, being worn for speaking truth.

I'll lie with thee, I swear, though in a dungeon.
The injuries you do us we shall pardon:

But it is just, the wrongs which we forgive

The gods are charg'd therewith to see revenged.

Appius. Your madness wrongs you: by my soul, I love you. Virginius. Thy soul!

O thy opinion, old Pythagoras:

Whither, O whither should thy black soul fly,

Into what ravenous bird, or beast most vile?
Only into a weeping crocodile.

Love me!

Thou lov'st me, Appius, as the earth loves rain,
Only to swallow it.

Appius. Know you the place you stand in ?
Virginius. I'll speak freely.

Good men, too much trusting their innocence,

Do not betake them to that just defence

Which gods and nature gave them; but even wink

In the black tempest, and so fondly sink.

* The Forgery.

Appius. Let us proceed to sentence.

Virginius. Ere you speak,

One parting farewell let me borrow of you

To take of my Virginia.

Appius. Pray, take your course.

Virginius. Farewell, my sweet Virginia: never, never
Shall I taste fruit of the most blessed hope
I had in thee. Let me forget the thought
Of thy most pretty infancy: when first,
Returning from the wars, I took delight
To rock thee in my target; when my girl
Would kiss her father in his burganet
Of glittering steel hung 'bout his armed neck,
And, viewing the bright metal, smile to see
Another fair Virginia smile on thee;
When I first taught thee how to go, to speak;

And, when my wounds have smarted) I have sung,
With an unskilful yet a willing voice,

To bring my girl asleep. O my Virginia;
When we begun to be, begun our woes;

Increasing still, as dying life still grows.
Thus I surrender her into the court
Of all the gods.

And see, proud Appius, see;
Although not justly, I have made her free.
And if thy lust with this act be not fed,
Bury her in thy bowels now she's dead.

[Kills her.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. BY JOHN WEBSTER.

The Duchess of Malfy marries Antonio, her Steward.

DUCHESS. CARIOLA, her Maid.

Duchess. Is Antonio come?

Cariola. He attends you.

Duch. Good dear soul,

Leave me but place thyself behind the arras,

Where thou mayst overhear us: wish me good speed,
For I am going into a wilderness,

Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue

To be my guide.

Antonio enters.

[Cariola withdraws.

I sent for you, sit down.

Take pen

and ink and write. Are you ready?

Ant. Yes.

Duch. What did I say?

Ant. That I should write somewhat.

Duch. Oh, I remember.

After these triumphs and this large expense
It's fit, like thrifty husbands, we inquire
What's laid up for to-morrow.

Ant. So please your beauteous excellence.

Duch. Beauteous indeed! I thank you; I look young

For your sake. You have tane my cares upon you.

Ant. I'll fetch your grace the particulars of your revenue and

expense.

Duch. Oh, you're an upright treasurer: but you mistook,

For when I said I meant to make inquiry

What's laid up for to-morrow, I did mean

What's laid up yonder for me.

Ant. Where?

Duch. In heaven.

I'm making my will (as 'tis fit princes should)
In perfect memory; and I pray, sir, tell me,
Were not one better make it smiling, thus,
Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks,
As if the gifts we parted with procur'd

That violent distraction?

Ant. Oh, much better.

Duch. If I had a husband now, this care were quit.

But I intend to make you overseer;

What good deed shall we first remember, say?

Ant. Begin with that first good deed, began in the world

After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage.
I'd have you first provide for a good husband;
Give him all.

Duch. All!

Ant. Yes, your excellent self.

Duch. In a winding sheet?

Ant. In a couple.

Duch. St. Winifred, that were a strange will.

Ant. "Twere stranger if there were no will in you

To marry again.

Duch. What do you think of marriage?

Ant. I take it, as those that deny purgatory; It locally contains or heaven or hell,

There's no third place in 't.

Duch. How do you affect it?

Ant. My banishment feeding my melancholy, Would often reason thus.

Duch. Pray, let us hear it.

Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children,
What takes that from him? only the bare name
Of being a father, or the weak delight

To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse
Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter
Like a taught starling.

Duch. Fie, fie, what's all this?

One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my Ring to 't.
They say 'tis very sovran, 'twas my wedding ring,
And I did vow never to part with it

But to my second husband.

Ant. You have parted with it now.

Duch. Yes, to help your eye-sight.

Ant. You have made me stark blind.

Duch. How?

Ant. There is a saucy and ambitious devil,

Is dancing in this circle.

Duch. Remove him.

Ant. How?

Duch. There needs small conjuration, when your finger

May do it; thus: is it fit?

Ant. What said you?

Duch. Sir!

[She puts the ring on his finger.

[He kneels.

This goodly roof of yours is too low built;
I cannot stand upright in 't nor discourse,
Without I raise it higher: raise yourself;
Or, if you please my hand to help you: so.

Ant. Ambition, Madam, is a great man's madness,
That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms,
But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt
With the wild noise of prattling visitants,
Which makes it lunatick beyond all cure.
Conceive not I'm so stupid, but I aim
Whereto your favors tend: but he's a fool

That, being a cold, would thrust his hands in the fire
To warm them.

Duch. So, now the ground's broke,

You may discover what a wealthy mine
I make you Lord of.

Ant. O my unworthiness.

Duch. You were ill to sell yourself.

This darkning of your worth is not like that

Which tradesmen use in the city; their false lights
Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you,

If

you will know where breathes a complete man (I speak it without flattery) turn your eyes, And progress through yourself.

Ant. Were there nor heaven nor hell,

I should be honest: I have long serv'd virtue,
And never tane wages of her.—

Duch. Now she pays it.

The misery of us that are born great!

We are forc'd to woo, because none dare woo us:

And as a tyrant doubles with his words,

And fearfully equivocates: so we

Are forced to express our violent passions

In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path