Rules o'er this night, and envying the content
Which I in thought possess, debars me thus
From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence
Of a dear friend and love.
Alb. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness;
I have no power now to reveal myself.
Car. The horses stand at the appointed place,
And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety;
My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber
On some bank hereabouts; I will call him.
Friend, Albert, Albert.
Alb. Whate'er
that call, you
you are
Car. Ay, and thy heart, dear friend.
[MARIA appears above. Mar. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd?
I see, you'll keep your promise.
Car. Who would not do so, having pass'd it thee,
Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery.
Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing
We may
make firm the bliss of our content.
Mar. Is your friend Albert with you?
Alb. Yes, and your servant, honour'd lady.
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.
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 sum-
mon 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-priz'd 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
With my 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.
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.
[Exit serv.
Alb. How like a poisonous doctor have I come
To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself
Have given 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 socicty,
And the abode of men, to entertain a life
Fitting my fellowship in desert woods,
Where beasts like me consort; there may
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
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?
TRAGEDY:
BY PHILIP MASSINGER.
MALEFORT senior, Admiral of Marseilles, poisons his first wife to make way for a second. This coming to the knowledge of his son, MALEFORT junior, he challenges his father to fight him. This unnatural combat is performed before the Governor and Court of Marseilles. The spectators retiring to some distance, the father and son parley before the fight commences.
MALEFORT senior. MALEFORT junior.
Mal. sen. Now we are alone, sir;
And thou hast liberty to unload the burden
Which thou groan'st under. Speak thy griefs.
Mal. jun. I shall, sir ;
But in a perplex'd form and method, which
You only can interpret: would you had not
A guilty knowledge in your bosom, of
The language which you force me to deliver,
So I were nothing! As you are my father,
I bend my knee, and uncompell'd, profess
My life, and all that's mine, to be your gift;
And that in a son's duty I stand bound
To lay this head beneath your feet, and run
All desperate hazards for your ease and safety:
But this confess'd on my part,
I rise up,
And not as with a father, (all respect,
Love, fear, and reverence, cast off,) but as
A wicked man, I thus expostulate with you.
Why have you done that which I dare not speak,
And in the action changed the humble shape
Of my obedience to rebellious rage,
And insolent pride? and with shut eyes constrain'd
To run my bark of honour on a shelf
I must not see, nor, if I saw it, shun it?
In my wrongs nature suffers, and looks backward,
And mankind trembles to see me pursue
What beasts would fly from. For when I advance
This sword, as I must do, against your head,
Piety will weep, and filial duty mourn,
To see their altars which you built up in me,
In a moment razed and ruin'd. That you could
(From my grieved 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 triumphal 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 :
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